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LIBRART 


* 


THE     PLAYS 


OF 


PHILIP     MASSINGEB. 


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.  SOUmWAR^.THE  BTJIUAL  RL*CE 
FROM   A  PKTNI    El   HOLI  Jjt . 


J.^V:  BOIfD  *: 
»  B-A.I. 


THE 


PLAYS 


PHILIP   MASSINGEK, 


WITH 


NOTES,  CRITICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY, 

BY  WILLIAM  GIFFORD. 


0AUD    TAKEN    INYIDEAS    VOTA    QUEM    PULPITA    PASCUNT. 


•ElJition, 
COMPLETE  IN  ONE   VOLUME. 


N  E  W  -  Y  O  R  K  : 
H.    B.    MAHN,    61    JOHN    STRi:ET, 

1857. 


TO  THE  RIGHT   HONOURABLE 

CHARLES    LONG, 

ONE   OP   THE   LORDS   OF  HIS  MAJESTY'S  TREASURY» 
THIS   EDITION 

OF 

THE    WORKS 

OF 

PHILIP    MASSINGER, 

18  INSCRIBED 
AS  A  SINCERE  TESTIMONY  OF  RESPECT  TO  HIS  PUBLIC  CHARACTER, 

AND   OF 

GRATITUDE  FOR  MANY  ACTS  OF  FRIENDSHIP  AND  PERSONAL  KINDNESS, 

BY 

HI8  OBLIGED  AND  FAITHFUL  SERVANT. 

THE  EDITOR. 

J%,  1805. 


PREFACE. 


THE  present  Edition  of  this  admired  writer  has  been  published  with  a  design  of  meeting  the 
spirit  of  the  age  for  cheap  literature ;  and  its  triumphant  success  is  a  gratifying  proof  of 
the  manner  in  which  the  exertions  of  the  publishers  are  appreciated.  Previous  to  the 
appearance  of  this  volume,  the  public,  owing  to  the  scarcity  of  former  editions,  possessed 
but  a  slight  acquaintance  with  the  writings  of  Massinger,  and  that  derived  only  from  occa- 
sional notices  and  extracts  in  periodicals,  and  the  representation  of  "  A  New  Way  to 
Pay  Old  Debts,"  the  only  one  of  his  Plays  still  acted  on  the  stage.  In  this  undertaking, 
accuracy  of  text  and  good  critical  notes  were  deemed  indispensable ;  and  the  editor  had 
but  to  choose  between  the  gross  negligence  of  Coxeter,  and  the  odious  vanity  of  Monk 
Muson,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  carefully  and  accurately  edited  compilation  of  Mr.  Gifford, 
on  the  other.  Never  was  an  author  under  greater  obligations  to  an  editor,  than  is  Massinger 
to  Gifford.  It  is  true  his  works  had  already  appeared  in  a  collected  form  ;  but  the  bungling 
inaccuracies,  unwarrantable  interpolations,  and  absurd  commentaries,  which  disfigured 
these  editions,  had  rather  contributed  to  involve  the  author  in  still  deeper  obscurity, 
than  to  rescue  him  from  that  in  which  he  had  originally  slumbered. 

In  his  attempt  to  do  justice  to  his  favourite  poet,  Mr.  Gifford  had  many  difficulties  to 
contend  against,  and  no  hope  of  assistance  from  the  labours  of  his  predecessors.  Of  a 
patient  and  vigorous  cast  of  mind,  his  unclouded  intellect  was  the  first  to  form  a  due  esti- 
mate of  the  manly  productions  of  this  author ;  he  sat  down  to  his  task  as  to  a  labour  of 
love,  and  after  careful  and  repeated  collations  of  the  text  with  the  original  editions,  suc- 
ceeded in  expunging  from  its  pages  a  mass  of  stupid  criticism  and  crude  innovations, 
such  as  never,  perhaps,  disfigured  the  works  of  any  other  author.  None  but  those 
who  are  acquainted  with  the  editions  referred  to,  can  fully  estimate  the  labours  of 
this  critic,  of  whose  admirable  qualifications  as  an  editor,  his  exertions  in  favour  of  this 
abused  poet  will  remain  a  lasting-  monument.  He  has  been  justly  called  by  one  who 
was  himself  no  common  master  of  the  art,  "  a  giant  in  literature,  in  criticism,  in  poli- 
tics, and  in  morals,  and  an  ornament  and  an  honour  to  his  country  and  the  age  in  whH- 
he  lived." 

Brt  fcr  him.  thpse  exquisite  dramas  would  be  as  little  known  to  us  as  the  mstitu 
tions  of  the  Chinese  ;  and    the  re-action  of  public  taste  in  favour  of  the  productions  of 


*»h  PREFACE. 

Our  early  dramatists,  so  conspicuous  at  the  present  day,  received  its  first  impulse  from 
the  endeavours  of  the  translator  of  Juvenal,  and  the  champion  of  Jonson  and  Massinger 
A  valuable  appendage  to  his  labours,  are  the  critical  observations  subjoined  to  each  Play, 
the  masterly  delineation  of  Massinger's  character,  and  the  general  criticism  on  his 
works,  furnished  by  Dr.  Ireland,  the  Dean  of  Westminster. 

There  is  something  interesting  in  the  consideration  of  this  literary  partnership ;  it 
reminds  us  of  the  old  days  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Fletcher  and  Massinger,  and 
Dekker  and  Greene ;  and  was  not  without  a  pleasing  effect  upon  the  feelings  of  the  two 
friends.  In  closing  his  preface  to  Jonson,  a  splendid  vindication  of  that  calumniated 
poet,  Gifford,  in  allusion  to  their  long  uninterrupted  friendship,  thus  writes,  "  With  what 
feelings  do  I  trace  the  words  of  the  Dean  of  Westminster.  Five  and  forty  springs  have 
passed  over  my  head  since  I  first  found  Dr.  Ireland,  some  years  my  junior,  m  our  little 
school,  at  his  spelling-book.  During  this  long  period  our  friendship  ha^  been  without  a 
cloud, — my  delight  in  youth,  my  pride  and  consolation  in  old  age."  The  writer  of  these 
affectionate  lines  has  long  been  an  inhabitant  of  the  dark  and  narrow  house ;  he  died  on 
the  last  day  of  the  year  1826,  aged  70  ;  and  the  survivor,  for  whom  these  tender  senti- 
ments were  expressed,  well  stricken  in  years,  is  fast  hastening  to  the  land  where  "  the 
wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary  are  at  rest." 

In  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Diary  appears  the  following  admirable  character  of  Gifford  : 
"  As  a  commentator  he  was  capital,  could  he  but  have  suppressed  his  rancours  against 
those  who  had  preceded  him  in  the  task  ;  but  a  misconstruction  or  misinterpretation,  nay 
the  misplacing  of  a  comma,  was  in  Giflford's  eyes  a  crime  worthy  of  the  most  severe 
animadversion.  This  lack  of  temper  probably  arose  from  indifferent  health ;  for  he  was 
very  valetudinary,  and  realised  two  verses,  wherein  he  says  Fortune  assigned  him — 

"  One  eye  not  over  good, 

Two  sides  that  to  their  cost  have  stood 

A  ten  years'  hectic  cough, 
Aches,  stitches,  all  the  various  ills 
That  swell  the  devilish  doctors'  bills 

And  sweep  poor  mortals  off." 

2ut  he  might  justly  claim,  as  his  gift,  the  moral  qualities  expressed  in  the  next  fine 
stanza — 


A  soul 


That  spurns  the  crowds'  malign  control, 

A  firm  contempt  of  wrong ; 
Spirits  above  affliction's  power, 
And  skill  to  soothe  the  lingering  hour 

With  no  inglorious  song." 

The    rigour,  with  which  the    derelictions  of   his  predecessors    were  visited,  auovc 
alluded    to,  is  displayed  in  an  uncommon  degree  in  the  work  beture   us;    ana  tour 


PREFACE.  « 

years  after  its  first  appearance  in  1805,  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,"  losing  their  sense  of 
the  criminal's  guilt  in  dislike  of  the  savage  pleasure  which  the  executioner  seemed  to 
take  in  inflicting  the  punishment,"  appeared  as  the  champions  of  Monk  Mason  and 
Coxeter,  and  had  the  hardihood  to  attack  not  only  the  judgment  but  even  the  accuracy 
of  Gifford. 

In  his  second  edition  of  1813,  the  abused  commentator  turned  upon  his  foes,  and  in  a  pre- 
face, powerful  and  energetic,  successfully  defended  himsell  from  th-eir  aspersions;  with  regard 
to  the  charge  of  inaccuracy,  he  justly  says, — "  I  did  not  expect  this.  I  will  take  upon  me 
to  f>?sert,  that  a  more  perfect  text  of  an  old  poet  never  issued  from  the  English  press.  It 
was  revised  in  the  first  instance  with  a  care  of  which  there  is  scarcely  an  example  ;  and  a 
subsequent  examination  enables  me  to  speak  with  a  degree  of  positiveness  on  the  subject 
which  sets  all  fear  of  contradiction  at  defiance."  An  accusation,  such  as  the  above, 
could  only  have  been  made  by  those  who  had  never  looked  into  Coxeter  and  Monk 
Mason's  editions,  or  had  never  consulted  the  old  copies.  From  internal  evidence,  it 
appears  that  all  that  these  reviewers  knew  of  Massinger  and  his  editors,  was  learned 
from  the  very  "  Introduction"  whose  accuracy  they  pretended  to  impeach. 

It  has  been  the  fate  of  Massinger  to  have  been  generally  but  imperfectly  understood 
or  appreciated  by  the  lovers  of  the  Drama  ;  while  to  Jonson,  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
have  been  assigned  the  place  nearest  to  Shakspeare  in  the  scale  of  superiority,  he  has 
scarcely  ever  been  mentioned  but  as  a  writer  of  inferior  merit.  Although  far  from  con- 
curring in  the  opinion  of  Gifford,  which  would  reduce  Shakspeare  to  the  level  of  his 
contemporaries,  it  appears  to  us  that  singular  injustice  has  been  done  to  this  harmonious 
poet.  Hazlitt,  whose  genius  revelled  in  the  more  glowing  conceptions  of  the  Swan  of 
Avon,  has  pronounced  this  harsh  sentence  on  Massinger  : — "  Massinger  makes  an 
impression  by  hardness  and  repulsiveness  of  manner.  In  the  intellectual  processes  which 
he  delights  to  describe,  '  reason  panders  will ;'  he  fixes  arbitrarily  on  some  object 
which  there  is  no  motive  to  pursue,  or  every  motive  combined  against  it,  and  then,  by 
screwing  up  his  heroes  and  heroines  to  the  deliberate  and  blind  accomplishment  of  this, 
thinks  to  arrive  at  '  the  true  pathos  and  sublime  of  life.'  That  is  not  the  way.  He 
seldom  touches  the  heart  or  kindles  the  fancy."  Did  Mr.  Hazlitt  forget  the  speech  of 
Sforza  before  the  Emperor  in  "  The  Duke  of  Milan,"  that  noble  picture  of  a  good  man 
buffetting  with  adversity  ;  or  the  pathos  of  "  The  Fatal  Dowry ;"  the  fine  character  of 
Pisander  in  "  The  Bondman  ;"  the  interview  between  Don  John  Antonio,  disguised  as  a 
slave,  and  his  mistress,  in  "  A  Very  Woman ;"  or  those  splendid  conceptions,  Luke  and 
Sir  Giles  Overreach,  in  "The  City  Madam,"  and  "  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts"? 
Our  respect  for  Hazlitt,  as  a  critic,  is  great;  but  we  certainly  cannot  assent  to  his  low 
estimate  of  Massinger.  Schlegel,  who  bestows  so  much  elaborate  and  philosophical  criti- 
cism upon  his  contemporaries,  dismisses  the  merits  of  this  writer  in  a  few  lines,  conspicuous 
neither  for  justice  nor  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  writings  he  professes  to  criticize- 
The  late  Charles  Lamb  was  one  of  the  first  to  direct  the  public  attention  to  the  works  of 
this  and  other  of  our  neglected  dramatists  ;  and  it  has  been  admirably  observed  by  a  late 
writer  in  the  "  Quarterly  Review,"  that  Lamb's  Essays  and  Gifford's  editions  have  most 
powerfully  contributed  to  disseminate  a  knowledge  of  the  manly  and  vigorous  writers  of  the 


•  PREFACE. 

Elizabethan  age.  In  the  year  1786  an  elegant  essay  on  the  dramatic  writings  of  Mas- 
singer  by  Dr.  Ferriar,  appeared  in  the  third  volume  of  the  "  Manchester  Transactions," 
and  was  afterwards,  with  permission  of  the  author,  reprinted  by  Gifford  at  the  close  of  his 
introduction.  In  this  pleasing  performance  the  plays  of  Massinger  are  philosophically 
analysed  ;  and  the  cause  of  the  general  neglect  of  our  old  dramatists  is  ingeniously  attri- 
buted to  their  too  frequent  delineation  of  perishable  manners. 

In  his  closing  notice  of  Massinger,  Dr.  Ireland  feelingly  observes,  "  It  is  truly  sur- 
prising that  the  genius  which  produced  these  Flays  should  have  obtained  so  little  notice 
from  the  world  /'  and  Hallam,  the  critic  who  next  to  Gifford  displays  the  most  profound 
knowledge  of  his  writings,  and  the  fullest  appreciation  of  his  genius,  does  not  hesitate  to 
place  him  as  a  tragic  writer  second  only  to  Shakspeare,  and  in  the  lighter  comedy  scarcely 
inferior  to  Jonson.  Any  comparison  of  Massinger  to  Shakspeare  would  be  invidious;  but 
though  second  to  that  great  writer  in  the  vastness  and  variety  of  his  conceptions,  he  may 
certainly  take  the  lead  of  those  who  have  hitherto  been  considered  his  superiors.  His  in- 
vention is  as  fertile,  and  his  management  of  his  plots  as  ingenious,  as  those  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher;  wh.le  the  poetry  of  his  language,  the  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  the  fine 
development  of  the  passions  displayed  in  his  Tragedies,  can  only  be  surpassed  by  the  great 
master  himself.  By  Ben  Jonson  he  is  excelled  in  the  studied  exactness  and  classical 
polish  of  his  style ;  but  in  the  freezing  coldness  of  this  writer  he  is  deficient.  The  charm 
of  his  Plays  consists  in  the  versatility  of  his  imagination,  and  the  fine  bursts  of  pathos 
which  embellish  his  tender  scenes.  In  his  female  characters  he  is  particularly  happy  ; 
and  while  proclaiming  our  veneration  for  Juliet,  Desdemona,  or  Cordelia,  we  should 
not  heedlessly  overlook  the  graces  of  Dorothea*,  Theocrinef,  Matilda^,  Camiola§, 
and  Pulcheria||. 

Massinger  was  the  last  of  his  tribe — ultimus  Romanorum.  With  him  expired  the  dra- 
inatic  genius  of  this  country.  In  the  anarchy  which  followed  the  outbreak  of  the  civil 
war,  the  stage  was  neglected,  and  the  emasculated  school  of  dramatic  poetry,  subse- 
quently founded  by  Dryden  and  his  followers,  can  never  bear  comparison  with  the 
productions  of  the  vigorous  intellects  of  the  Elizabethan  era.  Since  that  period  many 
unsuccessful  attempts  have  been  made  to  revive  the  drama ;  and  though  many  have 
appeared  bearing  an  outward  resemblance  to  our  old  plays,  yet  that  true  dramatic 
essence,  which  can  only  flourish  in  a  soil  uncorrupted  by  ultra  refinement,  is  evidently 
wanting. 

•  Virgin  Martyr,     t  Unnatural  Combat.    \  Bashful  Lover.     §  Maid  of  Honour.    1)  Emperor  of  the  Ea«t 


INTRODUCTION. 


PHIMP  MASSINGF.R,  the  author  of  the  following 
Plavs,  was  born  in  the  year  1584.  Of  his  mother 
nothing  is  known  ;  but  his  father  was  Arthur  Alas- 
singer*,  a  gentleman  attached  to  the  family  of 
Henry  second  Earl  of  Pembroke  :  "  Many  years," 
says  the  poet,  to  his  descendant,  Philip  Earl  of 
Montgomery,  "my  father  spent  in  the  service  of 
your  honourable  house,  and  died  a  servant  to  it. " 

The  writers  of  Massinger's  life  have  thought  it 
necessary  to  observe  in  this  place,  that  the  word 
servant  carries  with  it  no  sense  of  degradation. 
Tins  requires  no  proof:  at  a  ptriod  when  the  great 
lords  and  officers  of  the  court  numbered  inferior 
nobles  among  their  followers,  we  may  be  confident 
that  neither  the  name  nor  the  situation  was  looked 
upon  us  humiliating.  Many  considerations  united  to 
render  this  state  of  dependence  respectable,  and 
even  honourable.  1  he  secretaries,  clerks,  and  assist- 
ants, t  f  various  departments,  were  not  then,  as  now, 
nominated  by  the  Government ;  but  left  to  the 
choice  of  the  person  who  held  the  employment; 
and  as  no  particular  dwelling  was  officially  set 
apart  for  their  residence,  they  were  entertained  in 
the  house  of  their  principal. 

'1  hut  communication,  too,  between  noblemen  of 
power  and  trust,  both  of  a  public  and  private  nature, 
which  is  now  committed  to  the  post,  was,  in  those 
days,  managed  by  confidential  servants,  who  were 
di.s|>Hti-h"d  from  one  to  the  other,  and  even  to  the 
Boverrknt:  when  to  this  we  add  the  unbounded 


•  His  father  vat  Arthur  Massinyer,']  "  I  cannot  gne»s," 
D-tiies  s.i}f,  "from  what  information  Oldys,  in  his  inamt- 
tt-iipi  noies  (to  LangbaineJ,  gives  the  Christian  name  Of 
Arthur  to  Mas.-inger's  father,  nor  why  lie  should  lepioach 
\S  Mid  lor  calling  him  Philip  ;  since  Massinyer  himself,  in 
the  Dedication  of  "  The  Bondman,"  to  the  "Earl  of  Mont- 
d"iiier},  *a>s  expressly  that  his  father  Philip  Massinger 
livx-l  and  ilied  in  the  service  of  the  honourable  house  of 
Pembroke."  Life  of  Massinyer  prefixed  to  the  last  edi- 
tion. 

This  preliminary  observation  augurs  but  ill  for  the  accu- 
racy of  what  follows.  Old}  s,  who  was  a  very  cartful  writer, 
yot  his  information  from  the  first  edi.ion  of  "  The  Bond- 
man,''  lt>-23,  which,  it  appears  from  this,  Mr.  Davies  never 
•aw.  In  ttie  second  edition,  published  many  >ears  alter  the 
torsi  (1638),  he  is,  indeed,  called  Philip;  bin  that  is  not  the 
only  error  in  the  Dedication,  which,  is  well  as  the  Play  it- 
•ell,  is  most  carelessly  printed. 

t  An  in.-tance  of  this  occurs  with  respect  to  Massins;er's 
father,  who  was  thuseioployed  to  Elizabeth:  "  Mr.  Malinger 
is  newly  come  up  from  the  Karl  .  f  Pembroke  with  letters 
lo  the  Queen,  for  IMS  lordship's  leave  to  be  away  this  St. 
George's  day."  .Sidney  Lettert,  Vol.  II.  p.  933.  The  bearer 
of  letters  to  Elizabell  on  an  occasion  which  she  pt<hap§ 
thought  important,  could,  as  Davies  justly  observes,  bt  no 


state  and  grandeur  which  the  great  men  of  Eliza. 
be  th's  days  assumed  on  a  variety  of  occasions,  we 
may  form  some  idea  of  the  nature  of  those  services 
discharged  by  men  of  birth  and  fortune,  and  the 
manner  in  which  such  numbers  of  them  were  em- 
ployed. 

Massinger  was  born,  as  all  the  writers  of  his  life 
agree,  at  Salisbury,  probably  at  Wilton,  the  seat  of 
the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  in  whose  family  he  appears 
to  have  been  educated.  When  he  reached  his  six- 
teenth year,  he  sustained  an  irreparable  loss  in  the 
death  of  that  worthy  nobleman*,  who,  from  attach- 
ment to  the  father,  would,  not  improbably,  have 
extended  his  powerful  patronage  to  the  young  poet. 
He  was  succeeded  in  his  titles  and  estates  by  his 
son  William,  the  third  Earl  of  Pembroke;  one  of  the 
brightest  characters  that  adorned  the  court  of  Eliza- 
beth and  James.  "He  was,"  says  Wood,  "not 
only  a  great  favourer  of  learned  and  ingenious  men, 
but  was  himself  learned,  and  endowed  to  admiration 
with  a  poetical  geny,  as  by  those  amorous  and 
poetical  aires  and  poems  of  his  composition  doth 
evidently  nppear  ;  some  of  which  had  musical  notes 
set  to  them  by  Hen.  Lawes  and  Nk'h.  Laneare." 
Ath.  I.  546. 

Massinger's  father  continued  in  the  service  of 
this  nobleman  till  his  death.  It  is  not  possible  to 
ascertain  the  precise  period  at  which  this  took  place, 
but  it  was  not  later,  perhaps,  than  1606  :  in  the 
interim  he  had  bestowed,  as  Langbaine  says,  a 
liberal  education  on  his  son,  and  sent  him  to  the 
University  of  Oxford,  where  he  became  a  com- 
moner of  St.  Alban's  Hall  <  1602),  in  the  eighteenth 
year  of  his  age.  Wood's  account  varies  from  this 
in  several  particulars.  He  says,  he  was  entered 
at  St.  Alban's  Hall  in  1601.  when  he  was  in  his 
seventeenth  year,  and  supported  there,  not  by  his 
father,  but  the  Earl  of  Pembroke.  Antony  had 


menu  person  :  for  no  monarch  ever  exacted  from  the  nobi- 
lity in  genera!,  and  tin-  omcers  of  Mate  in  particular,  a  more 
rigid  and  scrupulous  compliance  to  Mate  I  order,  in  in  this 
piince*;. 

•  Death  of  that  worthy  nnbtfraan.]    This  took    place  on 
the  1   th  ol  January,  1601       It  is  impossible  to  speak  of  bint 
without  mtntioniug,  at   the  same  tune,  that    In-  w:<s  the  hat- 
band of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  sister,  the  all-accomplished  lady 
for  whom  Jonson  wrote  the  celebrated  epitaph  : 
"  Underneath  this  marble  herse, 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke'*  mother; 
Death,  ere  thoii  hast  slain  another, 
Learn  'd,  and  lair,  and  good  as  >h«. 
Time  shall  throw  a  dm  at  *h«n." 


INTRODUCTION. 


many  opportunities  for  ascertaining  these  facts,  if  he 
had  desired  to  avail  himself  of  them,  and  therefore 
Davies  inclines  to  his  authority.  The  seeming  dif- 
feren.'e,  he  adds,  between  the  two  periods  respect- 
ively assigned  for  Massinger's  matriculation,  may 
be  easily  reconciled,  for  the  year  then  began  and 
tnded  according  to  that  mode  which  took  place  be- 
fore the  alteration  of  the  style.  It  is  seldom  safe 
to  speak  by  guess,  and  Davies  had  no  authority  for 
his  ingenious  solution  ;  wLich  unfortunately  will 
not  apply  in  the  present  case.  Tke  memorandum 
of  Massinger's  entrance  now  lies  before  me,  and 
proves  Wood  to  be  incorrect;  i',  is  dated  May  14, 
1602*.  How  he  came  to  mistake  in  a  matter  where 
it  required  so  little  pains  to  be  accurate,  is  difficult 
to  say. 

Langbaine  and  Wood  agree  in  the  time  Massinjjer 
spent  at  Oxford,  but  differ  as  to  the  object*  of  bis 
pursuit.  The  former  observes,  that  during  his 
reside'nce  there  he  applied  himself  closely  to  bis 
studies  ;  while  the  latter  writes,  that  he  "  gave  his 
mind  more  to  poetry  and  romances  for  about  four  years 
or  more,  than  to  logic  and  philosophy,  which  he  ought 
to  have  done,  as  he  was  patronized  to  that  end." 
What  ideas  this  tasteless  but  useful  drudge  bad  of 
logic  and  philosophy  it  may  be  vain  to  enquire  ;  but, 
with  respect  to  the  first,  Massinger's  reasoning  will 
not  be  found  deficient  either  in  method  or  effect ; 
and  it  might  easily  be  proved  that  he  was  no  mean 
proficient  in  philosophy  of  the  noblest  kind :  the 
truth  is,  that  he  must  have  applied  himself  to  study 
with  uncommon  energy  ;  for  his  literary  acquisitions 
at  this  early  period  appear  to  be  multifarious  and 
extensive. 

From  the  account  of  Wood,  however,  Davies 
concludes  that  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  was  offended 
at  this  misapplication  of  his  time  to  the  superficial 
but  alluring  pursuits  of  poetry  and  romance,  and 
therefore  withdrew  his  support,  which  compelled 
the  young  man  to  quit  the  University  without  a  de- 
gree; "  for  which,"  adds  he,  "attention  to  logic  and 
philosophy  was  absolutely  necessary ;  as  the  candi- 
date for  that  honour  must  pass  through  an  examina- 
tion in  both,  before  he  can  obtain  it."  Dans  (e  pays 
des  aveugles,  says  the  proverb,  les  borgnes  sont  roit: 
and  Davies,  who  apparently  had  not  these  valuable 
acquisitions,  entertained  probably  a  vast  idea  of 
their  magnitude  and  importance.  A  shorter  period, 
however,  than  four  years,  would  be  found  amply 
sufficient  to  furnish  even  an  ordinary  mind  with 
enough  of  school  logic  and  philosophy,  to  pass  the 
examination  for  a  bachelor's  degree ;  and  I  am, 
therefore,  unwilling  to  believe  that  Massinger 
missed  it  on  the  score  of  incapacity  in  these  notable 
arts. 

However  this  may  be,  he  certainly  left  the  Uni- 
versity abruptly :  not,  I  apprehend,  on  account  of 
the  Earl  of  Pembroke  withholding  his  assistance,  for 
it  does  not  appear  that  he  ever  afforded  any,  but  of  a 
much  more  calamitous  event,  the  death  of  his  fa- 
ther ;  from  whom,  I  incline  to  think  with  Lang- 
baine, his  sole  support  was  derived. 

Why  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  the  liberal  friend 
and  protector  of  literature  in  all  its  branchesf,  ne- 

*  In  it  be  is  styled  the  son  of  a  gentleman :  "  1'liili p  Mas- 
linger,  Sariilnu-ienxit,  yeneroii  Jilius.'' 

+  To  this  noblniMii  and  his  yoim<:er  brother  Philip) 
Rctniuge  and  Condtll  dedicaied  their  edition  of  Sli,,k.-pc,irc '= 


glected  a  young  man  to  whom  his  assistance  iras  ao 
necessary,  and  who,  from  the  acknowledged  services 
of  his  father,  had  so  many  and  just  claims  on  it ;  one, 
too,  who  would  have  done  his  patronage  such  singular 
honour,  I  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  ;  that  he  was 
never  indebted  to  it  is,  I  fear,  indisputable,  since  the 
poet,  of  whose  character  gratitude  forms  a  striking 
part,  while  he  recurs  perpetually  to  his  hereditary 
obligations  to  the  Herbert  family,  anxiously  avoids 
all  mention  of  his  name.  I  sometimes,  indeed, 
imagine  that  I  have  discovered  the  cause  of  this 
alienation,  but  cannot  flatter  myself  that  it  will  be 
very  generally  or  even  partially  allowed :  not  to 
keep  the  reader  in  suspense,  I  attribute  it  to  the 
poet's  having,  during  his  residence  at  the  Univer- 
sity, exchanged  the  religion  of  his  father,  for  one, 
at  this  time  the  object  of  persecution,  hatred,  and 
terror.  A  close  and  repeated  perusal  of  Massinger's 
works  has  convinced  me  that  he  was  a  Catholic. 
"The  Virgin-Martyr,"  "The  Renegado,"  "The 
Maid  of  Honour,"  exhibit  innumerable  proofs  of  it; 
to  say  nothing  of  those  casual  intimations  that  are 
scattered  over  his  remaining  dramas  :  a  consciousness 
of  this  might  prevent  him  from  applying  to  the  Earl 
of  Pembroke  for  assistance,  or  a  knowledge  of  it 
might  determine  that  nobleman  to  withhold  bis 
hand  :  for  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  his  displea- 
sure (if  he  really  entertained  any)  could  arise  from 
Massinger's  attachment  to  an  art  of  which  he  and 
his  brother*  were  universally  considered  as  the 
patrons,  and  which,  indeed,  he  himself  cultivated, 
with  assiduity  at  least,  if  not  with  successf. 

However  this  be,  the  period  of  Massinger's  mis- 
fortunes commenced  with  his  arrival  in  London. 
His  father  had  probably  applied  most  of  his  property 
to  the  education  of  his  son  ;  and  when  the  small 
remainder  was  exhausted,  he  was  driven  (as  he 
more  than  once  observes)  by  his  necessities,  and 
somewhat  inclined,  perhaps,  by  the  peculiar  bent  of 
his  talents,  to  dedicate  himself  to  the  service  of  the 
stage. 

This  expedient,  though  not  the  most  prudent, 
nor,  indeed,  the  most  encouraging  to  a  young  ad- 
venturer, was  not  altogether  hopeless.  Men  who 
will  ever  be  considered  as  the  pride  and  boast  of 
their  country,  Shakspeare,  Johnson,  and  Fletcher, 
were  solely,  or  in  a  considerable  degree,  dependent  on 
it :  nor  were  there  others  wanting  of  an  inferior  rank, 
such  as  Rowley,  Middleton,  Field,  Decker,  Shirley, 
and  Ford  ;  writers  to  whom  Massinger,  without 
any  impeachment  of  his  modesty,  might  consider 
himself  as  fully  equal,  who  subsisted  on  the  emolu- 
ments derived  from  dramatic  writing.  There  was 

Plays;  to  him,  also,  Jonson  inscribed  his  Epigrams,  "  as  the 
great  example  of  honour  and  viittie,"  an  idea  on  which  he 
enlarged  in  one  of  his  minor  poems.  It  is  evident  that  there 
was  iitile  cordiality  between  Jonson  and  our  Author;  the 
former  could  bear  no  rival  near  the  throne: 

nanguam  partitur  amieum, 

fiolvf  habet  : 

yet  it  wniiM  be  unju-t  to  accuse,  or  even  to  suspect  him  of 
doing  Massinger  an  ill  office  with  his  lather's  friend,  on  no 
better  grounds  than  his  unhappy  disposition. 

•  The  first  folio  edition  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Play* 
was  dedicated,  by  the  players,  to  the  Earl  of  Montgomery. 

t  In  UiliO  was  pnhli>hf(i  a  collection  of  "  amorous  and 
poetical  airs  and  compositions,"  Wood  tells  ns,  "with  this 
title:  Poem*  written  by  H'illiam  £arl  of  Pembroke,  i^c., 
many  of  which  are  antwered  by  it  ay  of  repartee,  by  A'ir 
lienj  Hudyard,  with  other  Poems  written  by  ther*  ocea- 
\ionally  and  apart."  Atheu.  Vol.  1.  p.  i  u» 


INTRODUCTION. 


also  something  to  tempt  the  ambition,  or,  if  it  must 
be  so,  the  vanity,  of  a  young  adventurer  in  this  pur- 
suit •  literature  was  the  sole  means  by  which  a  per- 
son undistinguished  by  birth  and  fortune  could, 
at  this  time,  hope  to  acquire  the  familiarity,  or 
secure  the  friendship  of  the  great;  and  of  all  its 
branches  none  was  so  favourably  received,  or  so 
liberally  encouraged,  as  that  of  the  drama.  Tilts 
and  tournaments,  the  boisterous  but  magnificent 
entertainments  of  the  court,  together  with  pageant- 
ries and  processions,  the  absurd  and  costly  mum- 
meries of  the  city,  were  rapidly  giving  way  to 
more  elegant  and  rational  amusements,  to  re- 
vels, masks,  and  plays  :  nor  were  the  latter 
merely  encouraged  by  the  presence  of  the  nobility  ; 
the  writers  of  them  were  adopted  into  the  number 
of  their  acquaintance,  and  made  at  once  the  objects 
of  their  bounty  and  esteem.  It  is  gratifying  to 
observe  how  the  names  of  Shakspeare,  Jonson, 
&c..  are  come  down  to  us  in  connection  with 
the  Sidneys,  the  Pembrokes,  the  Southamptons,  and 
other  great  and  splendid  ornaments  of  the  courts  of 
Elizabeth  and  James. 

Considerations  of  this  or  a  similar  kind  may  na- 
turally be  supposed  to  have  had  their  weight  with 
Massinger,  as  with  so  many  others  :  but  whatever 
was  the  motive,  Wood  informs  us,  that  "  being 
sufficiently  famed  for  several  specimens  of  wit,  he 
betook  himself  to  making  plays."  Of  what 
description  these  specimens  were,  Antony  does  not 
say  ;  he  probably  spoke  without  much  examination 
into  a  subject  for  which  he  had  little  relish  or  soli- 
cituue  ;  and,  indeed,  it  seems  more  reasonable  to 
conclude,  from  the  peculiar  nature  of  Massinger's 
talents,  that  the  drama  was  his  first  and  sole  pur- 
suit. 

It  must  appear  singular,  after  what  has  been  ob- 
served, that  with  only  one  exception  we  should  hear 
nothing  of  Massinger  for  the  Inns  period  of  sixteen 
years,  th.it  is,  from  his  first  appearance  in  London, 
1606  to  162*,  when  his  "Virgin  Martyr,"  the  first 
of  his  jirinted  works,  was  given  to  the  public. 
That  his  necessities  would  not  admit  of  relaxation  in 
ais  efforts  for  subsistence,  is  certain  ;  and  we  have 
the  tt-siiniony  of  a  contemporary  poet,  as  preserved 
by  I  HML;  I'aine,  for  the  rapidity  with  which  he  usually 
composed  : 

"  Ingenious  Shakespeare,  Massinger,  that  knows 
The  strength  of  plot,  to  write  in  verse  and  prose, 
\\  hose  ensy  Pegasus  will  amble  o'er 
Some  threescore  miles  of  fancy  in  a  hour." 

The  best  solution  of  the  difficulty  which  occurs 
to  me,  is,  that  the  poet's  modesty,  combined  with 
the  urgency  of  his  wants,  deterred  him,  at  first, 
from  attempting  to  write  alone  :  and  that  he,  there- 
fore, lent  his  assistance  to  others  of  a  more  con- 
fiimeil  reputation,  who  could  depend  on  a  ready 
vent  for  their  joint  productions.  When  men  labour 
for  the  demands  of  the  day,  it  is  imprudent  to  leave 
much  to  hazard  ;  such  certainly  was  the  case  with 
Massinger. 

Sir  Aston  Cockayne,  the  affectionate  friend  and 
patron  of  our  author,  printed  a  collection  of,  what 
he  is  pleased  to  call,  Poems,  Epigrams,  &c.,  in 
1638.  Among  these,  is  one  addressed  to  Hum- 
phrey Moseley,  the  publisher  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  in  folio  : 

"  In  the  large  book  of  plays  you  late  did  print 
In  Beaumont  and  in  Fletcher's  name,  why  in't 


Did  you  not  justice  give  ;  to  each  his  due  .' 
For  Beaumont  of  those  many  writ  but  few  : 
And  Massinger  in  other  few  ;  the  main 
Being  sweet  issues  of  sweet  Fletcher's  brain 
But  how  came  I,  you  ask,  so  much  to  know  1 
Fletcher's  chief  bosom  friend  inform 'd  me  so." 

Davies,  for  what  reason  I  cannot  discover,  seems 
inclined  to  dispute  that  part  of  the  assertion  which 
relates  to  Massinger  :  he  calls  it  vague  and  hearsay 
evidence,  and  adds,  with  sufficient  want  of  preci- 
sion, "  Sir  Aston  was  well  acquainted  with  Mas- 
singer,  who  would,  in  all  probability,  have  com- 
municated to  his  friend  a  circumstance  so  honourable 
to  himself."  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it ;  and  we 
may  be  confident  that  the  information  </<Wcome  from 
him ;  but  Mr.  Davies  mistakes  the  drift  of  Sir 
Aston 's  expostulation  :  the  fact  was  notorious,  that 
Beaumont  and  Massinger  had  written  in  conjunction 
with  Fletclier ;  what  he  complains  of  is,  that  the 
main,  the  bulk  of  the  book,  should  not  be  attributed 
to  the  latter,  by  whom  it  was  undoubtedly  composed. 
Beaumont  died  in  161 5,  and  Fletcher  produced  in 
the  interval  between  that  year  and  the  period  of  his 
own  death  (162.i),  between  thirty  and  forty  plays: 
it  is  not,  therefore,  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  he 
was  assisted  in  a  few  of  them  by  Massinger,  as  Sir 
Aston  affirms :  it  happens,  however,  that  the  fact 
does  not  rest  solely  on  his  testimony  ;  for  we  can 
produce  a  melancholy  proof  of  it,  from  an  authentic 
voucher,  which  the  enquiries  set  on  foot  by  the  un- 
wearied assiduity  of  Mr.  Malone  have  occasioned 
to  be  dragged  from  the  dust  of  Dulwich  College  : 

"  To  our  most  loving  friend,  Mr.  Philip  Hinchlovr, 

esquire,  These, 
"  Mr.  Hinchlovr, 

"  You  understand  our  unfortunate  extremitie,  and 
I  doe  not  thincke  you  so  void  of  Cristianitie  but 
that  «-ou  would  throw  so  much  money  into  the 
Thames  as  wee  request  now  of  you,  rather  than  en- 
danger so  many  innocent  lives.  You  know  there  is 
x/.  more  at  least  to  be  receaved  of  you  for  the  play. 
We  desire  you  to  lend  us  v/.  of  that :  which  shall 
be  allowed  to  you,  without  which  we  cannot  be 
bayled,  nor  /  play  any  more  till  this  be  dispatch'd. 
It  will  lose  YOU  xxi.  ere  the  end  of  the  next  weeke, 
besides  the  hinderance  of  the  next  new  play.  Pray, 
sir.  consider  our  cases  with  humanity,  and  now  give 
us  cause  to  acknowledge  you  our  true  friend  in  time 
of  neede.  Wee  have  entreated  Mr.  Davison  to  de- 
liver this  note,  as  well  to  witness  your  love  as  our 
promises,  and  alwayes  acknowledgement  to  be  ever 
"  Your  most  thanckfull  and  loving  friends, 
"  NAT  FIELD." 

''The  money  shall  be  abated  out  of  the  money 
remayns  for  the  play  of  Mr.  Fletcher  and  our*. 

"  ROB.  DABORSE*." 

"  I  have  ever  found  you  a  true  loving  friend  to 
mee,  and  in  soe  small  a  suite,  it  beeinge  honest,  I 
hope  you  will  not  fail  us. 

"  PHILIP  MASSINGER.' 


•  Robert  Daborne  is  the  author  of  two  Plays, "  The  Christian 
Turned  Turk,"  4to,  1 61  *,  and  "The  Poor  Man's  Comfort,"  4to, 
1055.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  a  liberal  education,  master  ol 
arts,  and  in  holy  orders.  His  humble  fortunes  appear  to  have 
improved  after  this  period,  for  there  is  extant  a  fernum 
preached  by  him  at  Waterford  in  Ireland,  1618,  where  the 
authors  of  the  "  Biographia  Dramatica"  think  it  prub«We  that 
he  had  a  living. 


INTRODUCTION. 


"  Indorsed: 

"  Received  by  mee  Robert  Davison,  of  Mr. 
Hinchlow,  for  the  use  of  Mr.  Daboerne,  Mr.  Feeld, 
Mr.  Messenger,  the  sum  of  v/. 

"Ron.  DAVISON*." 

This  letter  tripartite,  which  it  is  impossible  to 
read  without  the  most  poignant  regret  at  the  distress 
of  such  men,  fully  establishes  the  partnership 
between  Massinger  and  Fletcher,  who  must,  indeed, 
have  had  considerable  assistance  to  enable  him  to 
bring  forward  the  numerous  plays  attributed  to  his 
name. 

We  can  now  account  for  a  part  of  the  time  which 
Massinger  spent  in  London  before  his  appearance 
in  print  as  a  professed  writer  for  the  stage :  but  this 
is  not  all.  Among  the  manuscript  plays  collected 
with  such  care  by  Mr.  Warburton  (Somerset  He- 
rald) and  applied  with  such  perseverance  by  his 
cook  to  the  covering  of  his  pies,  were  no  less  than 
twelve  said  to  be  writien  by  Massingerf  ;  and 
though  it  is  now  made  probable  that  two  of  the 
number  do  not  belong  to  him,  yet  scattered  notices 
of  others  which  assuredly  do,  prove  that  he  was  not 
inactive. 


•  Addition*  to  Malone'*  Historical  Account  of  the  Eng- 
lish .Staye,  p.  488. 

t  No  UK*  than  twelve,  &c.]  Their  titles,  as  given  by  Mr. 
Warbtuton,  are— 

Minerva'*  Sacrifice, 
The  Forced  Lady. 
Antonio  and  I' alia. 
The.  Woman'*  Plot. 
The  Tyrant. 

Philenzo  aud  Hippolita. 
The  Judge. 
Fast  and  Welcome. 
Believe  at  you  List. 
The  Honour  nf  Women. 
The  Noble  Choice.   And, 
The  Pariiami-nt  of  Love. 

When  it  it  added  that,  together  with  these,  forty  other 
manuscript  plays  of  various  authors  were  destroyed,  it  will 
i radii}  be  allowed  that  English  literature  has  seldom  sus- 
tained a  greater  loss  than  by  tlie  strange  conduct  of  Mr. 
Warbi  rtun,  who,  becoming  the  master  of  treasures  which 
ages  may  not  re-produce,  lodge*  them,  as  he  says,  in  the  hand* 
of  an  ignorant  servant,  and  whtn,  after  a  lapse  of  years,  he 
condescends  to  revisit  his  ii  arils,  finds  that  they  have  been 
burnt  from  an  economical  wish  to  save  him  the  charges  of 
more  valuable  brown  paper!  It  is  time  to  bring  on  shore 
the  book  bunting  passenger;  in  Locher's  "  Navis  Stultifera," 
an-l  exchange  him  for  one  'more  suitable  to  the  rest  of  the 
cargo. 

Tardy,  however,  as  Mr.  \Vaib  ut<>n  was,  it  appears  that 
be  came  in  lime  to  preserve  three  drama!  from  the  general 
wreck : 

The  Second  Maid's  Tragedy. 
The  Bugbear*.     And, 
The  Qiieen  of  Corsica. 

These,  it  is  said,  are  now  in  the  library  of  the  Marquis  of 
Lan.-.low  ne,  where  they  will  probably  remain  in  safety,  till 
moths,  or  damps,  or  in  t .«,  mingle  their  "  forgotten  dust" 
with  that  of  their  late  companions. 

When  it  is  considered  at  how  trifling  an  expense  a  manu- 
script play  may  be  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  accident,  the 
withholding  it  from  the  press  will  be  allowed  to  prove  a 
strange  indifference  to  the  ancient  literature  of  the  country. 
The  fact,  however,  seems  to  be,  that  these  treasures  are 
maile  subservient  to  the  gratification  of  a  spurious  rage  for 
notoriety;  it  is  not  that  any  benefit  may  accrue  from  them, 
either  to  the  proprietors  or  others,  that  manuscripts  are  now 
hoarded,  but  that  A  or  H  may  be  celebrated  for  possessing 
what  no  other  letter  of  the  alphabet  can  hope  to  acquire. 
Nor  is  this  all.  The  hateful  passion  of  literary  avarice  (a 
compound  of  vanity  and  envy)  is  becoming  epidemic,  and 


{  fiprm  qtinqur  nre  part-am  collecta  volumina  priebent 
('alien  nee  oerbutn,  nee  libri  tentio  rnfntem 
Attamen  in  JIAG.NO  per  me  servaiitur  HONOR* 


Four  only  of  the  plays  named  in  Mr.  Warburton'B 
list  occur  in  the  Office-book  of  Sir  Henry  Herbert, 
wliich  is  continued  up  to  the  latest  period  of  Mas- 
singer's  life;  it  is,  therefore,  evident  that  they  must 
have  been  written  previous  to  its  commencement, 
these,  therefore;  with  "  The  Old  Law,"  "  The 
Virgin  Martyr,"  "  The  Unnatural  Combat,"  and 
"  The  Duke  of  Milan,"  which  are  also  unnoticed  in 
it,  will  sufficiently  fill  up  the  time  till  1622. 

There  are  no  data  to  ascertain  the  respective  pe- 
riods at  which  these  plays  were  produced  "The 
Virgin  Martyr"  is  confidently  mentioned  by  th« 
former  editors  as  the  earliest  of  Massing-er's  works, 
probably  because  it  was  the  first  that  appeared  in 
print :  but  this  drama,  which  they  have  considerably 
under-rated,  in  consequence,  jierhaps,  of  the  dull 
ribaldry  with  which  it  is  vitiated  by  Decker  evinces 
a  style  decidedly  formed,  a  hand  accustomed  to  com- 
position, and  a  mind  stored  with  the  richest  acqui- 
sitions of  a  long  and  successful  study. 

"  Th«  Old  Law,"  which  was  not  printed  till 
many  years  after  Massinger's  death,  is  said  to  have 
been  wiitten  by  him  in  conjunction  with  Middleton 
and  Rowley*.  The  latter  of  these  is  ranked  by  the 
author  of  "The  Companion  to  the  Play  House,"  in 
the  third  class  of  dramatic  writers  ;  higher,  it  is 
impossible  to  place  him :  but  the  former  was  a 
man  of  considerable  powers,  who  has  lately  been 
the  object  of  much  discussion,  on  account  of  the 
liberal  use  Shakspeare  is  supposed  to  have  made 
of  his  recently  discovered  iragi-comedv  of  "  The 
Witch*." 

It  is  said,  by  Steevens,  that  "The  Old  Law"  was 
acted  in  1559.  If  it  be  really  so,  Massinger's  name 
must,  in  future,  be  erased  from  the  title-page  of 
that  play,  for  he  was,  at  that  date,  only  in  the  fif- 


branching  out  in  every  direction.  It  has  many  of  the  worst 
symptoms  of  that  madness  which  once  raged  among  the 
Dutch  for  the  possession  of  tulips; — here,  as  well  a-  in  Hol- 
land, an  an  ifici.il  rarily  is  first  created,  and  then  rn-ide  a 
plea  for  extortion  or  a  ground  tor  low-minded  and  tclfish 
exultation.  1  speak  not  of  works  never  intended  for  sale, 
and  of  which,  therefore,  the  owner  may  print  as  few  01  a* 
many  as  his  feelings  will  allow ;  but  of  those  which  are  os- 
tensibly designed  for  the  public, and  which,  notwithstanding, 
prove  the  editors  to  labour  under  this  ixli.ni-  'lisease.  Here 
an  old  manuscript  is  brought  for  want,  and  after  a  few  opies 
are  printed,  the  press  is  broken  up,  that  there  ma\  be  a  pre- 
tence for  selling  them  at  a  price  which  none  but  a  collector 
canre'di:  there,  explanatory  plates  are  engraved  for  « 
work  of  general  n-e,  ami,  as  soon  as  twenty  or  thirty  im- 
pressions are  taken  off,  destrojed  with  gratuitous  malice 
(for  it  deserves  no  other  name),  that  there  may  be  a  mad 
competition  for  the  favoured  copies!  To  conclude,  tor  this 
i;  no  pleasant  subject,  books  are  purchased  now  at  extrava- 
gant rates ;  not  because  they  are  good,  but  because  they  are 
scarce  ;  so  that  a  tire,  or  an  enterprising  trunk-maker,  that 
should  take  oft"  nearly  the  whole  of  a  worthless  work,  would 
instantly  render  the  small  remainder  invaluable. 

•  "  The  Parliament  of  Love"  is  entered  on  the  stationers* 
books  as  the  production  of  William  Rowley  It  is  now 
known  from  infinitely  better  authority,  the  Official  Register 
of  the  Master  of  the  Revels,  to  be  the  composition  of  Mas- 
singer;  indeed,  the  abilities  of  Rowley  were  altogether  un- 
equal to  the  execution  of  such  a  work,  to  the  .-t\  le  and 
manner  of  which  his  acknowledged  performances  bear  not 
the  slightest  resemblance. 

t  It  would  be  unjust  to  mention  this  manuscript  Play, 
without  noticing,  at  the  same  time,  the  striking  contrast 
which  the  conduct  of  its  possessor.  Air.  Isaac  Reed,  form* 
with  that  of  those  alluded  to  in  the.  preceding  note.  "  The 
Witch,"  from  the  circumstance  men'ioned  above,  wa«  a 
literary  curiosity  of  the  most  valuable  kind  ;  >et  he  printed 
it  at  his  own  expense,  and,  with  a  liberality  that  has  found 
more  admirers  than  imitator*,  gratuitously  distributed  the 
copies  among  his  friend).  It  is  thus  placcd'out  of  the  reach 
of  accident. 


INTRODUCTION. 


xvu 


eenth  year  of  bis  age,  and  probably  had  not  left 
•he  residence  of  his  father.  Steevens  produces  no 
authority  for  his  assertion ;  but  as  he  does  not 
usually  write  at  random,  it  is  entitled  to  notice.  In 
Act  III.  Scene  1,  of  that  play,  in  which  the  clown 
*onsults  the  church-book  on  the  age  of  his  wife,  the 
clerk  reads  and  comments  upon  it  thus  : — "  Agatha, 
the  daughter  of  Pollux,  born  in  an.  1540,  and  NOW 
'tis  1599."  The  observation  of  Steevens  is,  pro- 
bably, founded  upon  this  passage  (at  least  I  am 
aware  of  no  other),  and  it  will  not,  perhaps,  be  easy 
to  conjecture  why  the  authors  should  fix  upon  this 
particular  year,  unless  it  really  were  the  current 
one.  It  is  to  no  purpose  to  object  that  the  scene  is 
laid  in  a  distant  country,  and  the  period  of  action 
necessarily  remote,  for  the  dramatic  writers  of  those 
days  confounded  all  climes  and  all  ages  with  a  fa- 
cility truly  wonderful.  On  the  whole,  I  am  inclined 
to  attribute  the  greater  part  of  "  The  Old  Law"  to 
Middleton  and  Rowley:  it  has  not  many  charac- 
teristic traits  of  Massinger,  and  the  style,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  places,  which  are  pointed  out  by 
Dr.  Ireland,  is  rery  unlike  that  of  his  acknowledged 
pieces. 

It  is  by  no  means  improbable  that  Massinger,  an 
author  in  high  repute,  was  employed  by  the  actors 
to  alter  or  to  add  a  few  scenes  to  a  popular  drama, 
and  that  his  pretensions  to  this  partnership  of  wit 
were  thus  recognized  and  established.  A  process 
like  this  was  consonant  to  the  manners  of  the  age, 
when  the  players,  who  were  usually  the  proprietors, 
exerted,  and  not  unfrequently  abused,  the  privilege 
of  interlarding  such  pieces  as  were  once  in  vogue, 
from  time  to  time,  with  new  matter*.  Who  will 
say  that  Shakspeare's  claims  to  many  dramas  which 
formerly  passed  under  his  name,  and  probably  with 
no  intent,  on  the  part  of  the  publishers,  to  deceive, 
had  not  this  or  a  similar  foundation  ? 

What  has  been  said  of  "  The  Virgin  Martyr," 
applies  with  equal,  perhaps  with  greater  force,  to 
"  The  Unnatural  Combat"  and  "  The  Duke  of 
Milan,"  of  which  the  style  is  easy,  vigorous,  and 
harmonious,  bespeaking  a  confirmed  habit  of  com- 
position, and  serving,  with  the  rest,  to  prove  that 
Massinger  began  to  write  for  the  stage  at  an  earlier 
period  than  has  been  hitherto  supposed. 

Massinger  appears  for  the  first  lime  in  the  office- 
book  of  the  Master  of  the  Revels,  Dec.  3,  1623,  on 
which  day  his  play  of  "  The  Bondman"  was  brought 
forward.  About  this  time,  too,  he  printed  "  The 
Duke  of  Milan,"  with  a  short  dedication  to  Liicly 
Katheriue  Stanhopef  ;  in  which  he  speaks  with 


•  A  very  curious  instance  oftliis  occurs  in  the  OHice-Book 
of  Sir  Henry  Herbert; — "  Received  tor  the  adding  of  a 
new  icene  to  "The  Virgin  Martjr,"  (his  7lh  of  Jnlj,  1024, 
10.-+."  Such  were  the  liberties  taken  wi  h  our  ulil  i'lays  ! 
"  The  Virgin  Martyr"  had  now  bren  a  twelvemonth  before 
the  public,  being  printed  in  16*2;  the  new  scene,  which  was 
probably  a  piece  of  low  buifoonery,  does  not  appear  in  the 
subsequent  editions,  which  are  ui-re  copies  of  the  first ;  had 
that,  however,  not  been  committed  to  the  press  previous  to 
these  additions,  we  may  be  prett_  confident  that  the  whole 
would  have  come  down  to  us  as  the  joint  production  of  Mas- 
cinger  and  Decker. 

j  Lad'i  Catherine  Stanhope  ;]  daughter  of  Francis  Lord 
Hastings,  and  tirst  wife  of  ljhilip  Stanhope,  Baron  of  Sliel- 
ford,  and  afterwards  (IMS)  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  a  nobleman 


»  This  was  Sir  Henry's  fee ;  for  this  mean  and  rapacious 
overseer  not  only  insisted  on  being  paid  for  allowing  a  new 
I'laj,  but  for  every  trifling  audition  which  might  sut-sequcutlv 
te  ma  le  to  it. 


great  modesty  of  his  course  of  studies,  to  which  he 
insinuates  (what  he  more  than  once  repeats  in  his 
subsequent  publications),  misfortune  rather  than 
choice  had  determined  him. 

In  1624,  he  published  "The  Bondman,"  and  de- 
dicated it  to  Philip  Earl  of  Montgomery,  who  being 
present  at  the  first  representation,  had  shown  his 
discernment  and  good  taste,  by  what  the  author 
calls  a  liberal  suffrage  in  its  favour.  Philip  was  the 
second  son  of  Henry  Earl  of  Pembroke,  the  friend 
and  patron  of  Massinger's  father.  At  an  early  age 
he  came  to  court,  and  was  distinguished  by  the  par- 
ticular favour  of  James  I.,  who  conferred  the  honour 
of  knighthood  upon  him  ;  and,  on  his  marriage* 
with  Lady  Susan  Veref,  daughter  of  Edward  Earl 
of  Oxford,  and  grand-daughter  of  William  Lord 
Burleigh,  gave  him  lands  to  a  considerable  amount, 
and  soon  afterwards  created  him  a  baron  and  an 
earl$. 


of  great  honour  and  virtue.  He  opposed  the  hi,licomt 
measures,  till  he  discovered  that  the  parliament  were  vio- 
lently usurping  on  the  prerogatives  of  the  other  brandies  of 
the  state;  when,  after  an  ineltei-tual  struggle  to  bring  them 
iuto  constitutional  limits,  and  preserve  peace,  he  joined  the 
arms  of  his  royal  master.  Shelford,  the  seat  from  which  lie 
deriveil  his  title,  was  burnt  in  the  conflict,  two  of  his  »OD« 
fell  in  battle,  and  he  himself  stiffen  d  a  long  and  severe  xm- 
prisonment ;  yet  he  preserved  his  loyalty  and  faith,  and  died 
as  he  had  lived,  unblemished. 

*  On  his  marriage.}  There  is  an  account  of  this  marriage, 
in  a  letter  from  Sir  Dudlev  Carlton  to  Mr.  Winwood,  which 
is  preserved  in  the  seco  xt  volume  of  liis  Alemoires,  and 
which,  as  affording  a  very  curious  picturi  of  the  gro^ness 
that  prevailed  at  the  court  of  James  l.,ir.a>  not  be  unworthy 
of  insertion  :— "  On  St.  John's  day,  we  han  the  marriage  ot 
SirPhilip  Herbert  and  the  Lady  Susan  performed  at  White- 
ball,  with  all  the  honour  could  be  done  a  great  favourite. 
The  court  was  great,  and  for  that  day  put  on  the  best  brav- 
erie.  The  prince  and  Duke  of  Hoist  led  the  bride  to  church  ; 
the  ftu-un  followed  her  from  thence.  The  king  gave  her, 
and  she,  in  her  ties.-rs  and  trinkets,  brided  and  bridled  it  so 
handsomely,  and  indeed  became  herself  so  well,  that  the  king 
said,  if  he  were  unmarried,  he  would  not  give  her,  but  keep 
her  himself.  The  marriage  dinner  was  kept  in  the  great 
chamber,  where  the  prince  and  the  Duke  ol  Hoist,  and  the 
great  lords  and  ladies,  accompanied  the  bride.  The  ambas- 
sador of  Venice  w.is  the  only  bid'ien  guest  of  strangers, 
and  he  had  place  above  the  Duke  of  Hol-t,  which  the  duke 
took  not  well.  But  after  dinnei,  he  was  a«  little  pleased 
himself;  for  being  brought  into  the  closet  to  retire  himself, 
he  was  then  suffered  to  walk  out,  his  supper  unthought  of. 
At  night,  there  was  a  mask  in  the  hall,  which,  for  conceit 
and  fashion,  was  suitable  to  the  occasion.  The  actors  were 
the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  the  Lord  W  illoby,  Sir  Samuel  Hays, 
Sir  Thomas  Germain,  Sir  Robert  Cary,  Sir  John  Lee,  Sir 
Richard  Preston,  and  Sir  Thomas  Bager.  There  was  no 
Mil  :ll  loss  that  night  of  chains  and  jewels,  and  many  great 
1  Klii-s  were  made  shorter  by  the  skirls,  and  were  very  well 
>erve«l,  that  they  could  keep  cut  no  better.  The  presents  ot 
plate  and  other  things  given  by  tl:e  nobltmcn  were  valued 
at  2,51)01.;  but  that  which  made  it  a  good  marriage,  was  a 
gift  of  the  king's,  of  50U1.  laud,  for  "the  bride's  joyntnre. 
They  were  lodged  in  the  council  chamber,  where  the  king, 
in  hi>  shirt  and  night  gown,  gave  them  a  reveille -matin  be- 
fore they  were  up,  and  spei't  a  good  time  in  or  upon  the 
bed,  chuse  which  you  will  believe.  No  ceremony  was  omit- 
ted of  bride-cakes,  points,  gaiters,  and  gloves,  which  have 
been  ever  since  the  livery  of  the  court,  and  at  night  there 
was  sew  ing  into  the  sheet,  casting  oli  the  bride's  left  hose, 
with  many  other  petty  sorceiiest.  Jan.  1605." 

;  Jjaay  Susan  fere,]  To  this  lady  Jonson  addressed  the 
poem  beginning, 

"  Were  they  that  named  you  prophets?  did  they  see 
Even  in  the  dew  of  grace,  w  hat  you  would  be  f 
Or  did  our  limes  requite  it,  to  behold 
A  new  Susanna  equal  to  that  old  t"  &c.     Epig.  civ. 
The  dew  of  grace  is  an  elegant  and  beautiful  periphrasis  for 
the  baptismal  sprinkling. 

j  Davies,  after  noticing  the  favours  heaped  on  him,  as  re- 
corded by  Lord  Clarendon,  petulant!)  adds,  "  But  Clarendon, 

t  There  is  an  allusion  to  one  of  these    "  petty  sorcerie»' 
iu  the  speech  of  Mirtilla,  "  Guardian,"  Act.  III.  8 


INTRODUCTION. 


This  dedication,  •which  is  sensible,  modest,  and 
affecting,  serves  to  prove  that  whatever  might  be 
the  unfortunate  circumstance  which  deprived  the 
author  of  the  patronage  and  protection  of  the  elder 
branch  of  the  Herberts,  he  did  not  imagine  it  to  be 
of  a  disgraceful  nature  ;  or  he  would  not,  in  the  face 
of  the  public,  have  appealed  to  his  connections 
with  the  family :  at  the  same  time,  it  is  manifest 
that  some  cause  of  alienation  existed,  otherwise  he 
would  scarcely  have  overlooked  so  fair  an  opportu- 
nity of  alluding  to  the  characteristic  generosity  of 
the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  whom  on  this,  as  on  every 
other  occasion,  he  scrupulously  forbears  to  name, 
or  even  to  hint  at. 

This  dedication,  which  was  kindly  received,  led 
the  way  to  a  closer  connection,  and  a  certain  degree 
of  familiarity,  for  which,  perhaps,  the  approbation 
so  openly  expressed  of  "  The  Bondman,"  might 
be  designed  by  Montgomery  as  an  overture  ;  at  a 
subsequent  period*,  Massinger  styles  the  earl  his 
"  most  singular  good  lord  and  patron,"  and  speaks 
of  the  greatness  of  his  obligations  : 

" mine  being  more 

"  Than  they  could  owe,  who  since,  or  heretofore, 
"  Have  labour'd  with  exalted  lines  to  raise 
"  Brave  piles,  or  rather  pyramids  of  praise 
*'  To  Pembrokef,  and  his  family." 

What  pecnniary  advantages  he  derived  from  the 
present  address,  cannot  be  known  ;  whatever  they 
were,  they  did  not  preclude  the  necessity  of  writing 
for  the  stage,  which  he  continued  to  do  with  great 


perhaps,  did  not  know  the  real  cause  of  Lord  Herbert's  ad- 
vancement. The  behaviour  of  the  Scots  on  James's  accession 
to  the  throne  of  England  was  generally  obnoxions  and  much 
resenti-d.  At  a  meeting  of  KnglUh  and  Scotch  at  a  horse-race 
near  Croydon,  a  sudden  quarrel  arose  between  them,  occa- 
sioned, by  a  Mr.  Ramsey's  striking  Philip  Lord  Herbert  in 
the  face  with  a  switch.  The  Kogli»h  would  have  made  it  a 
national  quarrel,  and  Mr.  John  Pinchbeck  rode  about  the  field 
with  a  dagger  in  his  hand,  crying,  Let  us  break  o-.tr  fast  with 
them  fiert,and  dine  with  them  in  London.  But  Herbert  not 
resenting  it,  the  king  was  so  charmed  with  his  peaceable  dis- 
position, that  he  made  him  a  knight,  a  baron,  a  viscount,  and 
an  earl,  in  one  day."  Life  of  Massinger,  p.  liii.  This  is 
taken  from  Osborne,  one  of  those  gossipping  talemongers  in 
which  the  times  of  James  so  greatly  abounded,  and  who,  with 
Weldon,  Wilson,  Peyton,  Sanderson,  and  others,  contributed 
lo  propagate  an  infinite  uiimbcr  of  scandalous  stories,  which 
should  have  been  left  sub  lodici;  where  most  ot  them  perhaps 
had  birth  \V  hat  reliance  may  be  placed  on  them,  in  general, 
is  sufficiently  apparent  from  the  assertion  of  Osborne.  The 
fact  is,  thai  Herbert  had  long  been  a  knight,  and  was  never  a 
viscount.  He  was  married  in  the  beginning  of  1605  (he  was 
then  Sir  Philip),  and  created  Baron  Herbert  of  Sliurland  in 
the  Isle  of  Shoppy,  and  Earl  of  Montgomery,  June  4:h,  in 
the  same  year:  and  so  far  were  these  titles  from  being  the 
reward  of  what  Osborne  calls  his  cowardice  at  Croydon,  that 
they  were  all  confened  o»  him  two  years  before  that  event 
took  place.  Osborne  himself  allows  that  if  Montgomery  had 
not,  by  his  forbearance,  "  stanched  the  blood  then  ready  to 
be  spilt,  not  only  that  day,  but  all  afier,  must  have  proved 
fatal  to  the  Scots,  sn  long  as  any  had  staid  in  England,  the 
royal  family  excepted,  which,  in  respect  to  majesty,  or  their 
own  safety,  they  mast  have  spared,  or  the  kingdom  been 
left  to  the  misery  of  seeing  so  much  blood  laid  out  as  the 
trial  of  so  many  crabbed  titles  would  have  required."  The 
prevention  of  these  horrors  might,  in  some  minds,  have 
raised  feelings  favourable  to  the  temperance  of  the  young 
earl  ;  bat  Osborne,  whose  object  and  whose  office  was  ca- 
lumny, contrives  to  convert  it  into  a  new  accusation  :  "  they 
could  not  be  these  considerations,"  he  says,  "that  restrained 
Herbert,  who  wanted  leisure,  no  less  than  capacity,  to  use 
them,  though  laid  in  his  way  by  others!" 

Memoirs  of  King  James. 

*  On  the  loss  of  his  eldest   son,  who  died    of  the    small- 
pox at  Florence,  Jan.  1035. 

t  Montgomery  had   now  succeeded  to  the  title  and  estates 
pf  bis  eldei  brother,  who  deceased  April  10,  1630 


industry,  seldom  producing  less  than  two  new 
pieces  annually.  In  1629,  his  occasions,  perhaps, 
again  pressing  upon  him,  he  gave  lo  the  press  "  The 
Henegado"  and  "  The  Roman  Actor,"  both  of  which 
had  now  been  several  years  before  the  public.  The 
first  of  these  he  inscribed  to  Lord  Berkeley  in  a  short 
address  composed  witli  taste  and  elegance.  He" 
speaks  with  some  complacency  of  the  merits  of  the 
piece,  but  trusts  that  he  shall  live  "  to  render  his 
humble  thankfulness  in  some  higher  strain  :"  this 
confidence  in  his  abilities,  the  plensing  concomitant 
of  true  genius,  Massinger  often  felt  and  expressed. 
The  latter  play  he  presented  to  Sir  Philip  Kny  vet 
and  Sir  Thomas  Jeay*,  with  a  desire,  as  he  savs, 
that  the  world  might  take  notice  of  his  being  in- 
debted to  their  support  for  power  to  compose  the 
piece  :  he  expatiates  on  their  kindness  in  warm  and 
energetic  language,  and  accounts  for  addressing 
"  the  most  perfect  hirth  of  his  Minerva"  to  them, 
from  their  superior  demands  on  his  gratitude. 

Little  more  than  four  years  had  elapsed  since 
"The  Bondman"  was  printed  ;  in  that  period 
Massinger  had  written  seven  plays,  all  of  which, 
it  is  probable,  were  favourably  received  :  it  there- 
fore becomes  a  question,  what  were  the  emoluments 
derived  from  the  stage  which  could  thus  leave  a  popu- 
lar and  successful  writer  to  struggle  with  adversity. 

There  seem  to  have  been  two  methods  of  dis- 
posing of  a  new  piece;  the  first,  and  perhaps  the 
most  general,  was  to  sell  the  copy  to  one  of  the 
theatres;  the  price  cannot  be  exactly  ascertained, 
hut  appears  to  have  fluctuated  between  ten'  and 
twenty  pounds,  seldom  falling  short  of  the  former, 
and  still  more  seldom,  I  believe,  exceeding  the 
latter.  In  this  case,  the  author  could  only  print  his 
play  by  permission  of  the  proprietors,  a  favour 
which  was  sometimes  granted  to  the  necessities  of  a 
favourite  writer,  and  to  none,  perhaps,  more  fre- 
quently than  to  Massinger.  The  other  method  wag 
by  offering  it  to  the  stage  for  the  advantage  of 
benefit,  which  was  commonly  taken  on  the  seconc 
or  third  night,  and  which  seldom  produced,  there 
is  reason  to  suppose,  the  net  sum  of  twenty  pounds. 
There  yet  remain  the  profits  of  publication :  Mr. 
Malone,  from  whose  "  Historical  Account  of  the 
English  Stage"  (one  of  the  most  instructive  essays 
that  ever  appeared  on  the  subject),  many  of  these 
notices  are  taken,  says,  that,  in  the  time  of  Shak- 
speare,  the  customary  price  was  twenty  nobles 
(til.  13s.  4d.) ;  if  at  a  somewhat  later  period  we  fix 
it  at  thirty  (101.),  we  shall  not,  probably,  be  far  from 
the  truth.  The  usual  dedication  fee,  which  yet  re- 
mains to  be  added,  was  forty  shillings  :  where  any 
connection  subsisted  betwen  the  parties,  it  was  doubt- 
less increased. 

We  may  be  pretty  confident,  therefore,  that  Mas- 
singer  seldom,  if  ever,  received  for  his  most  stre- 
nuous and  fortunate  exertions  more  than  fifty 
pounds  a-year;  this,  indeed,  if  regularly  enjoyed, 
would  be  sufficient,  with  decent  enconomy,  to  have 
preserved  him  from  absolute  want :  but  nothing  is 
better  known  than  the  precarious  nature  of  dramatic 
writing.  Some  of  his  pieces  might  fail  of  success 
(indeed,  we  are  assured  that  they  actually  did  so), 


•  Sir  Thomas  Jeay  was  himself  a  poet :  several  commend- 
atory copies  of  verses  by  him  are  prefixed  to  Massinger's 
Plays.  He  calls  the  author  his  worthy  friend,  and  gives 
many  proets  that  his  esteem  was  founded  on  judgment,  and 
his  kindness  candid  and  sincere 


INTRODUCTION. 


Others  might  experience  n  lfthin  third  day  ;"  and  a 
variety  of  circumstances,  not  difficult  to  enumerate, 
contribute  to  diminish  the  petty  sum  which  we  have 
ventured  to  state  as  the  maximum  of  the  poet's  re- 
venue. Nor  could  the  benefit  which  lie  derived 
from  the  press  be  very  extensive,  as  of  the  seventeen 
dramas  which  make  up  his  printed  works  (exclusive 
of  the  "  Parliament  of  Love,"  which  now  appears 
for  the  first  time\  only  twelve  were  published  dur- 
ing his  l.fe,  and  of  these,  two  ("  The  Virgin- 
Martyr"  and  "  The  Fatal  Dowry")  were  not  wholly 
bis  own. 

In  1630  he  printed  "  The  Picture,"  which  had 
appeared  on  the  stage  the  preceding  year.  This 
play  was  warmly  supported  by  many  of  the  "  no'ble 
Society  of  the  Inner  Temple,"  to  whom  it  is  ad- 
dressed. '1  hese  gentlemen  were  so  sensible  of  the 
extraordinary  merits  of  this  admirable  per- 
formance, that  they  gave  the  author  leave  to  par- 
ticularize their  names  at  the  head  of  the  dedication, 
an  honour  which  he  declined,  because,  as  he  mo- 
destly observes,  and  evidently  with  an  allusion  to 
some  of  his  contemporaries,  he  "  had  rather  ei.joy 
the  real  proofs  of  their  friendship,  than,  moun- 
tebank-like, boast  their  numbers  in  a  catalogue." 

In  1631  Massinger  appears  to  have  been  unu- 
sually industrious,  for  he  brought  forward  three 
pieces  in  little  more  than  as  many  months.  Two  of 
these,  "  Believe  as  you  List,"  and  "  The  Unfortu- 
nate Piety,"  are  lost;  the  third  is  "  The  Emperor  of 
the  East,"  which  was  published  in  the  following 
year,  and  inscribed  to  Lord  Mohun,  who  was  so 
much  pleased  with  the  perusal  of  the  author's 
printed  works,  that  he  commissioned  his  nephew, 
Sir  Aston  Cockayne*,  to  express  his  high  opinion 
of  them,  and  to  present  the  writer  "  with  a  token  of 
his  love  ar.d  intended  favour." 

"  The  Fatal  Dowry"  was  printed  in  1632.  1 
once  supposed  this  to  be  the  play  which  is  men- 
tioned above  by  the  name  of  "  The  Unfortunate 
Piety,"  ns  it  does  not  appear  under  its  present  ti:le 
in  the  office-book  of  Sir  Henry  Herbert  ;  but  I  now 
believe  it  to  have  been  written  previou>ly  to  1623. 
His  coadjutor  in  this  play  was  Nathaniel  Field,  of 
whom  I  can  give  the  reader  but  little  ;ccount.  His 
name  stands  at  the  head  of  the  principal  come- 
dians who  performed  "  Cynthia's  Revels,"  and  he 
is  joined  with  Heminge,  Condell,  Burbadge,  and 
otheis,  in  the  preface  to  the  fuho  edition  of  Shak- 
speare.  He  was  also  the  author  of  two  comedies, 
''A  Woman  is  a  Weathercock,"  1612,  and 
"  Amends  for  Ladies,"  1618.  Mr.  Reed,  however, 
conjectures  the  writer  of  these  plays,  the  assistant 
of  Massinger  in  "  The  Fatal  Dowry,"  to  be  a  dis- 
tinct person  from  the  actor  above  mentioned,  and 
"a  Nath.  Field,  M.  A.,  Fellow  of  New  Coll.,  who 
wrote  some  Latin  verses  printed  in  Oian.  Academic 
Parentalia,  1625,  and  who,  being  of  the  same  uni- 

•  This  is  the  only  place  in  which  Ma?singer  makes  any 
mention  of  Sir  Asion.whu  was  not  less  delighted  with  "The 
Eii/pernr  of  ihe  East"  than  his  uncle,  and  who,  in  a  copy 
of  verses  which  he  prefixed  toit.cnlls  Massinger  his  worthy 
friend.  It  is  10  the  praise  of  Sir  Aston  Cockayne,  thai  he 
nut  only  maintained  his  encem  and  admiration  of  Massin- 
ger  during  the  poet's  life,  but  preserved  an  affectionate  regard 
lor  his  memory,  of  which  his  %\ritings  ttmiUli  many  proofs. 
He  was, as  1  have  supposed  Massinger  to  be,  a  Catholic,  and 
suffered  much  for  his  religion.  I  »\  ill  not  lake  upon  m>sclf 
to  «ay  that  this  communiiy  of  faith  strengthened  their  mu- 
tual attachment,  though  I  do  not  think  it  altogether  im- 
probable. 

2 


versify  with  Massinger,  might  there  join  with  him 
in  the  composition  of  the  play  ascribed  to  tln-m*.' 
It  is  seldom  safe  to  differ  from  Mr.  Reed  on  sub- 
jects of  this  nature,  yet  I  still  incline  to  think  that 
field  the  actor  was  the  person  meant.  There  ia 
no  authority  for  supposing  that  Massinger  wrota. 
plays  at  college  ;  arid  if  there  were  it  it-  not  likely 
thai  "  The  Fatal  Dowry"  should  be  one  of  them.  But 
Mr.  Reed's  chief  reason  for  his  assertion  is,  that  no 
contemporary  author  speaks  of  Field  as  a  writer: 
this  argument,  in  the  refutation  of  which  I  can 
claim  no  merit,  is  now  completely  disproved  by  the 
discovery  of  the  letter  to  Mr.  Henslowe.  Mr.  Ma- 
lone,  too,  thinks  that  the  person  who  wrote  the  two 
comedies  ln-re  mentioned,  and  assisted  Ma-singer, 
could  not  be  Field  the  actor,  since  the  first  of  them 
was  printed  in  1612,  at  which  time  he  must  have 
been  a  youth,  having  performed  as  one  of  the  chil- 
dren of  the  revels  in  __  Jonson's  "  Silent  Woman," 
1609t-  I  know  not  to  what  age  these  children  were 
confined,  but  Bark.-tead,  who  was  one  of  them,  and 
who,  from  his  situation  in  the  list,  was  probably 
younger  than  Field,  published,  in  1611,  a  poem 
called  '•  Hiren  (Irene)  the  Fair  Greek,"  consisting 
of  1 14  stanzas,  which  is  yet  earlier  than  the  date  of 
"  Woman's  a  Weathercock." 

Mr.  Malone  conjectures  that  the  affecting  letter 
(p.  xv.)  was  written  between  1612  and  1615  :  if  we 
take  the  latest  period,  Field  will  be  then  not  far 
from  his  twenty-eighth  year,  a  period  sufficiently 
advanced  for  the  production  of  any  work  of  fancy 
1  havf  sometimes  felt  a  pang  at  imagining  that  the 
play  on  which  they  were  then  engaged,  and  for 
which  they  solicit  a  trifling  advance  in  such  moving 
terms,  was  "  The  Fatal  Dowry,"  one  of  the  not. lest 
compositions  that  ever  graced  the  English  stage  ! 
Even  though  it  should  not  be  so,  it  is  yet  impossible 
to  be  unaffected,  when  we  consider  that  those  who 
actually  did  produce  it  were  in  danger  of  perishing 
in  gaol  lor  want  of  a  loan  of  five  pounds  ! 

In  the  following  year,  Massinger  brought  forward 
"  The  City  Madam."  As  this  play  was  undoubtedly 
disposed  of  to  the  performers,  it  remained  in  manu- 
script till  the  distress  brought  on  the  stage  by  the 
persecution  of  the  Puritans,  induced  them  to  com- 
mit it  to  the  press.  The  person  to  whom  we  are  in- 
debted foi  its  appearance  was  Andrew  Pennycuicke, 
an  actor  of  some  note.  In  the  dedication  to  the 
Countess  of  Oxford}:,  he  observes,  with  a  spirited 
reference  to  the  restrictions  then  laid  on  the  drama, 
"  In  that  age,  when  wit  and  learning  were  not  con- 
quered 61;  it-jury  and  violence,  this  poem  was  the  ob- 
ject of  love  and  commendations :"  he  then  adds, 
"  the  encouragement  I  had  to  prefer  this  dedication 
to  your  powerful  protection,  proceeds  from  the  uni- 
versal fame  of  the  deceased  author^,  who  (although 


*  Old  Plays,  Vol.  XII.,  p.  350. 

t  It  had  probably  escaped  Mr.  Malone's  observation,  that 
Field  appears  as  the  principal  performer  in  "  Cj  nthia's  Re 
vi-ls,"  acted  in  1599  or  1000.  He  could  not  then  have  well 
been  less  than  twelve  j  ears  old,  and,  at  the  time  mentioned 
by  Mr.  Malone,  as  loo  early  for  the  prodiiciion  of  his  firsJ 
play,  must  have  been  turned  of  one  and  twenty. 

;  Countess  of  Oxford,  &c.j  Ann,  first  wife  of  Aubrey  de 
Vere,  twentieth  and  last  Earl  of  Oxtoid.  She  was  a  distant 
relation  of  the  Pembroke  family. 

§  The  deceased  author,}  "  The  City  Madam"  was  printed 
in"  165H.  This  furticiently  proves  the  absurdity  of  the  ac- 
count give. i  by  Langbaine,  Jacob,  \Vhincop,  and  Cibber, 
who  concur  in  pl.u-ing  his  death  in  1669,  and  who,  cer- 
laiiily,  never  oerused  his  works  with  any  attention:  nor  il 


INTRODUCTION. 


he  competed  many)  wrote  none  amiss,  and  tins  may 
jusdy  be  ranked  among  his  best."  Pennycuicke 
might  hnTe  gene  further;  but  this  little  address  is 
sufficient  to  show  in  what  estimation  the  poet  was 
held  by  his  "  fellows."  He  had  now  been  dead 
nineteen  years. 

About  this  time  too  (1632),  Massinger  printed 
"The  .Maid  of  Honour,"  with  a  dedication  to  Sir 
Francis  Foljambe*,  and  Sir  Thomas  Bland,  which 
cannot  be  r>-ad  without  sorrow.  He  observes,  that 
these  gentlemen,  who  appear  to  have  been  engaged 
in  an  amicable  suit  at  law,  bad  continued  for  many 
years  the  patrons  of  him  and  his  despised  studies, 
and  he  calls  upon  the  world  to  take  notice,  as  from 
himself,  that  lie  had  not  to  that  time  subsisted,  but  that 
he  was  supported  by  their  frequent  courtesies  and 
favours. 

It  is  not  improbable,  however,  that  he  was  now- 
labouring:  under  the  pressure  of  more  than  usual 
want  ;  as  the  failure  of  two  of  his  plays  had  damped 
his  spirits,  and  materially  checked  the  prosecution 
»f  his  dramatic  studies.  No  account  of  the  unsuc- 
tessful  pieces  is  come  down  to  us  ;  their  names  do 
not  occur  in  the  Office-book  of  Sir  H.  Herbert,  nor 
should  we  have  known  the  circumstance,  had  not 
the  author,  with  a  modesty  which  shames  some  of  his 
contemporaries,  and  a  deference  to  the  judgment  of 
the  public,  which  becomes  all  who  write  for  it,  re- 
corded the  fact  in  the  prologue  to  "  The  Guardian." 
To  this,  probably,  we  owe  the  publication  of  "  A 
New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,"  which  was  now  first 
printed  with  a  sensible  and  manly  address  to  the 
Earl  of  Caernarvon,  who  had  married  Lady  Sophia 
Herbert,  the  sister  of  his  patron,  Philip  Earl  of 
Pembroke  and  Montgomery.  "  I  was  born,"  he 
says,  "  a  devoted  servant  to  the  thrice  noble  family 
of  your  incomparable  lady,  and  am  most  ambitious, 
but  with  a  becoming  distance,  to  be  known  to  your 
lordship."  All  Massinger's  patrons  appear  to  be 
persons  of  worth  and  eminence.  Philip  had  not, 
at  this  time,  tarnished  the  name  of  Pembroke  by  in- 
gratitude, and  the  Earl  of  Caernarvon  was  a  man 
of  unimpeachable  honour  and  integrity.  He  fol- 
lowed the  declining  fortunes  of  his  royal  master, 
and  fell  at  Newbury,  where  he  commanded  the  ca- 
valry, after  defeating  that  part  of  the  parliamentary 
army  to  which  he  was  opposed.  In  his  last  mo- 
ments, says  Fuller,  as  he  lay  on  the  field,  a  noble- 
man of  the  royal  party  desired  to  know  if  he  had 
any  request  to  make  to  the  king,  to  whom  he  was 
deservedly  dear,  comforting  him  with  the  assurance 
that  it  would  be  readily  granted.  His  reply  was 
such  as  became  a  brave  and  conscientious  soldier  : 
I  will  not  die  with  a  suit  in  my  mouth,  but  to  the 
king  of  kings ! 

Flattered  by  the  success  of  "  The  Guardian," 
which  was  licensed  on  the  31st  of  October,  1633, 
Massinyer  exerted  himself  with  unusual  energy,  and 
produced  three  plays  before  the  expiration  of  the 
following  year.  One  of  them,  the  delightful  comedy 

that  of  Chetwoocl  more  rational,  who  asserts  that  he  died  in 
105!),  since  bit  epitaph  i«  printed  among  the  poems  of  Sir 
AMon  Cocka)  ne,  which  were  published  in  1058,  and 
written  much  earlier.  It  is,  therefore,  worse  than  a  waste 
of  time  to  repeat  from  book  to  book  such  palpable 
errors. 

*  A'ir  Francis  Foljambe,  &c.]  I  suspect  that  Sir  Francis 
was  also  a  C.rh-'Hc.  From  the  brief  account  of  this  ancient 
family  which  is  given  in  Lodge's  "  Illustrations,"  they  ap- 
pear lo  have  Mitten-d  severely  on  account  of  their  religion, 
to  which  they  were  zealously  attached. 


of  "  A  Very  Woman,"  is  come  down  to  us;  of  the 
others,  nothing  is  known  but  the  names,  which  are 
registered  by  the  Master  of  the  Revels.  In  1635, 
it  does  not  appear  that  he  brought  any  thing  forward  : 
but  in  1636,  he  wrote  "  The  Bashful  Lover,"  and 
printed  "  The  Great  Duke  of  Florence,"  which  had 
now  been  many  years  on  the  stage,  with  a  dedica- 
tion to  Sir  Robert  Wiseman,  of  Thorrells  Hall,  in 
Essex.  In  this,  which  is  merely  expressive  of  his 
gratitude  for  a  long  continuation  of  kindness,  he  ac' 
knowledges,  "  and  with  a  zealous  thankfulness,  that 
for  many  years,  he  had  but  faintly  subsisted,  if  he 
had  not  often  tasted  of  his  bounty."  In  this  pre- 
carious state  of  dependance  passed  the  life  of  a  man 
who  is  charged  with  no  want  of  industry,  suspected 
of  no  extravagance,  and  whose  works  were,  at  thaj 
very  period,  the  boast  and  delight  of  the  stage  ! 

"  The  Bashful  Lover"  is  the  latest  play  of  Mas- 
singer's  writing  which  we  possess,  but  there  were 
three  others  posterior  to  it,  of  which  the  last,  "  The 
Anchoress  of  Psiusilippo,  was  acted  Jan.  26,  1640, 
about  six  weeks  before  his  death.  Previous  to  this, 
he  sent  to  the  press  one  of  his  early  plays,  "  The 
Unnatural  Combat,"  which  he  inscribed  to  Anthony 
Sentleger  (whose  father,  Sir  Wareham,  had  been  his 
particular  admirer),  being.,  as  he  says,  ambitious  to 
publish  his  many  favours  to  the  world.  It  is  pleasant 
to  find  the  author,  at  the  close  of  his  blameless  life, 
avowing,  as  he  here  does,  with  an  amiable  modesty, 
that  the  noble  and  eminent  persons  to  whom  his 
former  works  were  dedicated,  did  not  think  them- 
selves disparaged  by  being  "  celebrated  as  the  pa- 
trons of  his  humble  studies,  in  the  first  file  of 
which,"  he  contines  "  I  am  confident  you  shall  have 
no  cause  to  blush  to  find  your  name  written." 

Massinger  died  on  the  17th  of  March,  1640.  He 
went  to  bed  in  good  health,  says  Langbaine,  and 
was  found  dead  in  the  morning  in  his  own  house  on 
the  Bankside.  He  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of 
St.  Saviour's,  and  the  comedians  paid  the  last  sad 
duty  to  his  name,  by  attending  him  to  the  grave. 

It  does  not  appear,  from  the  strictest  search,  that 
a  stone,  or  inscription  of  any  kind,  marked  the  place 
where  his  dust  was  deposited  :  even  the  memorial 
of  his  mortality  is  given  with  a  pathetic  brevity, 
which  accords  but  too  well  with  the  obscure  and 
humble  passages  of  his  life  :  "  March  20.  1639-40. 
buried  Philip  Massinger,  A  STRANGER!"  No  flowers 
were  flung  into  his  grave,  no  elegies  "  soothed  his 
hovering  spirit,"  and  of  all  the  admirers  of  his  tal- 
ents and  his  worth,  none  but  Sir  Aston  Cockayne, 
dedicated  a  line  to  his  memory.  It  would  be  an 
abuse  of  language  to  honour  any  composition  of  Sir 
Aston  with  the  name  of  poetry,  but  the  steadiness 
of  his  regard  for  Massinger  may  be  justly  praised. 
In  that  collection  of  doggrel  rhymes,  which  I  have 
already  mentioned,  (p.  xv.)  there  is  "an  epitaph  on 
Mr.  John  Fletcher,  and  Mr.  Philip  Massinger,  who 
lie  both  buried  in  one  grave  in  St.  Mary  Overy's 
church,  in  Southwark  : 

"  In  the  same  grave  was  Fletcher  buried,  here 
Lies  the  stage-poet  Philip  Massinger; 
Plays  they  did  write  together,  were  great  friends, 
And  now  one  grave  includes  them  in  their  ends. 
To  whom  on  earth  nothing  could  part,  beneath 
Here  in  their  fame  they  lie,  in  spight  of  death." 

It  is  surely  somewhat  singular  that  of  a  man  of 
such  eminence,  nothing  should  be  known.  What  I 
have  presumed  to  gire,  is  merely  the  history  of  the 


INTRODUCTON. 


successive  appearance  of  bis  works  ;  and  I  am  aware 
of  no  source  from  whence  any  additional  information 
can  be  derived  :  no  anecdotes  are  recorded  of  him 
bv  his  contemporaries,  few  casual  mentions  of  his 
name  occur  in  the  writings  of  the  time,  and  he  had 
not  the  good  fortune  which  attended  many  of  less 
eminence,  to  attract  attention  at  the  revival  of  dra- 
matic literature  from  the  deathlike  torpor  of  the  In- 
terregnum*. But  though  we  are  ignorant  of  every 
circumstance  respecting  Massinger,  but  that  lie  lived 
and  diedf,  we  may  yet  form  to  ourselves  some  idea 
of  his  personal  character  from  the  incidental  hints 
scattered  through  his  works.  In  what  light  he  was 
regarded  may  be  collected  from  the  recommendatory 
poems  prefixed  to  his  several  plays,  in  which  the 
language  of  his  panegyrists,  though  warm,  expresses 
an  attachment  apparently  derived  not  so  much  from 
his  talents  as  his  virtues  ;  he  is,  as  Davies  has  ob- 
served, their  beloved,  much-esteemed,  dear,  wortliij, 
deserving,  honoured,  long  knotcn,  and  long  loved  friend, 
&.C.,  &c.  All  the  writers  of  his  life  unite  in  repre- 
senting him  as  a  man  of  singular  modesty,  gentle- 
ness, candour,  and  affability  ;  nor  does  it  appear  that 
he  ever  made  or  found  an  enemy.  He  speaks,  indeed, 
of  opponents  on  the  stage,  but  the  contention  of 
rival  candidates  for  popular  favour  must  not  be  con- 
founded with  personal  hostility.  With  all  this, 
however,  he  appears  to  have  maintained  a  constant 
struggle  with  adversity  ;  since  not  only  the  stage, 
from  which,  perhaps,  his  natural  reserve  prevented 
him  from  deriving  the  usual  advantages,  but  even 
the  bounty  of  his  particular  friends,  on  which  he 
chiefly  relied,  left  him  in  a  state  of  absolute  depend- 
ance.  Jonson,  Fletcher,  Shirley,  and  others,  not 
superior  to  him  in  abilities,  had  their  periods  of  good 
fortune,  their  bright,  as-well  as  their  stormy  hours  ; 
but  Mnssirtger  seems  to  have  enjoyed  no  gleam  of 
sunshine  ;  his  life  was  all  one  wintry  day,  and 
"  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness,"  rested  upon  it. 

Davies  finds  a  servility  in  his  dedications  which 
I  have  not  been  able  to  discover  ;  they  are  princi- 
pally characterized  by  gratitude  and  humility,  without 
a  single  trait  of  that  gross  and  servile  adulation 
which  distinguishes  and  disgraces  the  addresses 
of  some  of  his  contemporaries.  'I  hat  he  did  not 
conceal  his  misery,  his  editors  appear  inclined  to 
reckon  among  bis  faults;  he  bore  it,  however,  with- 
out  impatience,  and  we  only  hear  of  it  when  it  is 
relieved.  Poverty  made  him  no  flatterer,  and,  what 
is  still  more  rare,  no  maligner  of  the  great;  nor  is 
one  symptom  of  envy  manifested  in  any  part  of  his 
compositions. 

His  principles  of  patriotism  appear  irrepreben- 
sihle  ;  the  extravagant  and  slavish  doctrines  which 
are  found  in  the  dramas  of  his  great  contemporaries, 
make  no  part  of  his  creed,  in  which  the  warmest 
loyalty  is  skilfully  combined  with  just  and  rational 
ideas  of  political  freedom.  Nor  is  this  the  only 
instance  in  which  the  rectitude  of  his  mind  is  ap- 
parent ;  the  writers  of  his  day  abound  in  recom- 
mendations of  suicide ;  he  is  uniform  in  the  repre- 

•  One  exception  we  ehall  hereafter  mention.  Even  in 
this  tlie  poit's  ill  fate  pursued  him,  and  he  was  dung 
back  into  obscurity,  (bat  his  Sj.oils  might  be  worn  without 
dtticiu  n. 

t  Jt  is  seriously  to  be  lamented  that  Sir  Aston  Cock  vane, 
iiiMi'iid  i't'  wasting  his  leisure  in  measuring  out  dull  "prose 
which  cannot  be  read,  had  not  employed  a  part  of  it  in 
tumUliing  some  notices  if  the  dramatic  potts,  \\ilh  whom 
he  was  ?o  well  acquainted,  and  whom  he  profiles  so  much 
•o  admire. 


hension  of  it,  with  a  single  exception,  to  which, 
perhaps,  he  was  led  by  the  peculiar  turn  of  his 
studies*.  Guilt  of  every  kind  is  usually  left  ;.o  the 
punishment  of  divine  justice  :  even  the  wretched 
Malefort  excuses  himself  to  his  son  on  his  s^per- 
natural  appearance,  because  the  latter  was  not  marked 
out  by  heaven  for  his  mother's  avenger ;  and  the 
young,  the  brave,  the  pious  Charalois  accounts  his 
death  fallen  upon  him  by  the  will  of  heaven,  be- 
cause "he  marie  himself  a  judge  in  his  otrn  cause.'' 

But  the  great,  the  glorious  distinction  of  Mas- 
singer,  is  the  uniform  respect  with  which  he  treats 
religion  and  its  ministers,  in  an  age  when  it  was 
found  necessary  to  add  regulation  to  regulation,  to 
stop  the  growth  of  impiety  on  the  stage.  No  priests 
are  introduced  by  him,  "  to  set  on  some  quantity  of 
barren  spectators"  to  laugh  at  their  licentious  fol- 
lies;  the  sacred  name  is  not  lightly  invoked,  nor 
daringly  sported  with  ;  nor  is  Scripture  profaned  by 
buffoon  allusions  lavishly  put  into  the  mouths  of 
fools  and  women. 

To  this  brief  and  desultory  delineation  of  his 
mind,  it  may  be  expected  that  something  should  here 
he  added  of  his  talents  for  dramatic  composition; 
but  this  is  happily  rendered  unnecessary.  The 
kindness  of  Dr.  Ferriar  has  allowed  me  to  annex  to 
this  introduction  the  elegant  and  ingenious  "  Essav 
on  Massinger,"  first  printed  in  the  third  volume  of 
the  "  Manchester  Transactions  ;"  and  I  shall  pre- 
sently have  to  notice,  in  a  more  particular  manner, 
the  value  of  the  assistance  which  has  been  expressly 
given  to  me  for  this  work.  These,  if  I  do  not  de- 
ceive mvself,  leave  little  or  nothing  to  be  desired  on 
the  peculiar  qualities,  the  excellencies,  and  defects, 
of  this  much  neglected  and  much  injured  writer. 

Mr.  M.  Mason  has  remarked  the  general  har- 
mony of  his  numbers,  in  which,  indeed,  Massinger 
stands  unrivalled.  He  seems,  however,  inclined  to 
make  a  partial  exception  in  favour  of  Shakspeare ; 
but  I  cannot  admit  of  its  propriety.  The  claims  of 
this  great  poet  on  the  admiration  of  mankind  are 
innumerable,  but  rhythmical  modulation  is  not  one 
of  them,  nor  do  I  think  it  either  wise  or  just  to  hold 
him  forth  as  supereminent  in  every  quality  which 
constitutes  genius.  Beaumont  is  as  sublime, 
Fletcher  as  pathetic,  and  Jonson  as  nervous  : — nor 
let  it  be  accounted  poor  or  niggard  praise,  to  allow 
him  only  an  equality  with  these  extraordinary  men 
in  their  peculiar  excellencies,  while  he  is  admitted 
to  possess  many  others,  to  which  they  make  no  ap- 
proaches. Indeed,  if  I  were  asked  for  the  dis- 
criminating quality  of  Shakspeare's  mind,  that  by 
which  he  is  raised  above  all  competition,  above  al1 
prospect  of  rivalry,  I  should  say  it  was  WIT.  Ti 
wit  Massinger  has  no  pretensions,  though  he  is  in. 
without  a  considerable  portion  of  humour  ;  in  which, 
however,  he  is  surpassed  by  Fletcher,  whose  style 
bears  some  affinity  to  his  own  ;  there  is,  indeed,  a 
morbid  softness  in  the  poetry  of  the  latter,  which  is 
not  visible  in  the  flowing  and  vigorous  metre  of 
Massinger,  hut  the  general  manner  is  not  unlikef. 


•See  "The  Duke  of  Milan."  The  frequent  violation  of 
female  chasiity,  which  took  place  on  iheir  motion  of 
the  barbarians  into  Italy,  gave  rise  to  many  curious  dis- 
quisitions among  the  fathers  of  the  church,  respecting 
the  degree  of  guilt  incurred  in  preventing  it  by  self-mur- 
der. Massinger  hail  tliese,  probably,  in  I  it  thoughts. 

i  There  is  yet  a  peculiarly  which  it  may  be  proper  to 
notice,  us  il  contribute »  in  a  slight  degree  to  the  fluency  of 


INTRODUCTION. 


With  Massinger  terminated  the  triumph  of  dra- 
matic poetry ;  indeed,  the  stage  itself  survived  him 
hut  a  short  time.  The  nation  was  convulsed  to 
its  centre  by  contending  factions,  and  a  set  of 
austere  and  gloomy  fanatics,  enemies  to  every  ele- 
gant amusement,  and  every  social  relaxation,  rose 
upon  the  ruins  of  tiie  state.  Exasperated  hy  the 
ridicule  with  which  they  had  long  been  covered  by 
the  stage,  they  persecuted  the  actors  with  unrelent- 
ing severity,  and  consigned  them,  together  with  the 
writers,  to  hopeless  obscurity  and  wretchedness. 
Taylor  died  in  the  extreme  of  poverty,  Shirley 
opened  a  little  scliool,  and  Lowin,  the  boast  of  the 
stage,  kept  an  alehouse  at  Brentford  : 

Balneolitm  Gabiis,  furncs  conducere  Rome 
Tentarunt ! 

Others,  and  those  the  far  greater  number,  joined  the 
royal  standard,  and  exerted  themselves  with  more 
gallantry  than  good  fortune  in  the  service  of  their 
old  and  indulgent  master. 

We  have  not  yet,  perhaps,  fully  estimated,  and 
certainly  not  yet  fully  recovered,  what  was  lost  in 
that  unfortunate  struggle.  The  arts  were  rapidly 
advancing  to  perfection  under  the  fostering  wing  of 
a  monarch  who  united  in  himself  taste  to  feel,  spirit 
to  undertake,  and  munificence  to  reward.  Archi- 
tecture, painting,  and  poetry,  were  by  turns  the  ob- 
jects of  his  paternal  care.  Shakspeare  was  Lis 
"  closet  companion,*"  Jonson  his  poet,  and  in  con- 
junction with  Inigo  Jones,  his  favoured  architect, 
produced  those  magnificent  entertainments  which, 
though  modern  refinement  may  affect  to  despise 


Massinger't  style;  it  is,  the  resolution  of  his  words  (and 
principally  or  those  which  are  derived  from  the  Latin 
through  the  medium  of  the  French)  into  their  component 
syllables.  J-'irtuout,  partial,  nation,  &c.,  &c.,  lie  usually 
makes  dactyls  (if  it  be  not  ped.intic  to  apply  terms  of 
measure  to  a  language  acquainted  only  with  accent),  passing 
over  the  last  two  syllables  with  a  gentle  but  distinct  enun- 
ciation. This  practice,  indeed,  is  occasionally  adopted  by  all 
the  writers  of  his  time,  but  in  Massinger  it  is  frequent  and 
habitual.  This  singularity  may  slightly  embarrass  the  reader 
at  nr«t,  but  a  little  acquaintance  will  show  its  advantages, 
and  render  ii  not  only  easy  but  delightful. 

•  fJif  "Closet  Companion,"}  Milton,  and  certainly  with 
no  symptoms  of  disapprobation,  mentions,  as  a  fact  univer- 
«ally  known,  the  fonducss  of  the  unfortunate  Charles  for 
the  plays  of  Shakspeare;  and  it  appears,  '.VOID  those  curious 
particulars  collected  from  Sir  Henry  Herbert,  by  Mr.  Ma- 
lone,  that  his  attachment  to  the  drama,  and  his  anxiety  for 
it*  perfection,  began  with  his  reign.  The  plot  of  "The 
Gamester,"  one  of  the  best  of  Shirley's  pieces,  was  given 
to  him  by  the  kin;:;  and  there  is  an  anecdote  recorded  by 
the  Master  of  the  Revels,  which  shows  that  he  was  not  inat- 
tentive to  the  succrss  of  Massinger. 

"  Al  Greenwich  this  4  of  June  (I63S),  Mr.  W.  Murray 
gave  mee  power  from  the  king  to  allow  of  "The  King  and 
the  Subject,"  and  tould  mee  that  lit  would  warrant  it : 

"  '  Monies!  We'll  raise  inpplics  what  way  we  please, 
And  io!  ce    you  to  subscribe  to  blanks,  in  which 
We'll  mulct  yon  as  we  shall  think  lit.     The  Caisari 
In  Rome  were  wise,  acknowledging  no  laws 
But  what  their  sword*  dU  ratil),  the  wives 
And  daughters  of  the  senators  bow  ing  to 
Their  will,  as  deities,'  "  &c. 

"This  is  a  peece  taken  out  of  Philip  Messenger's  play- 
called  'The  King  and  the  Subject,'  and  entered  here  tor 
ever  to  bee  remembered  by  my  son  and  those  that  cast 
their  eyes  on  it,  in  honour  of  Kinj;  Charles,  my  master, 
who  leadings  over  the  play  at  Newmarket,  set  his  marke 
upon  the  place  with  his  own  liande,  and  in  these  words: — 
'  This  it  too  insolent.,  and  to  bee  changed? 

"Note,  that  the  pi>et  makes  it  the  speech  of  a  king,  Don 
Pedro  of  Spayne,  and  spoken  to  his  subjects." 


them,  modem  splendour  never  reached  even  in 
thought*. 

That  the  tyranny  of  the  commonwealth  should 
sweep  all  this  away,  was  to  be  expected  :  the  cir- 
cumstance not  less  to  he  wondered  at  than  regretted 
is,  that  when  the  revival  of  monarchy  afforded  an 
opportunity  for  restoring  every  thing  to  its  pristine 
place,  no  advantage  should  be  taken  of  it.  Such, 
however,  was  the  horror  created  in  the  general 
mind,  by  the  perverse  and  unsocial  government  from 
which  they  had  so  fortunately  escaped,  that  the 
people  appear  to  have  anxiously  avoided  all  retro- 
spect ;  and  with  Prynne  and  \ricars,  to  have  lost 
sight  of  Shakspeare  and  "  his  fellows."  Instead, 
therefore,  of  taking  up  dramatic  poetry  (for  to  this 
my  subject  confines  me)  where  it  abruptly  ceased  in 
the  labours  of  Massinger,  they  elicited,  as  it  were,  a 
manner  of  their  own,  or  fetched  it  from  the  heavy 
monotony  of  their  continental  neighbours.  The 
ease,  the  elegance,  the  simplicity,  the  copiousness  of 
the  former  period,  were  as  if  they  had  never  been  ; 
and  jangling  an;l  blustering  declamation  took  place 
of  nature,  truth,  and  sense.  Even  criucijm,  which, 
in  the  former  reign,  had  been  making  no  inconsi- 
derable progress  under  the  influence  and  direction 
of  the  great  masters  of  Italy,  was  now  diverted  into 
a  new  channel,  and  only  studied  in  the  puny  and 
jejune  canons  of  their  unworthy  followers,  the 
French. 

The  Restoration  did  little  for  Massinger  ;  this, 
however,  will  the  less  surprise  us,  when  we  find 
that  he  but  shared  the  fortune  of  a  grea'.er  name.  It 
appears  from  a  list  of  revived  plays  preserved  by 
Downes  the  prompter,  that  of  twenty-one,  two 
onlyf  were  written  by  Shakspeare  !  "  The  Bond- 
man," and  "  The  Roman  Actor,"  were  at  length 
brought  forward  hy  Betterton,  who  probably  con- 
ceived them  to  be  favourable  to  his  fine  powers  of 
declamation.  We  are  told  by  Downes,  that  he 
gained  "great  applause"  in  them:  his  success, 
however,  did  not  incite  him  to  the  revival  of  the 
rest,  though  he  might  have  found  among  the  num- 
ber ample  scope  for  the  display  of  his  highest 
Jalents.  I  can  find  but  two  more  of  Massinger's 
plays  which  were  acted  in  the  period  immediately 
following  the  Restoration,  "  The  Virgin-Mariyr," 
and  "The  Renegade:"  I  have,  indeed,  some  idea 
that  "  The  Old  Law"  should  be  added  to  the  scanty 
list ;  but  hering  mislaid  my  memorandums,  1  can- 
not affirm  it. 

The  time,  however,  arrived,  when  he  was  to  be 
remembered.  Nicholas  Rowe,  a  man  gifted  hy  na- 
ture with  taste  and  feeling,  disgusted  at  the  tumid 
vapidity  of  his  own  times,  turned  his  attention  to 
the  poets  of  a  former  age,  and,  among  the  rest,  to 


•  That  the  exhibition  of  those  masks  was  attended  with  a 
considerable  degree  of  expense  cannot  be  denied  :  and  yet  a 
question  may  be  modestly  started,  whether  a  tliuusa::<t  pounds 
niitht  not  have  been  as  rationally  and  as  creditably  laid  out 
on  one  of  them  at  Tibbald's,  Althorpe,  er  Ludlow  Casilc,  a* 
on  a  basket  of  unripe  fruit  I 

But  we  are  fallen  indeed  !  The  festival  of  the  knights  of 
the  Bath  presented  an  opportunity  for  a  mask  appropriate 
to  the  subject,  in  which  taste  should  have  united  with  gran- 
deur. Whose  talents  were  employed  on  the  jjri'at  oc- 
casion I  cannot  pretend  to  say,  but  assuredly  the  fre- 
quentets  of  Bartholomew  fair  were  never  invited  to  so  vile 
and  senseless  an  exhibition,  as  was  produced  at  Kanelayli  tor 
the  rniertaiunient  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  the  uuiu.-d 
kingdom. 

t  Tiro  only}  And  of  these  two,  one  was  "Titus  Aniiro- 
nicuj  '." 


INTRODUCTION. 


Massinger.  Pleased  at  the  discovery  of  a  mind 
congenial  to  his  own,  be  studied  him  with  attention, 
and  endeavoured  to  form  a  stvle  on  his  model. 
Suavity,  ease,  elegance,  all  that  close  application  ;ind 
sedulous  imitation  could  give,  Rowe  acquired  from 
the  peiusal  of  Massinger :  humour,  richness,  vi- 
gour, and  sublimity,  the  gifts  of  nature,  were  not  to 
be  caught,  and  do  not,  indeed,  appear  in  any  of  Lis 
multifarious  compositions. 

Rowe,  however,  had  discrimination  and  judg- 
ment :  he  was  alive  to  the  great  and  striking  excel- 
lencies of  the  Poet,  and  formed  the  resolution  of 
presenting  him  to  the  world  in  a  correct  and  uniform 
edition.  It  is  told  in  the  preface  to  "  The  Bond- 
man" (printed  in  1719),  and  there  is  no  reason  to 
doubt  the  veracity  of  ihe  affirmation,  that  Rowe  had 
revised  the  whole  of  Massinger's  works,  with  a 
view  to  their  publication:  unfortunately,  however, 
he  was  seduced  from  his  purpose  by  the  merits  of 
"  The  fatal  Dowry."  The  pathetic  and  interesting 
scenes  of  this  domestic  drama  have  such  irresistible 
power  over  the  best  feelings  of  the  reader,  that  he 
determined  to  avail  himself  of  their  excellence,  and 
frame  a  second  tragedy  on  the  same  story.  How  be 
altered  and  adapted  the  events  to  his  own  concep- 
tions is  told  by  Mr.  Cumberland,  with  equal  ele- 
gance and  taste,  in  the  Kssay  which  follows  the 
original  piece*." 

Pleased  with  the  success  of  his  performance-)-, 
Rowe  conceived  the  ungenerous  idea  of  appropri- 
ating the  whole  o''  its  merits  ;  and,  from  that  in- 
stant, appears  not  only  to  have  given  up  all  thoughts 
of  Masaitiger,  but  to  have  avoided  all  mention  ol  his 
name.  In  the  base  and  servile  dedication  of  his 
tragedy  to  the  Duchess  of  Ormorid,  while  he  founds 
his  claim  to  her  patronage  on  the  interesting  nature 
of  the  scenes,  he  .sutfeis  not  a  hint  to  escape  him 
that  he  w»s  indebted  for  them  to  any  preceding 
writer. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  Rowe  should  flatter  him- 
self with  the  hope  ot  evading  detection  :  that  hope, 
however,  was  not  so  extravagant  as  it  may  appear  at 
present.  Few  of  our  old  dramas  were  then  on  sale  : 
Those  of  Sbakspeare,  Jonson,  and  Fletcher,  indeed, 


•  A  few  words  may  yet  be  hazarded  on  this  subject.  The 
moral  of"  The  Fatal  Dowry"  is  infinitely  superior  to  that  of 
"  The  Fair  Penitent,"  w  Inch  indeed,  is  litlle  hotter  lhan  a  speci- 
ous apology  for  adultery,  Howe  has  lavished  the  most  reducing 
colours  ol  liis  eloquence  on  Lothario,  anil  acted,  tin ougi. out 
the  piece,  as  if  lie  studied  to  frame  an  excuse  for  Calista  : 
whereas  Mas-singer  has  placed  the  crime  of  tiiMiimtlle 
in  an  odious  ami  proper  light.  Ueaumelle  can  have  no 
follower*  in  her  guilt: — no  frail  one  can  urge  that  she  was 
misled  by  her  example:  for  Nov.ill  has  nothing  but  personal 
charm?,  aivi  even  in  these  he  is  surpassed  lij  Ch  raloi-.  For  the 
unhappy  husband  of  Calista,  Rowe  evinces  no  consideration, 
where  Massinger  has  rendered  Charalois  the  most  inter- 
esting character  that  was  ever  produced  on  the  stage. 

Keaiimelle,  who  falls  a  sacrifice,  in  some  measure,  to  the 
artifice.-  of  her  maid,  the  proiligate  agent  of  joung  Novall, 
is  much  superior  to  C.ilista.  Indeed,  ihe  impression  which 
fhe  made  on  Rowe  was  so  strong,  that  he  nan.ed  his  tragedy 
after  her,  and  not  after  the  heroine  of  his  own  piece:  beau 
melle  is  truly  the  Fair  Penitent,  whereas  Calista  is  neither 
more  nor  less  lhan  a  haughi>  and  abandoned  strumpet. 

t  The  nitwit*  oj  his  performance,}  This  was  somewhat 
problematical  at  first.  For  though  "The  Fair  Penitent"  be 
now  a  general  favourite  with  the  (own,  it  cxptiience  con- 
tjflerabfe  opposition  on  its  appearance,  owing,  as  Uownes 
informs  us,  "to  the  Hat  ness  of  the  found  and  fifth  acts." 
The  poverty  of  Rowe's  genius  is  principally  apparent  in  Ihe 
las; ;  ol  which  the  plot  and  ihe  execution  are  equally 
rootempablc. 


had  been  collected  ;  depredations  on  them,  .there- 
fore, though  frequently  made,  were  attended  will, 
some  degree  of  hazard  ;  but  the  works  of  Massin- 
ger, few  of  whii  h  had  reached  a  second  edition,  lay 
scattered  in  single  plays,  and  might  be  appropriated 
without  fear.  What  printed  copies  or  manuscripts 
were  extant,  were  chiefly  to  be  found  in  private  li- 
braries, not  easily  accessible,  nor  often  brought  to 
sale;  and  it  is  not,  perhaps,  too  much  to  say  that 
more  old  plavs  mav  now  be  found  in  the  hands  of  a 
single  bookseller,  than,  in  the  days  of  Howe,  wero 
supposed  to  be  in  exi-tence. 

"  1  he  Fair  Penitent  "  was  produced  in  1703,  and 
the  Author,  having  abandoned  his  first  design,  un- 
dertook to  prepare  for  the  press  the  works  of  a  poet 
more  wortln.  it  must  be  confessed,  of  his  care,  but 
not  in  equal  wa;>t  of  his  assistance;  and,  in  1709, 
gave  the  public  the  first  octavo  edition  of  Shakspeare. 

What  might  have  been  the  present  rank  of  Massin- 
ger, if  Rowe  had  completed  his  purpose,  it  would  be 
presumptuous  to  determine  :  it  may,  however,  be 
conjectured  that,  reprinted  witli  accuracy,  corrected 
witli  judgment,  and  illustrated  witb  ingenuity,  he 
would,  at  least,  have  been  more  generally  known*, 
and  suffered  to  occupy  a  station  of  greater  respecta- 
bility than  he  has  hitherto  been  permitted  to  assume. 

Massinger,  thus  plundered  and  abandoned  by 
Rowe,  was.  after  a  considerable  lapse  of  time,  taken 
up  by  Thomas  Coxeter,  of  whom  I  know  nothing 
more  than  is  delivered  by  Mr.  Egerton  Brydges, 
in  his  useful  and  ingenious  additions  to  the  "  Thea- 


*  More  generally  knoit-n,]  Itd<-es  not  appear  from  John- 
son's observations  on  "The  F.iir  Penitent,"  that  he  had  any 
knowledge  of  Massinger;  Steevens,  I  have  some  reason  to 
think,  took  him  up  l.ite  in  life  ;  and  Mr.  M alone  observes  to 
nit  ,  ihat  he  only  consulted  him  tor  verbal  illustrations  of  bhak- 
speare.  This  is  merely  a  subject  for  regret;  but  we  may  be 
allowed  to  complain  a  little  of  those  who  discuss  his  merits 
without  examining  his  works,  and  traduce  his  character  on 
their  own  misconceptions.  C'api  II,  whose  dull  fidelity  forms 
the  sole  claim  on  our  kindness,  becomes  both  inaccurate  and 
unjust  the  instant  he  speaks  of  Massinger;  he  accuses  him  of 
being  one  of  the  props  of  Jonson's  throne,  in  opposition  to  the 
pretensions  of  Shakspeartf  !  The  reverse  of  this  is  the  truth: 
he  was  the  admirer  and  imitator  of  Shakspeare,  and  it  is  scarce- 
ly possible  to  look  into  one  of  his  prologues,  without  discover- 
ing some  allusion,  more  or  less  concealed,  to  the  overwhelm- 
ing pride  and  arrogance  of  Jonson.  This  disinclination  to 
the  latter  was  no  secret  to  his  contemporaries,  while  his  par- 
tiality to  the  former  was  so  notorious,  that  in  a  mock 
romance,  entitled  "  Wit  and  Fancy  in  a  Maze,  or  Don 
Zara  del  Fogo,"  12mo,  16S6  (the  knowledge  of  which  wa» 
obligingly  communicated  to  me  by  the  Rev.  W.  Tidd,), 
where  an  uproar  amongst  the  English  poets  is  described, 
Mattlnger  is  expressly  introduced  as  "one  of  the  life 
guards  to  Shakspeare."  So  much  for  Ihe  sneerof  Capell ! — 
but  Massinger's  ill  fite  still  pursues  him.  In  a  late  Essay  on 
Ihe  stage,  written  with  considerable  ingenuity,  ths  author,  in 
giving  a  chronological  history  of  dramatic  writers  from 
Sackville  downwards,  overlooks  Massinger  till  he  arrives  at 
onr  own  limes.  He  then  recollect"  that  he  was  one  of  the 
fathers  of  the  drama;  and  adds,  that  ••  his  style  was  rnuyh, 
manly,  and  vigorous,  that  he  pressed  upon  his  subject  with 
a  severe  but  masterly  hand,  that  his  wit  was  caustic,"  &c.  If 
this  gentleman  had  ever  looked  into  the  poet  he  thus  charac- 
terises, he  must  have  instantly  recognized  his  error.  Mas- 
singer  has  no  wit,  ami  his  humour,  in  which  he  abounds,  U 
of  a  light  and  fro  ic  nature  ;  he  presses  not  on  his  subject  with 
severity,  hut  with  fulness  of  knowledge;  and  his  sl)le  is  so 
far  from  roughness,  Ihat  )'*  characteristic  excellence  is  » 
sweetness  beyond  example.  "  \\  hoever,"  fa>s  Johnson, 
"  wi-hes  to  attain  an  English  style  familiar  but  not  coarse, 
and  elegant  but  not  ostentations,  must  give  his  days  and 
nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison."  Whoever  would  add  to 
these  Ihe  qualities  of  simplicity,  purity,  sweetness,  and 
strength,  must  devote  hi^  hours  to  ihe  study  of  Massinger. 

t  See  hi*  "  Introduction  to  Shakipeare'*  I'lays,"  Vol.  I.  p.  14. 


INTRODUCTION. 


trum  Poeiarum*."  "  He  was  born  of  an  ancient 
nnd  respectable  family,  at  Lechlade,  in  Gloucester- 
shire, in  1689.  and  educated  at  Trinity  College, 
Oxford  where  he  wore  a  civilian's  gown,  and  about 
1710.  abandoning  the  civil  law,  and  every  other 
profession,  came  to  London.  Here  continuing 
without  any  settled  purpose,  he  became  acquainted 
with  booksellers  and  authors,  and  amassed  materials 
for  a  biography  of  our  old  poets.  He  had  a  curious 
collection  of  old  plays,  and  was  the  first  who  formed 
the  scheme  adopted  by  Dodsley,  of  publishing  a 
selection  of  them,"  &c. 

Warton  too  calls  Coxeter  a  faithful  and  industrious 
amasser  of  our  old  English  literature,  and  this  praise, 
whatever  be  its  worth,  is  all  that  can  be  fairly  said  to 
belong  to  himf  :  as  an  editor  he  is  miserably  defi- 
cient ;  though  it  appears  that  he  was  not  without 
assistance  which,  in  other  hands,  might  have  been 
tuined  to  some  account.  "  When  I  left  London," 
says  the  accurate  and  ingenious  Oldys,  "  in  the  year 
17^4,  to  reside  in  Yorkshire,  I  lett  in  the  care  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Burridge's  family,  with  whom  1  had 
several  years  lodged,  amongst  many  other  books, 
a  copy  of  this  Langbaine,  in  which  I  had  written 
several  notes  and  references  to  further  the  know- 
)ed«e  of  these  poets.  \\henlreturned  to  London 
in  1730,  I  understood  my  books  had  been  dispersed  ; 
and  afterwards  becoming  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Coxeter,  1  found  that  he  had  bought  my  Langbaine 
of  a  bookseller,  as  he  was  a  great  collector  of  plays 
and  poetical  books.  This  must  have  been  of  service 
to  him,  and  he  has  kept  it  so  carefully  from  my  sight 
that  I  never  could  have  the  opportunity  of  trans- 
cribing into  this  I  am  now  writing,  the  notes  I  had 
collected  in  that.  \\hether  1  had  entered  any 
remarks  upon  Massinger,  I  remember  not ;  but  he 
had  coiumunica'ions  from  me  concerning  him,  when 
he  was  undertaking  to  give  us  a  new  edition  of  his 
piays,  which  is  not  published  yet.  He  (Mr.  Cox- 
eter) died  on  the  10th  (or  19..h, 1  cannot  tell  which) 
of  April,  being  Easter  Sunday,  1747,  of  a  fever 
which  grew  from  a  cold  lie  caught  at  an  auction  of 
books  over  Exeter  I  hange,  or  by  sitting  up  late  at 
the  tavern  afterwards}." 

On  the  death  of  Coxeter,  his  collections  for  the 
purposed  edition  of  Massinger  fell  into  the  hands  of 
a  bookseller,  of  the  name  of  Dell,  who  gave  them  to 
tie  world  in  1759.  From  the  publisher's  preface  it 
appears  that  Coxeter  did  not  live  to  complete  his 
design.  "  The  late  ingenious  Mr.  Coxeter," 
he  says,  "  bad  corrected  and  collated  all  the 
various  editions^ ;"  and,  if  I  may  judge  from 
his  copies,  he  had  spared  no  diligence  and  care  to 
make  them  as  correct  as  possible.  Several  inge- 
nious observations  and  notes  he  had  likewise  pre- 


*  I  take  the  offered  opportunity  to  express  my  thanks  to 
this  gentleman  for  the  obliging  manner  in  which  he  trans- 
milled  to  me  the  manuscript  notts  of  Oldys  and  others, 
copied  into  his  edition  of  Laugbaine,  formerly  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Air.  Steevens. 

+  Johnson  told  Boswell  that  "a  Mr.  Coxeteri  whom  he 
knew,  had  collected  about  live  hundred  volumes  of  poets 
whose  works  were  most  known;  bnt  that,  upon  his  death, 
Tom  Osborne  bought  them,  and  they  were  dispersed,  which 
he  thought  a  piiy ;  as  it  was  curious  to  see  any 
series  complete,  and  in  every  volume  of  poems  something 
good  might  be  found."  Boswell's  ''  Lite,"  &c.»  vol.  II., 
p.  -I52. 

}  Manuscript  notes  on  Langbainr,  in  the  British 
Museum. 

§  This  is  also  asserted  in  the  title-page — bnt  it  is  not  v  • 


pared  for  his  intended  edition,  which  are  all  inserted 
in  the  present.  Had  he  lived  to  have  completed  his 
design,  1  dare  say  he  would  have  added  many  more, 
and  that  his  work  would  have  met  with  a  very  fa- 
vourable reception  from  every  person  of  true  taste 
and  genius." 

As  Dell  professes  to  have  followed  Coxeter's 
papers,  and  given  all  his  notes,  we  may  form  nt> 
inadequate  idea  of  what  the  edition  would  have 
been.  Though  educated  at  the  University,  Cox- 
eter exhibits  no  proofs  of  literature.  To  critical 
sagacity  he  has  not  the  smallest  pretensions;  his 
conjectures  are  void  alike  of  ingenuity  and  proba- 
bility, and  his  historical  references  at  once  puerile 
and  incorrect.  Even  his  parallel  passages  (the 
easiest  part  of  an  editor's  labour)  are  more  calcu- 
lated to  produce  a  smile  at  the  collector's  expense, 
than  to  illustrate  his  author ;  while  every  page  of 
his  work  bears  the  strongest  impression  of  imbe- 
cility. The  praise  of  fidelity  may  be  allowed  him  ; 
but  in  doing  this  the  unfortunate  Deil  must  be 
charged  (how  justly  I  know  not)  with  the  innu- 
merable errors  which  over-run  and  deform  the 
edition.  I  need  not  inform  those  who  are  convers- 
ant with  old  copies,  that  the  printers  were  less  at- 
tentive to  the  measure  of  the  original,  than  to  tilling 
up  the  line,  and  saving  their  paper :  this  Coxeter 
attempted  to  remedy  ;  his  success,  however,  was 
but  partial ;  his  vigilance  relaxed,  or  his  tar  failed 
him,  and  hundreds,  perhaps  thousands,  ot  verses 
are  given  in  the  cacophonous  and  unmetrical  state  in 
which  they  appear  in  the  early  editions.  A  few- 
palpable  blunders  are  removed  ;  others,  not  less 
remarkable,  are  continued,  and  where  a  word  is 
altered,  under  the  idea  of  improving  the  sense,  it  is 
almost  invariably  for  the  worse.  Upon  the  whole, 
Massinger  appeared  to  less  advantage  than  in  the 
old  copies. 

Two  years  afterwards  (1761),  a  second  edition* 
of  this  work  was  published  by  Mr.  Thomas  Davies, 
accompanied  by  an  •'  Kssay  on  the  Old  English 
Dramatic  Writer,"  furnished  by  Mr.  Colman,  and 
addressed  to  David  (Jarrick,  Esq.,  to  whom  Dell's 
edition  was  also  inscribed. 

It  may  tend  to  mortify  those,  who,  after  bestow- 
ing unwearied  pains  on  a  work,  look  for  some 
trifling  return  of  praise,  to  find  the  approbation,  which 
should  be  justly  reserved  for  themselves,  thought- 
lessly lavished  on  the  most  worthless  productions. 
Of  this  publication,  the  most  ignorant  and  incorrect 
(if  we  except  that  of  Mr.  M.  Mason,  to  which  we 
shall  speedily  arrive)  that  ever  issued  from  the 
press,  tiishop  Percy  thus  speaks  :  "  Air.  Coxeter's 
vtrsv  coiiHb.cr  EDITION  of  Massinger's  Plays 
has  lately  been  published  in  4  vols.  8vo,  by  Air. 
T.  Davies  (which  T.  Davies  was  many  years  an 
actor  on  Drury-lane  stage/and  1  believe  still  con- 
tinues so,  notwithstanding  his  shop).  To  this 
edition  is  prefixed  a  superficial  letter  to  Mr.  Gar- 
rick,  written  by  .Mr.  Colman,  but  giving  not  the 
least  account  ot  Massinger,  or  of  the  old  editions 
from  whence  this  was  composed.  '  1'is  great  pity 
Mr.  Coxeter  did  not  live  to  finish  it  himself."  It  is 


*  A  second  edition]  So,  at  least,  it  insinuates :  but  Mr. 
W..lilron,  of  Drury  Lane  (a  most  friendly  and  in(;eni..uj 
man,  to  whose  small  but  curious  library  1  am  much  iiUeuiedj, 
who  is  belter  acquainted  with  the  ad-oitness  of  booksellers 
tuan  1  (neiend  to  bo,  informs  me  that  it  is  only  Dai's  with 
»  new  tillu-pagi>. 


INTRODUCTION. 


manifest  that  his  lordship  never  compared  a  single 
page  of  this  "  correct  edition"  with  the  old  copies  : 
and  I  mention  the  circumstance  to  point  out  to 
writers  of  eminence  the  folly,  as  well  as  the  danger, 
of  deciding  at  random  on  any  subject  which  they 
have  not  previously  considered. 

It  will  readily  be  supposed  that  a  publication 
like  this  was  not  much  calculated  to  extend  the 
celebrity  or  raise  the  reputation  of  the  poet ;  it 
found,  however,  a  certain  quantity  of  readers,  and 
was  now  growing  scarce,  when  it  fell  by  accident  into 
the  hands  of  John  Monk  Mason,  Esq. 

In  1777  he  was  favoured  by  a  friend,  as  he  tells 
the  story,  with  a  copy  of  Massiriger  j  he  received 
from  it  a  high  degree  of  pleasure,  and  having  con- 
tracted a  habit  of  rectifying,  in  the  margin,  the  mis- 
takes of  such  books  as  he  read,  he  proceeded  in 
this  manner  with  those  before  him  ;  his  emenda- 
tions were  accidentally  discovered  by  two  of  his 
acquaintance,  who  expressed  their  approbation  of 
them  in  very  flattering  terms,  and  requested  the 
author  to  give  them  to  the  public*. 

.Mr.  M.  Mason  was  unfortunate  in  his  friends  : 
they  should  have  considered  (a  matter  which  had 
completely  escaped  him)  that  the  great  duty 
of  an  editor  is  fidelity  :  that  the  ignorance  of 
Coseter  in  admitting  so  many  gross  faults  could 
give  no  reasonable  mind  the  slightest  plea  for  rely- 
ing on  his  general  accuracy,  and  that  however  high 
thev  might  rate  their  friend's  sagacity,  it  was  not 
morally  certain  that  when  he  displaced  his  prede- 
cessor's words  to  make  room  for  his  own,  he  fell 
upon  the  genuine  text.  Nothing  of  this,  however, 
occurred  to  them,  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  was  prevailed 
upon,  in  an  evil  hour,  to  send  his  corrected  Coxeter 
to  the  press. 

In  a  preface  which  accords  but  too  well  with 
the  rest  of  the  work,  he  observes,  that  he  had 
"  never  heard  of  Massinger  till  about  two  years 
before  lie  reprinted  liimf."  It  must  be  confessed 
that  he  lost  no  time  in  boasting  of  his  acquaintance 
— it  appears,  however,  to  have  been  but  superficial. 
In  the  second  page  he  asserts  that  the  whole  of 
Massinser's  plays  were  published  while  the  author 
was  living  !  This  is  a  specimen  of  the  care  with 
which  he  usually  proceeds  :  the  life  of  the  author, 
prefixed  to  his  own  edition,  tells  that  he  died  in 
1640,  and  in  the  list  which  immediately  follows  it, 
no  less  than  four  plays  are  given  in  succession, 
which  were  not  published  till  near  twenty  years 
after  that  period  ! 

The  oscitancy  of  Mr.  M.  Mason  is  so  great,  that 
it  is  impossible  to  say  whether  he  supposed  there 
was  any  older  edition  than  that  before  him.  He 
talks  indeed  of  Massinger,  but  he  always  means 
Coxeter  ;  and  it  is  beyond  any  common  powers  of 
face  to  hear  him  discourse  of  the  verbal  and  gram- 
matical inaccuracies  of  an  author  whose  woiks  he 
probably  never  saw,  without  a  smile  of  pity  or 
contempt. 


*  Preface  to  M.  Mason's  edition,  p.  ii. 

*  Yet  if  ij  strange  (he  adds;  that  a  writer  of  snch  evident 
excellence  should  be  so  little  known.    Preface,  p.  i.  As  si'ine 
alleviation  of  Mr.  M.  Mason's  amazement*  I  "ill  tell  him 
a    short   story:  "Tradition  says,  that  on    a    certain  time,   a 
man,   who    had  <  ccasion   10    rise  very  early,  was    met   by 
another  person,  who  expressed  his  astonishment  at  his  getting 
up  also  unseasonable  an  hour,  the  man  answered,  •  O,  nias- 
Itr  wonder  monger,  as  yon  have  dune  the  same  thing,  what 
reason  have  you  to  be  surprised?" 


He  says,  "  I  have  admitted  into  the  text  all  my 
own  amendments,  in  order  that  ihose  who  may  wish 
to  give  free  scope  to  their  fancy  and  their  feelings, 
and  without  turning  aside  to  verbal  criticism,  may 
read  these  plays  in  that  which  appears  to  me  the 
most  perfect  state;"  (what  intolerable  conceit!) 
"  but  for  the  satisfaction  of  more  critical  readers,  1 
have  directed  that  the  words  rejected  by  me  should 
be  inserted  in  the  margin*."  This  is  not  the  case; 
and  1  cannot  account,  on  any  common  principles  of 
prudence,  for  the  gratuitous  temerity  with  which  BO 
strange  an  assertion  is  advanced:  not  one  in  twenty 
is  noticed,  and  the  reader  is  misled  on  almost  erery 
occasion. 

I  do  not  wish  to  examine  the  preface  further ;  and 
shall  therefore  conclude  with  observing,  that  Mr. 
M.  Mason's  edition  is  infinitely  worse  than  Coxeter's 
It  rectifies  a  few  mistakes,  and  suggests  a  few  im 
provements  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  abounds  in 
errors  and  omissions,  not  only  beyond  that,  but  per- 
haps beyond  anv  other  work  that  ever  appeared  in 
print.  Nor  is  this  all :  the  ignorant  fidelity  of 
Coxeter  has  certainly  given  us  many  absurd  readings 
of  the  old  printers  or  transcribers  ;  this,  however, 
is  far  more  tolerable  than  the  mischievous  ingenuity 
of  Mr.  M.  Mason  :  the  words  he  has  silently  intro- 
duced bear  a  specious  appearance  of  truth,  and  are 
therefore  calculated  to  elude  the  vigilance  of  many 
readers,  whom  the  text  of  Coxe  er  would  have 
startled,  and  compelled  to  seek  the  genuine  sense 
elsewhere.  To  sum  up  the  account  between  the 
two  editions,  both  bear  the  marks  of  ignorance, 
inexperience,  and  inattention  ;  in  both  the  faults  are 
incredibly  numerous ;  but  whete  Coxeter  drops 
words,  Mr.  M.  Mason  drops  lines  ;  and  where  the 
former  omits  lines,  the  latter  leaves  out  whole 
speeches! 

After  what  I  have  just  said,  the  reader,  perhaps, 
will  feel  an  inclination  to  smile  at  the  concluding 
sentence  of  Mr.  M.  Mason's  preface:  "I  FLATTER 

MYSELF,  THAT  THIS  EDITION  OF  MASSING t-'R  WILL  BE 
FOUND  MORE  CORRECT  (AND  CORRECTNESS  IS  TI1F.  ONLY 
MERIT  IT  PRETENDS  TO)  THAN  THE  BEST  OK  THOSE 
WHICH  HAVE  AS  YET  BEEN  PUBLISHED  OF  AN*  OTIIEU 
ANCIENT  DRAMATIC  WRITER. t" 

The  genuine  merits  of  the  Poet,  however,  were 
strong  enough  to  overcome  these  wretched  remoras. 
The  impression  was  become  scarce,  and  though 
never  worth  the  paper  on  which  it  was  printed,  sold, 
at  an  extravagant  price,  when  a  new  edition  was 
proposed  to  me  by  Mr.  Evans  of  Pali-Mall.  Mas- 
singer  was  a  favourite  ;  and  1  had  frequently  la- 
mented, with  many  others,  that  he  had  fsillen  into 
such  hands.  I  saw,  without  the  assistance  of  the 
old  copies,  that  bis  metre  was  disregarded,  that  his 
sense  was  disjointed  and  broken,  that  his  dialogue 
was  imperfect,  and  that  he  was  encumbired  with 
explanatory  trash  which  would  disgrace  the  pages 
of  a  sixpenny  magazine  ;  and  in  the  hope  of  remedy- 
ing these,  and  enabling  the  Author  to  take  his  place 
on  the  same  shelf,  1  will  not  say  with  Shakspeare, 
but  with  Jonson,  Beaumont,  and  his  associate  Flet- 
cher, 1  readily  undertook  the  labour. 

My  first  care  was  to  look  round  for  the  old 
editions.  To  collect  these  is  not  at  all  times  possi- 
ble, and  in  every  case,  is  a  work  of  tio'ible  and  ex- 
pense :  but  the  kindness  of  individuals  supplied  me 
with  all  that  1  wanted.  Octavius  Gilchrist,  « 


•  Preface,  p.  ix. 


t  Preface,  p.  xi. 


INTRODUCTION. 


gentleman  of  Stamford*,  no  sooner  heard  of  my  de- 
sign, than  he  obligingly  sent  ine  all  the  copies^  which 
be  possessed;  the  Kev.  P.  Buyles  of  Colchester 
(only  known  to  me  bv  this  act  of  kindness)  pre- 
sented me  with  a  small  but  choice  selection  ;  and 
Mr.  Malone,  with  a  liberality  which  I  shall  ever 
remember  with  gratitude  and  delight,  furnished  me, 
unsolicited,  with  his  invaluable  collection!,  among 
which  I  found  all  the  first  editions^:  these,  with 
such  as  I  could  procure  in  the  course  of  a  few  months 
frtfm  the  booksellers,  in  addition  to  the  copies  in  the 
Museum,  and  in  the  rich  collection  of  his  .Majesty, 
which  1  consulted  from  time  to  time,  form  tLe  basis 
of  the  present  Work. 

With  these  aids  1  sat  down  to  the  business  of  colla- 
tion :  it  was  now  that  I  discovered,  with  no  less 
surprise  than  indignation,  those  alterations  arid  omis- 


*  I  must  not  omit  that  Mr.  Gilchrist  ("hose  name  will 
occur  mor«:  ili.ui  mice  in  the  ensuing  pages:,  together  with 
his  copies  of  Massiuger,  transmitted  a  number  of  n.-i  n.l  and 
judicious  observations  on  the  Pott,  derived  from  his  exten- 
sive acquaintance  with  our  old  historians. 

t  For  this,  I  owe  Mr.  M alone  in y  peculiar  thanks:  but 
the  admin  r.-  of  Massingcr  must  join  unli  me  in  expressing 
(heir  gratitude  to  him  for  an  obligation  of  a  more  public 
kind;  for  the  communication  of  that  beautiful  n-.ii.nnnt, 
which  now  appears  in  piint  for  the  first  lime,  "  The  Parli.i- 
ment  of  Lo\t."  From  "The  History  of  ihe  Knglish  .Stage," 
preh'xed  to  Air.  Malone's  edition  of  Shakspcaie,  I  [earned 
that  "  Four  acts  of  an  unpublished  drama,  by  UaMinter, 
were  still  extant  in  manusciipt."  As  I  a»xiou.-ly  wished  to 
render  this  edition  as  perfect  as  possible,  I  wrote  to  Mr. 
Malone,  wi  h  win 'in  I  had  not  the  pleasure  of  being  per- 
tonally  acquainted,  to  know  where  it  minht  be  found  ;  in 
return,  he  informed  me  that  the  manuscript  was  in  his  pos- 
session:  it:- stale. he  added,  was  such,  that  he  doubted  uhtther 
nun  h  advantage  could  be  derived  Ironi  it,  but  that  I  was 
entirely  welcome  to  make  the  experiment.  Of  this  pcunis- 
•ion,  which  I  accepted  with  singular  pleasure,  I  instantly 
availed  myself,  and  received  the  manuscript.  It  was, 
indeed,  in  a  forlorn  condition:  several  leave*  were  torn  from 
the  beginning,  and  the  top  aud  bottom  of  every  page  wasttd 
by  damps,  to  which  it  had  formerly  been  exposed.  On  ex- 
amination, however,  I  had  Ihe  satisfaction  to  find,  that  a 
considerable  part  of  the  first  act,  which  was  supposed  to  be 
lost,  jet  exi.-tcd,  and  that  a  certain  degree  of  attention, 
which  I  was  not  unwilling  to  bestow  on  it,  might  recover 
nearly  Ihe  whole  of  ihe  remainder.  How  I  succeeded,  may 
be  eeen  in  Ihe  present  volume;  where  the  reader  will  lind 
inch  an  account,  as  was  consistent  with  the  brevity  of  my 
plan,  of  the  singular  institution  on  which  the  fable  is  founded. 
Perhaps  the  subject  merits  no  further  con.<ideralion  :  1  would, 
however,  jiisl  observe,  thai,  since  Ihe  article  was  plinled,  I 
have  been  furnished  by  my  frit-nd,  Ihe  Rev.  U.  Nares,  with 
a  curious  old  volume,  ca'lltd  "  Are-ta  Ainorniii,  or  Arrets 
d'Ani'iur,"  written  in  French  by  Martial  d'Auver^ne,  «hu 
died  in  1508.  It  is  not  possible  to  imagine  any  thing 
more  frivolous  than  the  causes,  or  rather  appeals,  which  are 
supposed  to  be  heard  in  this  Court  of  Love.  What  is,  how- 
ever somewhat  extraordinary,  i>,  that  these  miserable  trifles 
are  commented  upon  by  Bi-noit  le  Court,  a  celebrated  juris- 
consult of  th  se  times,  with  a  degree  of  scrinusmss  which 
would  not  disgrace  the  most  important  questions.  Every 
Greek  and  Roman  writer,  then  known,  is  quoad  with  pro- 
fn>ion,  10  prove  some  trite  position  dropt  at  random  :  occa- 
sion is  also  taken  to  descant  on  many  subtle  points  of  law, 
which  might  not  be  altogether,  perhaps,  without  iheir  in- 
terest. I  have  nothing  further  to  say  of  this  elaborate  piece 
of  foolery,  which  1  read  with  equal  weari.-omeness  and  dis- 
gust, but  which  serves,  perhaps,  to  show  that  these  I'.ulia- 
meuts  of  Love,  though  confessedly  imaginary,  occupied 
much  of  the  public  attention,  than  thai  it  had  pmbably  fallen 
into  Massinger'j  hands,  as  the  scene  between  Bellis.,nt  and 
Clariudore  (page  156)  seems  to  be  founded  on  the  first 
appeal  which  is  heard  in  the  "  Arrets  d'Amour." 

j  1  have  no  intention  of  entering  into  the  dispute  respecting 
the  conparativc  merits  of  the  first  and  second  lolios  of 
Shakspeare.  Of  Vassingcr,  however.  I  may  be  allowed  to 
(ay,  that  I  constantly  found  the  earliest  editions  the  most 
correct.  A  palpable  eiror  might  he.  and,  indeed,  sometimes 
was  removed  in  the  subsequent  ones,  but  the  spirit,  and 
what  I  would  call  the  raciness,  of  the  author  only  appealed 
complete  in  the  original  copies. 


sions  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  ;  and  which  7 
made  it  my  first  care  to  reform  and  supply.  At  tno 
outset,  finding  it  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  Taria- 
tions  in  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  were  the  effect 
of  ignorance  or  caprice,  I  imagined  that  an  authority 
for  them  might  be  somewhere  found,  and  therefore 
collated  not  only  every  edition,  but  even  several 
copies  of  the  same  edition*  ;  what  began  in  necessity 
was  continued  by  choice,  and  every  play  has  under, 
gone,  at  least,  five  close  examinations  with  the  ori 
ginal  text.  On  this  strictness  of  revision  rests  the 
great  distinction  of  this  edition  from  the  preceding 
ones,  from  which  it  will  be  found  to  vary  in  an  in- 
finite number  of  places  :  indeed,  accuracy,  as  Mr. 
M.  .Mason  says,  is  all  the  merit  to  which  it  pretends  ; 
and  though  I  not  provoke,  yet  I  see  no  reason  to 
deprecate  the  consequent  es  of  the  severest  scrutiny. 
There  is  yet  another  distinction.  The  old  copies 
rarely  specify  the  place  of  action  :  such,  indeed,  was 
the  poverty  of  the  stage,  that  it  admitted  of  little 
varietv.  A  plain  curtain  hung  up  in  a  corner,  se- 
parated distant  regions  ;  and  if  a  board  were  ad- 
vanced with  Milan  and  Florence  wiitten  upon  it, 
the  delusion  was  complete.  "  A  table  with  pen  and 
ink  thrust  in,"  signified  that  the  stage  was  a  counting- 
house  ;  if  these  were  withdrawn,  and  two  stools 
put  in  their  places,  it  was  then  a  tavern.  Instances 
of  this  may  be  found  in  the  margin  of  all  our  old 
plays,  which  seem  to  be  copied  from  the  prompters' 
books  ;  and  Mr.  M  alone  might  have  produced  from 
his  Massinger  alone,  more  than  enough  to  satisfy 
the  veriest  sceptic,  that  the  notion  of  scenery,  as  we 
now  understand  it,  was  utterly  unknown  to  the 
stage.  Indeed,  he  had  so  much  the  advantage  of 
the  argument  without  these  aids,  that  I  have  always 
wondered  how  Steevens  could  so  long  support,  and 
so  strenuously  contend  for,  his  most  hopeless  cause. 
Hut  he  was  a  wit  and  a  scholar  ;  and  there  is  some 
pride  in  showing  how  dexterously  a  clumsy  wea- 
pon may  b«  wielded  by  a  practised  swordsman.  With 
all  this,  however,  1  have  ventured  on  an  arrange- 
ment of  the  scenery.  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason 
attempted  it  in  two  or  three  plays,  and  their  ill 
success  in  a  mailer  of  no  extraordinary  difficulty, 
proves  how  much  they  mistook  their  talents,  when 
they  commenced  the  trade  of  editorship,  with  little 
more  than  the  negative  qualities  of  heedlessness  and 
inexperience. t 

*  In  some  of  these  plays  I  discovered  that  an  error  had 
been  detected  after  a  part  of  the  impres.-ion  was  worked  olt, 
and  consequently  corrected,  or  what  was  more  frequently 
Ihe  case,  exchanged  for  another. 

t  Heed  lamest  and  inexperience-]  Those  who  recollect  the 
boast  of  Mr.  M.  V:ason,  will  be  somewhat  surprised,  per- 
haps, even  after  all  which  they  have  heard,  at  learning  that, 
in  so  -imple  a  matter  as  mat  king  the  exit*,  this  gentleman 
blunders  at  every  .step.  If  Pope  now  w«re  alive,  he  need, 
n  t  applj  to  his  black- letter  plays  lor  such  niceties  as  exit 
omnes,  enter  three  blitek  vitc/ienxf.lus,l  &c.  Mr.  M.  Mason's 
ediiiun,  which  he  "flatters  himself  will  be  found  more  cor- 
rect than  the  be.-t  of  those  which  have  been  jet  published 
of  any  other  ancient  dramatic  writer,"  would  fiur.ish  abund- 
ance of  them.  His  copy  of  'The  Fatal  Dowry,'  now  lies 
before  me,  ami,  in  the  compass  of  a  few  pages,  1  observe, 
Ej-it  officers  with  A'ovall  (I9ti),  Exit  Charaluis,  Creditnrt, 
and  (>J/i<eis  (-.all)),  Exit  Itomont  and  Servant  (215),  Exit 
Niivall  sen'wr  and  /Jontalirr  (,'iSS),  &c.  All  rxi t, occurs  in 
"The  Kmperor  of  the  East  (3\l),Etit  Gent lemen  ('2-24 ),  and 
Exit  Tiberin  and  Stephana  (245),  in  "  The  Duke  of  M  ilaii : 
these  la.-t  blunders  aie  voluntary  on  the  part  of  the  editor. 
Coxcler,  whom  he  usually  follows,  reads  Ex.  for  Exe-mt  : 
the  tilling  up,  therefore,  is  solely  due  to  his  own  ingenuity. 
Similar  instances  might  be  produced  from  every  play.  I  would 

J  See  his  Preface  to  Shakspeare. 


INTRODUCTION. 


I  come  now  to  the  notes.  Those  who  are  accustomed 
to  the  crowded  pages  of  our  modern  editors,  will 
probably  be  somewhat  startled  at  the  comparative 
nakedness.  If  this  be  an  enor  it  is  a  voluntary  one. 
1  never  could  conceive  why  the  readers  of  cur  old 
dramatists  should  be  suspected  of  labouring  under 
a  greater  degree  of  ignorance  than  those  of  any  other 
class  of  writers;  yet,  from  the  trite  and  iu'.gcfi- 
cant  materials  amassed  for  their  information,  ii  is 
evident  that  a  persuasion  of  this  nature  is  uncom- 
monly prevalent.  Customs  which  are  universal,  and 
expressions  ''familiar  as  household  words"  in 
every  mouth,  are  illustrated,  that  is  to  sav,  over- 
laid, by  an  immensity  of  parallel  passages,  with 
just  as  much  wisdom  and  reach  of  thought  as  would 
be  evinced  by  him  who,  to  explain  any  simple  word 
in  this  line,  should  empty  upon  the  reader  all  the 
examples  to  be  found  under  it  in  Johnson's  Dic- 
tionary ! 

This  cheap  and  miserable  display  of  minute 
erudition  grew  up,  in  great  measure,  with  \Varton  : 
— peace  to  his  manes  !  the  cause  of  sound  litera- 
ture has  been  fearfully  avenged  upon  his  bend  :  and, 
the  knight-errant  who,  with  his  attendant  Bowles, 
the  dullest  of  all  mortal  squires,  sullied  forth  in  quest 
of  the  original  proprietor  of  every  common  word  in 
Milton,  has  had  his  copulatives  and  disjunctives, 
bis  buts  and  his  ands,  sedulously  ferretted  out  from 
all  the  school-books  in  the  kingdom.  As  a  prose 
writer,  he  will  long  continue  to  instruct  and  delight  ; 
but  as  a  poet  he  is  buried — lost.  He  is  not  of  the 
Titans,  nor  does  he  possess  sufficient  vigour  to 
shake  off  the  weight  of  incumbent  mountains. 

However  this  may  be,  I  have  proceeded  on  a  dif- 
ferent plan.  Passages  that  only  exercise  the  me- 
mory, by  suggesting  similar  thoughts  and  expres- 
sions in  other  writers,  are,  if  somewhat  obvious, 
generally  left  to  the  reader's  own  discover}'.  Un- 
common and  obsolete  words  are  briefly  explained, 


not  infer  from  this,  that  Mr.  M.  Mason  is  unacquainted  with 
the  meaning  of  so  common  a  wont  ;  but  if  we  relieve  him 
from  the  charge  of  ignorance,  what  becomes  of  hisaccuracj  ! 
Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  say  on  \\hat  precise  exertion  of  this 
faculty  his  claims  to  favour  were  founded.  Sometimes  cha- 
racters come  in  that  never  go  out,  arid  go  out  that  never 
come  in ;  at  other  times  they  speak  before  they  enter,  or 
after  they  have  lett  the  stn;;e,  nay,  "to  make  it  the  more 
gracious,"  after  they  are  asleep  or  dead !  Here  one  mode 
of  spelling  is  adopted,  there  another;  here  Coxeter  13  ser- 
vilely followed,  there  capiirionsly  deserted  ;  here  the  scenes 
are  numbered,  there  continued i  without  distinclion  ;  here 
asides  are  multiplied  without  necessity,  there  suppressed 
w-itu  manifest  injury  to  the  sense:  while  the  page  is  every 
where  encuinbeied 'with  marginal  directions,  Which  being 
intended  solely  lor  the  property-man,  who,  as  has  been  already 
mentioned,  h^d  but  few  properties  at  his  disposal,  can  now- 
only  be  regarded  as  designed  to  txrite  a  smile  at  the  ex- 
pense of  Ihe  author.  Nor  is  this  all:  the  absurd  scenery  in- 
troduce'! by  Coxeter  is  continued,  in  deepight  of  common 
sense:  the  lists  of  dramatis  persona;  are  imperfectly  given 
in  every  instance;  and  even  that  of  "The  Fatal  Dowry," 
which  has  no  description  of  the  rhaiacters,  is  left  by  Mr.  M. 
Mason  as  he  found  it,  though  nothing  can  be  more  destruc- 
tive of  that  uniformity  which  the  reader  is  Ud  to  expect 
from  the  bold  pretensions  of  his  preface.  I  In.pe  it  is  nterl- 
less  to  add.  that  these  irregularities  will  not  be  found  in  the 
present  vulurne. 


and,  wbere  the  phraseology  was  doubtful  or  ob- 
scu;e,  it  is  illustrated  and  confirmed  bv  quotations 
from  contemporary  authors.  In  this  part  of  the 
work  no  abuse  has  been  attempted  of  the  render's 
patience :  the  most  positive  that  could  be  found, 
are  given,  and  a  scrupulous  attention  is  every 
where  paid  to  brevity  ;  as  it  has  been  always  mv 
fjiv:  ision, 

"  That  where  one's  proofs  are  aptly  chosen, 
Four  are  as  valid  as  four  dozen." 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  may  be  proper  to  add 
here,  that  the  freedoms  of  the  author  (of  which,  as 
none  can  be  more  sensible  than  myself,  so  none  can 
more  lament  them)  hive  obtained  lit^'e  o~~  my  soli- 
citude :  those,  therefore,  who  examine  the  notes 
with  a  prurient  eye,  will  find  no  gratification  in 
their  licentiousness.  I  have  called  in  no  Amner 
to  drivel  out  gnituifous  obscenities  in  uncouth  lan- 
guage* ;  no  Collins  (whose  name  should  be  devoted 
to  lasting  infamy)  to  ransack  the  annals  of  a  brothel 
for  secret  "better  hidf  ;"  where  I  wished  not  todetain 
the  reader,  I  have  been  silent,  and  instead  of  aspiring 
to  the  fame  of  a  licentious  commentator,  sought 
only  for  the  quiet  approbation  wiih  which  the 
father  or  the  husband  may  reward  the  faithful 
editor. 

But  whatever  may  be  thought  of  my  own  notes, 
the  critical  observations  that  follow  each  play,  and, 
above  all,  the  eloquent  and  masterly  delineation  of 
^Lissinger's  character,  subjoined  to  "  The  Old 
Law,"  by  the  companion  of  my  you'.h,  the  friend 
of  my  maturrr  years,  the  inseparable  and  affection- 
ate associate  of  my  pleasures  and  my  pains,  my 
graver  and  my  lighter  siudies,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ire- 
landj,  will,  1  arn  persuaded,  be  received  with  pecu- 
liar pleasure,  if  precision,  vigour,  discrimination, 
and  originality,  preserve  their  usual  claiais  to 
esteem. 

The  head  of  Massinger,  prefixed  to  this  volume, 
was  copied  by  my  young  friend  Lascelles  Hoppner, 
from  the  pr;nt  before  three  octavo  plays  published 
by  If.  JMoseley,  1655.  Whether  it  be  really  the 
"  vera  effigies'"  of  the  poet,  1  cannot  pretend  to  say  :  it 
was  produced  sufficiently  near  his  time  to  be  accurate, 
r.nd  it  has  not  the  air  of  a  fancy  portrait.  There  is, 
I  believe,  no  other. 


*  In  uncouth  language]  It  is  singular  that  Mr.  Stecven», 
who  was  so  well  acquainted  wiih  the  words  of  our  ancient 
writers,  should  be  so  ignorant  of  their  sijle.  The  language 
which  he  has  put  imo  the  mouth  of  Amner  is  a  barbarous 
inmble  of  different  ages,  that  never  had,  and  never  could 
have,  a  prototype. 

tOne  book  which  (not  being,  perhaps,  among  the 
arc'  ives  so  carefully  explond  for  the  benefit  <>f  the  youthful 
reader*  of  Sliakspeare)  seems  to  Uave  escaped  the  notice  of 
Mr.  Collins,  may  yet  be  safely  commended  to  his  future 
researches  as  not  unlikely  to  reward  his  pains.  He  will 
find  in  it.  among  many  other  thing*  equally  valuable, 
that  "  The  knowledge  of  irictednesx  is  not  wis<!ot»,  m  i- 
ther  at  any  lime  the  counsel  of  sinners  prudence." — EccU*. 
xix.  2->. 

;  Prebendary  of  Westminster,  and  Vicar  of  Croydon  i» 
Surrey. 


INTRODUCTION. 


gentleman  of  Stamford*,  no  sooner  heard  of  my  de- 
sign, than  he  obligingly  sent  me  all  the  copie^which 
be  possessed ;  the  Kev.  P.  Bayles  of  Colchester 
(only  known  to  me  by  this  act  of  kindness)  pre- 
sented me  with  a  small  but  choice  selection  ;  and 
Mr.  Malone,  with  a  liberality  which  I  shall  ever 
remember  with  gratitude  and  delight,  furnished  me, 
unsolicited,  with  his  invaluable  collection!,  among 
which  I  found  all  the  first  editions}:  these,  with 
sucl)  as  I  could  procure  in  the  course  ofa  few  months 
fnfm  the  booksellers,  in  addition  to  the  copies  in  the 
Museum,  and  in  the  rich  collection  of  his  Majesty, 
which  1  consulted  from  time  to  time,  form  tl.e  basis 
of  the  present  Work. 

With  these  aids  1  sat  down  to  the  business  of  colla- 
tion :  it  was  now  that  I  discovered,  with  no  less 
surprise  ihan  indignation,  those  alterations  and  omis- 


•  I  must  not  omit  lliat  Mr.  GilchrUt  (whose  name  will 
occur  more  th.ui  once  in  the  ensuing  pages',  together  with 
bis  copies  of  Massinger,  transmitted  a  number  ol  list  nil  and 
judicious  observations  on  the  Poel,  derived  from  his  exten. 
»ive  acquaintance  with  our  ol<l  historians. 

t  For  this,  I  owe  Mr.  Malone  my  peculiar  thanks:  but 
the  admin  rs  of  Massinger  must  join  wiih  me  in  expressing 
their  gratitude  to  liim  lor  an  obligation  of  a  more  public 
kind;  lor  tl.c  communication  of  thai  beautilul  ir.iiiiiit  nt, 
which  now  appears  in  piint  for  the  first  lime,  "  The  I'arli.i- 
ment  of  Lo\t."  From  "  The  History  of  ihe  English  $tagc," 
prefixed  to  Mr.  Malone's  edition  of  Shakspi-aie,  I  learned 
that  "  Four  acts  of  an  unpublished  drama,  by  Uaninycr, 
were  still  extant  in  manusc.iipt."  As  I  an\iou.-ly  wished  to 
render  this  edition  as  perfect  as  possible.  1  wrote  to  Mr. 
Malone,  wi  h  \\limn  1  iiad  not  the  pleasure  of  being  per- 
sonally acquainted,  to  know  where  it  mieht  be  IOIMH!  ;  in 
return,  he  informed  me  that  the  manuscript  was  in  bis  pos- 
session:  its  stale,  he  added,  was  such,  that  he  doubled  win  ther 
mnch  advantage  could  be  derived  I  rout  it,  but  that  I  was 
entirely  welcome  to  make  the  experiment.  Of  this  pennis- 
•ion,  which  1  accepted  with  singular  plea-ure,  I  instantly 
availed  myself,  and  received  the  manuscript,  it  was, 
indeed,  in  a  forlorn  condition  :  several  leave?  were  torn  from 
the  beginning,  and  the  top  and  bottom  of  every  page  wa.-ttd 
by  damps,  to  which  it  had  formerly  been  exposed.  On  ex- 
amination, however,  I  had  the  satisfaction  to  find,  that  a 
considerable  part  of  the  first  act,  which  was  suppostd  to  be 
lost,  jet  esi-ted,  and  that  a  certain  degree  of  attention, 
which  I  was  not  unwilling  to  bestow  on  it,  mijjit  recover 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  remainder.  How  I  succeeded,  may 
be  seen  in  the  present  volume;  where  the  reader  will  liml 
nidi  an  account,  is  was  consistent  with  the  brevity  of  my 
plan,  of  the  singular  institution  on  which  the  fable  is  lonmlrd. 
Perhaps  the  subject  merits  no  further  consideration  :  1  would, 
however,  just  observe,  that,  since  Ihe  article  was  pliiiltd,  I 
have  been  furnished  by  my  frit-lid,  the  Kev.  R.  Nares,  with 
a  curious  old  volume,  called  "Arcsta  Ainorum,  or  Arrets 
d'Amoiir,"  written  in  French  by  Mailial  d'Auveriine,  who 
died  in  I  .MIS.  It  is  not  possible  to  imagine  any  tl  ing 
inure  frivolous  than  the  causes,  or  rather  appeals,  which  are 
tnpposed  to  be  heard  in  this  Court  of  Love.  What  is,  how- 
ever somewhat  extraordinary,  \-,  that  these  miserable  trifles 
ire  commented  upon  by  Benoit  le  Court,  a  crlehrated  juris 
consult  of  Ih  se  limes,  with  a  degree  of  sciiousntss  which 
would  not  disgrace  the  most  important  <|i:e.«tions.  Every 
Greek  and  Roman  writer,  then  known,  is  c|Uoitd  with  pro- 
fnsi lo  pi ove.  some  trite  position  dropt  at  random:  occa- 
sion is  also  taken  lo  descant  on  many  subtle  points  <-f  lau, 
which  might  nut  lie  aliogether,  perhaps,  without  iheir  in- 
terest. 1  have  nothing  further  lo  say  of  this  elaborate  piece 
of  foolery,  which  I  read  with  equal  wearsomeness  and  ilis- 
gusl,  but  which  serves,  perhaps,  ID  show  that  these  I'ailia 
nients  of  Love,  though  confessedly  imaginary,  occupied 
much  of  the  public  attention,  than  (ha!  it  had  probably  fallen 
into  Massingcr's  hands,  as  the  scene  between  Krlli-.,i.t  and 
Clariudore  (page  156)  seems  to  be  founded  on  the  first 
appeal  uhich  is  heard  in  the  "  Arrets  d'Amour." 

J  1  have  no  inlenlion  of  entering  into  the  dispute  respecting 
the  conparativc  merits  of  Ihe  first  and  second  tolios  of 
Shakspeare.  (If  >  atsinger,  however.  I  may  be  allow  id  to 
say.  that  I  constantly  found  the  earliest  editions  the  most 
correct.  A  palpable  eiror  might  be.  and,  indeed,  sometimes 
was  removed  in  the  subsequent  ones,  but  the  spirit,  and 
what  I  would  call  the  raeiness,  of  the  author  only  appealed 
complete  in  the  original  copies. 


sions  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  ;  and  which  7 
made  it  my  first  care,  to  reform  and  supply.  At  tna 
outset,  finding  it  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  varia- 
tions in  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  were  the  effect 
of  ignorance  or  caprice,  I  imagined  that  an  authority 
for  them  might  be  somewhere  found,  and  therefore 
collated  not  only  every  edition,  but  even  several 
copies  of  the  same  edition*  ;  what  began  in  necessity 
was  continued  by  choice,  and  every  p!uy  has  under, 
gone,  at  least,  five  close  examinations  with  the  ori 
ginal  text.  On  this  strictness  of  revision  rests  the 
great  distinction  of  this  edition  from  the  preceding 
ones,  from  which  it  will  be  found  to  vary  in  an  in- 
finite number  of  places  :  indeed,  accuracy,  as  Mr. 
M.  .Mason  says,  is  all  the  merit  to  which  it  pretends  ; 
and  though  I  not  provoke,  yet  1  see  no  reason  to 
deprecate  the  consequent  es  of  the  severest  scrutiny. 
There  is  yet  another  distinclion.  The  old  copies 
rarely  specify  the  place  of  action  :  such,  indeed,  was 
the  poverty  of  the  stage,  that  it  admitted  of  little 
viirietv.  A  plain  curtain  hung  up  in  a  corner,  se- 
parated distant  regions  ;  and  if  a  board  were  ad- 
vanced with  Milan  and  Florence  wiitten  upon  it, 
the  delusion  was  complete.  "  A  table  with  pen  and 
ink  thrust  in,"  signified  I  bat  the  stage  was  a  counting- 
house  ;  if  these  were  withdrawn,  and  two  stools 
put  in  their  places,  it  was  then  a  tavern.  Instances 
of  this  miiy  be  found  in  the  margin  of  all  our  old 
plays,  which  seem  to  be  copied  from  the  prompters' 
books  ;  and  Mr.  Malone  might  have  produced  from 
his  Massinger  alone,  more  than  enough  to  satisfy 
the  veriest  sceptic,  that  the  notion  of  scenery,  as  we 
now  understand  it,  was  utterly  unknown  to  the 
stage.  Indeed,  he  had  so  much  the  advantage  of 
the  argument  without  ihese  aids,  that  I  have  always 
Wondered  how  Steevens  could  so  long  support,  and 
so  strenuously  contend  for,  his  most  hopeless  cause. 
But  he  was  a  wit  and  a  scholar;  and  there  is  some 
pride  in  showing  how  dexterously  a  clumsy  wea- 
pon may  b«  wielded  by  a  practised  swordsman.  With 
all  this,  however,  1  have  ventured  on  an  arrange- 
ment of  the  scenery.  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason 
attempted  it  in  two  or  three  plays,  and  their  ill 
success  in  a  maiter  of  no  extraordinary  difficulty, 
proves  how  much  they  mistook  their  talents,  when 
they  commenced  the  trade  of  editorship,  with  little 
more  than  the  negative  qualities  of  heedlessuess  and 
inexperience. t 

•  In  some  of  these  plays  I  discovered  that  an  error  had 
been  detected  after  a  part  of  the  impression  was  vvoiked  oft, 
anil  consequently  corrected,  or  what  was  more  frequently 
the  case,  exchanged  for  another. 

+  }]eeiilistnest  and  inexperience-}  Those  who  recollect  the 
boast  of  Mr.  M.  Masi/n,  will  be  somewhat  surprised,  per- 
haps, even  after  all  which  tiny  have  heard,  at  learning  that, 
in  &o  simple  a  matter  as  inaiking  Ihe  exits,  this  gentleman 
blunders  at  every  step.  If  J'ope  new  wire  alive,  he  need 
n  t  apply  to  his  black-letter  plays  lor  such  niceties  as  exit 
omnrs,  enter  three  blaek  vitche**(.lut,l  &c.  Mr.  M.  Mason's 
edition,  which  he  "flatUrs  himself  will  be  found  more  cor- 
rect than  the  best  of  those  which  have  been  jet  published 
of  any  oilier  ancient  dramatic  writer,"  would  furnish  abund- 
ance of  them.  His  copy  of  'The  Fatal  Dowry,'  now  lies 
before  me,  and,  in  the  compass  of  a  few  pages,  I  observe, 
Ej-it  officers  with  \ovall  (190),  Exit  Charaluis,  Creditnrt, 
and  (,'Jfti  e:  *  (200),  Exit  liomont  and  Servant  (215;,  Exit 
Nmall  senior  and  /-'onlatier  t'258),  &c.  All  exit, occurs  in 
"The  Kmperor  of  the  East  (31  l),.£rif  Gentlemen  (224),  and 
EfUTlberio  and  Stephana  (IMS),  in  "  The  Duke  of  Milan  : 
these  last  blunders  aie  voluntary  on  the.  part  of  the  editor. 
Coxder,  whoih  he  usually  follows,  reads  Ex.  for  Exe-mt : 
the  tilling  up,  tlureloie,  is  solely  due  to  his  own  ingenuity. 
Similar  instances  might  be  produced  from  every  play.  I  would 

J  See  his  Preface  to  Shukspearc. 


INTRODUCTION. 


I  come  DOW  to  the  notes.  Those  who  are  accustomed 
to  the  crowded  pages  of  our  modern  editors,  will 
probvibly  be  somewhat  startled  at  the  comparative 
nakedness.  If  this  be  an  error  it  is  a  voluntary  one. 
1  never  could  conceive  why  the  readers  of  cur  old 
dramatists  should  be  suspected  of  labouring  under 
a  greater  degree  of  ignorance  than  those  of  any  oilier 
class  of  writers  ;  yet,  from  the  trite  and  iu'.gc  fi- 
cant  materials  amassed  for  their  information,  ii  is 
evident  that  a  persuasion  of  this  nature  is  uncom- 
monly prevalent.  Customs  which  are  universal,  and 
expressions  "familiar  as  household  words"  in 
every  mouth,  are  illustrated,  that  is  to  say,  over- 
laid, by  an  immensity  of  parallel  passages,  with 
just  as  much  wisdom  and  reach  of  thought  as  would 
be  evinced  by  him  who,  to  explain  any  simple  word 
in  this  line,  should  empty  upon  the  reader  all  the 
examples  to  be  found  under  it  in  Johnson's  Dic- 
tionary ! 

This  cheap  and  miserable  display  of  minute 
erudition  grew  up,  in  great  measure,  with  Warton  : 
— peace  to  his  manes !  the  cause  of  sound  litera- 
ture has  been  fearfully  avenged  upon  his  head  :  and, 
the  knight-errant  who,  with  his  attendant  Bowles, 
the  dullest  of  all  mortal  squires,  sallied  forth  in  quest 
of  the  original  proprietor  of  every  common  word  in 
Slilton,  has  had  his  copulatives  and  disjunctives, 
his  bitts  and  his  ands,  sedulously  ferretted  out  from 
all  the  school-books  in  the  kingdom.  As  a  prose 
writer,  lie  will  long  continue  to  instruct  and  delight  ; 
but  as  a  poet  he  is  buried — lost.  He  is  not  of  the 
Titans,  nor  does  he  possess  sufficient  vigour  to 
shake  off  the  weight  of  incumbent  mountains. 

However  this  may  be,  I  have  proceeded  on  a  dif- 
ferent plan.  Passages  that  only  exercise  the  me- 
mory, by  suggesting  similar  thoughts  and  expres- 
sions in  other  writers,  are,  if  somewhat  obvious, 
generally  left  to  the  reader's  own  discovery.  Un- 
common and  obsolete  words  are  briefly  explained, 


not  infer  from  this,  tliat  Mr.  M.  Mason  is  unacquainted  with 
the  meaning  of  50  common  a  word  ;  but  if  we  relieve  him 
from  Ihe  charge  of  ignorance,  what  becomes  of  his  accuracy  I 
Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  say  on  what  precise  exertion  of  this 
faculty  his  cl.iim.-  to  favour  were  founded.  Sometimes  cha- 
racters come  in  that  never  go  out,  and  go  out  that  never 
come  in  ;  at  other  times  they  speak  before  they  enter,  or 
after  they  have  lelt  the  stasje,  nay,  "to  make  ft  the  more 
gracious,"  after  they  are  asleep  or  dead  !  Here  one  mode 
of  spelling  is  adopted,  there  another;  here  Coxeter  13  ser- 
vilely followed,  there  capriciously  deserted;  here  the  scenes 
are  numbered,  there  continued  without  distinction;  here 
af'ides  are  multiplied  without  necessity,  there  suppressed 
with  manifest  injury  to  the  sense  :  while  the  pa<;e  is  every 
where  encumbered  with  marginal  direction?,  which  being 
intended  solely  lor  the  property-man,  who,  as  has  been  already 
mentioned,  h.«d  but  few  properties  at  his  disposal,  can  now 
only  be  regarded  as  designed  to  excite  a  smile  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  author.  Nor  is  this  all:  the  absurd  scenery  in- 
troduced by  Coxeter  is  continued,  in  de;pight  of  common 
sense:  the  lists  of  dramatis  persona:  are  imperfectly  given 
in  every  instance;  and  even  that  of  "The  Fatal  Dowry." 
which  has  no  description  of  the  chaiactets,  is  left  by  Mr.'M. 
Mason  as  he  found  it,  though  nothing  can  be  more  destruc- 
tive of  that  uniformity  which  the  reader  is  ltd  to  expect 
from  the  bold  pretensions  of  his  preface.  I  hope  it  is  neerl- 
less  to  ,K!I|.  that  the-c  irregularities  will  not  be  fouud  in  the 
present  volume. 


and,  wbere  the  phraseology  was  doubtful  or  ob- 
scuie,  it  is  illustrated  and  confirmed  bv  quotations 
from  contemporary  authors.  In  this  part  of  the 
work  no  abuse  has  been  attempted  of  the  reader's 
patience:  the  most  positive  that  could  be  found, 
are  given,  and  a  scrupulous  attention  is  every 
where  paid  to  brevity  ;  as  it  Las  been  always  mv 
jr.rb-  ision, 

"  That  where  one's  proofs  are  aptly  chosen, 
Four  are  as  valid  as  four  dozen." 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  may  be  proper  to  add 
here,  that  the  freedoms  of  the  author  (of  which,  as 
none  can  be  more  sensible  than  myself,  so  none  can 
more  lament  them)  hive  obtained  lii''e  o~~  my  soli- 
citude: those,  therefore,  who  examine  the  notes 
with  a  prurient  eye,  will  find  no  gratification  in 
their  licentiousness.  I  have  called  in  no  Amner 
to  drivel  out  graiuiious  obscenities  in  uncouth  lan- 
guage* ;  no  Collins  (whose  name  should  be  devoted 
to  lasting  infamy)  to  ransack  the  annals  of  a  brothel 
for  secret  "better  hidf  ;"  where  I  wished  not  to  detain 
the  reader,  I  have  been  silent,  and  instead  of  aspiring 
to  the  fame  of  a  licentious  commentator,  sought 
only  for  the  quiet  approbation  with  which  the 
father  or  the  busband  may  reward  the  faithful 
editor. 

But  whatever  may  be  thought  of  my  own  notes, 
the  critical  observations  that  follow  each  play,  and, 
above  all,  the  eloquent  and  masterly  delineation  of 
Massinger's  character,  subjoined  to  "  The  Old 
Law,"  by  the  companion  of  my  youth,  the  friend 
of  my  maturer  years,  the  inseparable  and  affection- 
ate associate  of  my  pleasures  and  my  pains,  my 
graver  and  mv  lighter  studies,  the  Rev.  JJr.  Ire- 
land}, will,  1  am  persuaded,  be  received  with  pecu- 
liar pleasure,  if  precision,  vigour,  discrimination, 
and  originality,  preserve  their  usual  claims  to 
esteem. 

The  head  of  Massinger,  prefixed  to  this  volume, 
was  copied  by  my  young  friend  Lascelles  Hoppner, 
from  the  print  before  three  octavo  plays  published 
by  If.  Moseley,  1655.  Whether  it  be  really  the 
"  vera  effigies"  of  the  poet,  1  cannot  pretend  to  say  :  it 
was  produced  sufficiently  near  his  time  to  be  accurate, 
and  it  has  not  the  air  of  a  fancy  portrait.  There  is, 
I  believe,  no  other. 


*  In  uncouth  language]  It  is  singular  that  Mr.  Stccven.% 
who  was  so  well  acquainted  with  the  words  of  our  ancient 
wrilers>  should  be  so  ignorant  of  their  style.  The  language 
which  he  has  put  imo  the  mouth  of  Amner  is  a  barbarous 
jumble  of  dittereiit  ages,  that  never  had,  and  never  could 
have,  a  prototype. 

tOne  book  which  (not  being,  perhaps,  among  the 
arc'  ives  so  carefully  explond  for  the  benefit  »f  the  youthful 
reader*  of  Shak?peare)  seems  to  l;ave  escaped  the  notice  of 
Mr.  Collins,  may  yet  be  safely  commended  to  his  future 
rcsearche*.  as  not  unlikely  to  reward  his  pains.  He  wil| 
find  in  it,  among  many  other  thing*  equally  valuable, 
that  "  The  knowledge  of  wickedness  is  not  wisdom,  nei- 
ther at  any  time  the  counsel  of  sinners  prudence." — Eccle*. 
xix.  2'2. 

;  Prebendary  of  Westminster,  and  Vicar  of  Croydon  in 
Surrey. 


ESSAY 


DRAMATIC    WRITINGS    OF    MASSINGER, 


BY    JOHN    FERRIAR,   M.D. 


-  Res  antiguee  laudis  et  artis 

Ingredior,  sanetos  ausus  rccludere  f antes.     Vino. 


IT  might  be  urged,  as  a  proof  of  our  possessing  a 
uperfluity  of  good  plays  in  our  language,  that  one 
of  our  best  dramatic  writers  is  very  generally  dis- 
jegarded.  But  whatever  conclusion  may  be  drawn 
from  this  fact,  it  will  not  be  easy  to  free  the  public 
from  the  suspicion  of  caprice,  while  it  continues  to 
idolize  Shiikspeare,  and  to  neglect  an  author  not 
often  much  inferior,  and  sometimes  nearly  ecjual,  to 
that  wonderful  poet.  Massinger's  fate  has,  indeed, 
been  hard,  far  beyond  the  common  topics  of  the 
infelicity  of  genius.  He  was  not  merely  denied  the 
fortune  for  which  he  laboured,  and  the  fame  which 
he  merited  ;  a  still  more  cruel  circumstance  has  at- 
tended his  productions :  literary  pilferers  have 
built  their  reputation  on  his  obscurity,  and  the 
popularity  of  their  stolen  beauties  has  diverted 
the  public  attention  from  the  excellent  original. 

An  attempt  was  made  in  favour  of  this  injured 
poet,  in  1761,  by  a  new  edition  of  his  works,  at- 
tended with  a  critical  dissertation  on  the  old  Knglish 
dramatists,  in  which,  though  composed  with  spirit 
and  elegance,  there  is  little  to  be  found  respecting 
Massinger.  Another  edition  appeared  in  1773, 
but  the  poet  remained  unexamined.  Perhaps  Mas- 
singer  is  still  unfortunate  in  his  vindicator. 

The  same  irregularity  of  plot,  and  disregard  of 
rules,  iippear  in  Massinger's  productions  as  in  those 
of  his  contemporaries.  On  this  subject  Shakspeare 
has  been  so  well  defended  that  it  is  unnecessary  to 
add  any  arguments  in  vindication  of  our  poet. 
There  is  every  reason  to  suppose  that  Massinger 
did  not  neglect  the  ancient  rules  from  ignorance, 
for  he  appears  to  be  one  of  our  most  learned  writers, 
(notwithstanding  the  insipid  sneer  of  Antony 
Wood*)  :  and  Cartwriyht,  who  was  confessedly  a 

•  At/tents  Oxon.  Vol.  I. 


i  man  of  great  erudition,  is  not  more  attentive  to  the 
unities  than  any  other  poet  of  that  age.  But  our 
author,  like  Shakspeare,  wrote  for  bread  :  it  ap- 
pears from  different  parts  of  his  works*,  that  much 
of  his  life  had  passed  in  slavish  dependence,  and 
penury  is  not  apt  to  encourage  a  desire  of  fame. 

One  observation,  however,  may  be  risked,  on  our 
irregular  and  regular  plays ;  that  the  former  are 
more  pleasing  to  the  taste,  and  the  latter  to  the 
understanding;  readers  must  determine,  then,  whe- 
ther it  is  better  to  feel  or  to  approve.  .Massinger's 
dramatic  art  is  too  great  to  allow  a  faint  sense  of"pro- 
priety  to  dwell  on  the  mind,  in  perusing  his  pieces  ; 
he  inflames  or  soothes,  excites  the  strongest  terror, 
or  the  softest  pity,  with  ali  the  energy  and  power 
of  a  true  poet. 

But  if  we  must  admit  that  an  irregular  plot 
subjects  a  writer  to  peculiar  disadvantages,  the 
force  of  Massinger's  genius  will  appear  more  evi- 
dently from  this  very  concession.  The  interest  of 
his  pieces  is,  for  the  most  part,  strong  and  well 
denned  ;  the  story,  though  worked  up  to  a  studied 
intricacy,  is,  in  general,  resolved  with  as  much 
ease  and  probability  as  its  nature  will  permit; 
attention  is  never  disgusted  by  anticipation,  nor 
tortured  with  unnecessary  delay.  These  characters 
are  applicable  to  most  of  Massinger's  own  produc- 
tions ;  but  in  those  which  he  wrote  jointly  witli 
other  dramatists,  the  interest  is  often  weakened,  by 
incidents  which  that  age  permitted,  but  which  the 
present  would  not  endure.  Thus,  in  "  The  Kene- 
gadoj,"  the  honor  of  Paulina  is  preserved  Ironi  the 
brutality  of  her  Turkish  master,  by  the  influence  of  a 

*  See  particularly  the  dedication  of"  The  Maid  of  iliwur,' 
and  "Tlie  Great  i>nl,e  of  MOI-MUV." 
t  This  play  was  written  by  Malinger  alone. 


ESSAY  ON  THE  WRITINGS  OF  MASSINGER. 


relic,  which  she  wears  on  her  breast:  in  "The 
Virgin  Martyr,"  the  heroine  is  attended,  through 
all  her  sufferings,  by  an  angel  disgui.-ed  as  her  page  ; 
her  persecutor  is  urged  on  to  destroy  her  by  an 
attendant  fiend,  also  in  disguise.  Here  our  anxiety 
for  tha  distressed,  and  our  hatred  of  the  Tricked, 
are  completely  stifled,  and  we  are  morj  easily 
affected  by  some  burlesque  passages  which  follow 
in  the  same  legendary  strain.  In  the  last  quoted 
plav,  the  attendant  angel  picks  the  pockets  of 
two  dfbaucbees,  and  Tbeopbilus  overcomes  the 
devil  by  means  of  a  cross  composed  of  flowers, 
which  Dorothea  had  sent  him  from  Paradise. 

The  story  of  "  The  Bondman"  is  more  intricate 
than  that  of  "  The  Duke  of  Milan,"  yet  the  former 
is  a  more  interesting  play  ;  for  in  the  latter,  the 
motives  of  Fnmcisco's  conduct,  which  occasions 
the  distress  of  the  piece,  ate  only  disclosed  in  nar- 
ration, at  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  act :  we  there- 
fore consider  him,  till  that  moment,  as  a  man 
absurdly  and  unnaturally  vicious :  but  in  "  The 
Bondman,"  we  have  frequent  glimpses  of  a  concealed 
splendour  in  the  character  of  Pisander,  which  keep 
our  attention  fixed,  and  exalt  our  expectation  of  the 
catastrophe.  A  more  striking  comparison  might 
be  instituted  between  "  The  Fatal  Dowry''  of  our 
author,  and  Rowe's  copy  of  it  in  his  "  Fair  Penitent  ;" 
but  this  is  very  fully  and  judiciously  done,  by  the 
author  of  "  The  Observer*,"  who  has  proved  suf- 
ficiently, that  the  interest  of  "  The  Fair  Penitent" 
is  much  weakened,  by  throwing  into  narration  what 
Massinger  had  forcibly  represented  on  the  stage. 
Yet  Howe's  play  is  rendered  much  more  regular  by 
the  alteration.  Farquhar's  "  Inconstant,"  which  is 
taken  from  our  author's  "  Guardian,"  and  Fletcher's 
"  Wild-goose  Chace,  is  considerably  less  elegant 
and  less  interesting ;  by  the  plagiarist's  indiscretion, 
the  lively,  facetious  Durazzo  of  Massinger  is  trans- 
formed into  a  nauseous  buffoon,  in  the  character  of 
•Id  Mirabel. 

The  art  and  judgment  with  which  our  poet  con- 
ducts his  incidents  are  every  where  admirable.  In 
"  The  Duke  of  Milan,"  our  pity  for  Marcelia  would 
inspire  a  detestation  of  all  the  other  characters,  if  she 
did  not  facilitate  her  ruin  by  the  indulgence  of  an 
excessive  pride.  In"  )  he  bondman,"  Cleora  would 
be  despicable  when  she  changes  her  lover,  if  Leos- 
thenes  had  not  rendered  himself  unworthy  of  her, 
by  a  mean  jealousy.  The  violence  of  Almira's 
passion  in  the  "  Very  Woman,"  prepares  us  for  its 
decay.  Many  detached  scenes  in  these  pieces  pos- 
sess uncommon  beauties  of  incident  and  situation. 
Of  this  kind  are,  the  interview  between  Charles  V. 
and  Sforzaf,  which,  though  notoriously  contrary  to 
true  history,  and  very  deficient  in  the  representation 
of  the  emperor,  arrests  our  attention,  and  awakens 
our  teelings  in  the  strongest  manner;  the  conference 
of  Matthias  and  Baptista,  when  Sophia's  virtue 
becomes  suspected  J  ;  the  pleadings  in  •'  The  Fatal 
Dowry,"  respecting  the  funeral  lites  of  Charalois  ; 
the  interview  between  Doc  John,  disguised  as  a 
slave,  and  his  mistress,  to  whom  he  relates  his 
story$  ;  but,  above  all,  the  meeting  of  Pisander  <md 
Cleor;i||,  ai'ier  he  has  excited  the  revolt  of  the  slaves, 
in  order  io  get  her  within  his  power.  These  scenes 
are  eminently  distinguished  by  their  novelty,  cor- 


•  No.  I.XXXVIIF,  LXXX1X,  XC. 

f  "  Diile  of   Milan,"  Arl.  II. 

J  "  Picture."        j"  A  Very  Woman." 


Jl  "  Bondman.' 


rectness,  and  interest ;  the  most  minute  critic  will 
find  little  wanting,  and  the  lover  of  truth  and  nature 
can  suffer  nothing  to  be  taken  away. 

It  is  no  reproach  of  our  author,  that  the  foundation 
of  several,  perhaps  all,  of  his  plots  may  be  traced  in 
different  .historians,  or  novelists  ;  for  in  supplying 
himself  from  these  sources,  he  followed  the  practice 
of  the  age.  Shakspeare,  Jonson,  and  the  rest,  are 
not  more  original,  in  this  respect,  than  our  Poet ;  if 
Cartwright  may  be  exempted,  he  is  the  only  ex- 
ception to  this  remark.  As  the  minds  of  an  audience, 
unacquainted  with  the  models  of  antiquity,  could 
only  be  affected  by  immediate  application  to  their 
passions,  our  old  writers  crowded  as  many  incidents, 
and  of  as  perplexing  a  nature  us  possible,  into  their 
works,  to  support  anxiety  and  expectation  to  their 
utmost  height.  In  our  reformed  tragic  school,  our 
|  pleasure  arises  from  the  contemplation  of  the  writer's 
art ;  and  instead  of  eagerly  watching  for  the  unfolding 
of  the  plot  (the  imagination  being  left  at  liberty  by 
the  simplicity  of  the  action),  we  consider  whether  it 
be  properly  conducted.  Another  reason,  however, 
may  be  assigned  for  the  intricacy  of  those  plots, 
namely,  the  prevailing  taste  for  the  manners  and 
writings  of  Italy.  During  the  whole  of  the  sixteenth 
and  part  of  the  seventeenth  centuries,  Italy  was 
the  seat  of  elegance  and  arts,  which  the  other  Euro- 
pean nations  had  begun  to  admire,  but  not  to  imitate. 
From  causes  which  it  would  be  foreign  to  the  pre- 
sent purpose  to  enumerate,  the  Italian  writers 
abounded  in  complicated  and  interesting  stories, 
which  were  eagerly  seized  by  a  people  not  well 
qualified  for  invention*  ;  but  the  richness,  variety, 
and  distinctness  of  character  which  our  writers 
added  to  those  tales,  conferred  beauties  on  them  which 
charm  us  at  this  hour,  however  disguised  by  the 
alteration  of  manners  and  language. 

Exact  discrimination  and  consistency  of  character 
appear  in  all  Massinger's  productions  ;  sometimes, 
indeed,  the  interest  of  the  play  suffers  by  his  scru- 
pulous attention  to  them.  Thus,  in  "  The  Fatal 
Dowry,"  Charalois 's  fortitude  and  determined  sense 
of  honour  are  carried  to  a  most  unfeeling  awl  bar- 
barous degree  ;  and  Francisco's  villainy,  in  "  The 
Duke  of  Milan,"  is  cold  and  considerate  beyond  na- 
ture. But  here  we  must  again  plead  the  sad  neces- 
sity under  which  our  poet  laboured,  of  pleasing  his 
audience  at  any  rate.  It  was  the  prevailing  opinion, 
that  the  characters  ought  to  approach  towards  each 
other  as  little  as  possible.  This  was  termed  art,  and 
in  consequence  of  this,  as  Dr.  Hurd  saysf,  some 
writers  of  that  time  have  founded  their  characters  on 
abstract  ideas,  instead  of  copying  from  real  life. 
Those  delicate  and  beautiful  shades  of  manners, 
which  we  admire  in  Shakspeare,  were  reckoned  in- 
accuracies by  his  contemporaries.  Thus  Cartwright 
says,  in  his  verses  to  Fletcher,  speaking  of  Shak- 
speare, whom,  he  undervalues,  "  nature  was  all  hit 
art." 

General  manners  must  always  influence  the  stage; 
unhappily,  the  manners  of  Massingei's  age  were 
pedantic.  Yet  it  must  be  allowed  that  our  Author's 
characters  are  less  abstract  th'an  those  of  Jonson  or 
Ciirtwright,  and  that,  with  more  dignity,  they  are 


*  Cartwright  and  Congreve,  who  resemble  each  other 
strongly  in  some  remarkable  circumstance?,  are  almost  oat 
only  dramatics  who  have  any  claim  to  originality  in  theii 
plot*. 

t  "  Essay  on  the  Provinces  of  the  Drama. 


IXX 


ESSAY  ON  THE  WRITINGS  OF  MASSINGER. 


equally  natural  with  those  of  Fletcher.  His  con- 
ceptions are,  for  the  most  part,  just  and  noble.  We 
have  a  fine  instance  of  this  in  the  character  of  Dio- 
cletian, who,  vrry  differently  from  the  ranting  ty- 
rants by  whom  the  stage  has  been  so  long  possessed, 
is  generous  to  his  vanquished  enemies,  and  perse- 
cutes from  policy  as  much  as  from  zeal.  He  attracts 
our  respect,  immediately  on  his  appearance,  by  the 
following  sentiments  : — 

-     In  all  growing  empires, 
Even  cruelty  is  useful ;  some  must  suffer. 
And  be  set  up  examples  to  strike  terror 
In  others,  though  far  off:  but,  when  a  state 
Is  raisrd  to  her  perfection,  and  her  bases 
Too  firm  to  shrink,  or  yield,  we  may  use  mercy, 
And  do't  with  safety  : 

Virgin  Martyr,  Act.  I.  so.  i. 

Sforza  is  an  elevated  character,  cast  in  a  different 
mould  ;  brave,  frank,  and  generous,  he  is  hurried, 
by  the  unrestrained  force  of  his  passions,  into  fatal 
excesses  in  love  and  friendship.  He  appears  with 
great  dignity  before  the  emperor,  on  whose  mercy  he 
is  thrown,  by  the  defeat  of  his  allies,  the  French,  at 
the  battle  of  Pa'via.  After  recounting  his  obliga- 
tions to  Francis,  he  proceeds  : 

If  that,  then,  to  he  grateful 

For  courtesies  received,  or  not  to  leave 
A  friend  in  his  necessities,  be  a  crime 
Amongst  you  Spaniards, 

-     Sforza  brings  his  head 
To  pay  the  forfeit.     Nor  come  I  as  a  slave, 
Pinion'd  and  fetter'd,  in  a  squalid  weed, 
Falling  before  thy  feet,  kneeling  and  howling, 
For  a  forestall'd  remission  :  that  were  poor, 
And  would  hut  shame  thy  victory  ;  for  conquest 
Ovi  r  base  foes,  is  a  captivity, 
And  not  a  triumph.     1  ne'er  fear'd  to  die, 
Wore  than  1  wish'd  to  live.     When  I  had  reach'd 
JVIy  ends  in  being  a  duke,  I  wore  these  robes, 
This  crown  upon  my  head,  and  to  my  side 
This  sword  was  girt ;  and  witness  truth,  that,  now 
'Tis  in  anothei's  power  when  I  shall  part 
With  them  and  life  together,  I'm  the  same: 
My  veins  then  did  not  swell  with  pride;  nor  now 
Shrink  they  for  fear. 

The  Dtikeof  Milan,  Act  III.  sc.  ii. 

In  the  scene  where  Sforza  enjoins  Francisco  to  dis- 
patch Marcelia,  in  case  of  the  emperor's  proceeding 
to  extremities  against  him,  the  poet  has  given  him 
a  strong  expression  of  horror  at  his  own  purpose. 
After  disposing  Francisco  to  obey  his  commands 
without  reserve,  by  recapitulating  the  favours  con- 
ferred on  him,  Sforza  proceeds  to  impress  him  with 
the  blackest  view  of  the  intended  deed  : 

-  But  you  must  swear  it ; 

And  put  into  the  oath  all  joys  or  torments 
That  fright  the  wicked,  or  confirm  the  good  : 
Not  to  conceal  it  only,  that  is  nothing, 
but  whensoe'er  my*will  shall  speak,  Strike  now, 
To  fall  upon't  like  thunder. 

Thou  must  do,  then, 

What  no  malevolent  star  will  dare  to  look  on, 
It  is  so  wicked  :  for  which  men  will  curse  thee 
For  being  the  instrument;  and  (he  blest  angels 
Forsake  me  at  my  need,  for  being  the  author : 


For  'tis  a  deed  of  night,  of  night,  Francisco  ! 

In  which  the  memory  of  all  good  actions 

We  can  pretend  to,  shall  he  buried  quick  : 

Or,  if  we  be  remember'd,  it  shall  be 

To  fright  posterity  by  our  example, 

That  have  outgone  all  precedents  of  villains 

That  were  before  us  ; 

The  Duke  of  Milan,  Act  I.  sc.  ult. 

If  we  compare  this  scene,  and  especially  the  pas- 
sage  quoted,  with  the  celebrated  scene  between  King 
John  and  Hubert,  we  shall  perceive  this  remarkable 
difference,  that  Sforza,  while  he  proposes  to  hia 
brother-in-law  and  favourite,  the  eventful  murder  of 
his  wife,  whom  he  idolizes,  is  consistent  and  deter- 
mined ;  his  mind  is  filled  with  the  horror  of  the 
deed,  but  borne  to  the  execution  of  it  by  the  im- 
pulse of  an  extravagant  and  fantastic  delicacy ; 
John,  who  is  actuated  solely  by  the  desire  of  re- 
moving his  rival  in  the  crown,  not  only  fears  to 
communicate  his  purpose  to  Hubert,  though  he  per- 
ceives him  to  be 

A  fellow  by  tlie  hand  of  nature  mark'd, 
Quoted,  and  sign'd  to  do  a  deed  of  shame ; 

but  after  he  has  sounded  him,  and  found  him  ready 
to  execute  whatever  he  can  propose,  he  only  hints 
at  the  deed.  Sforza  enlarges  on  the  cruelty  and 
atrocity  of  his  design  ;  John  is  afraid  to  utter  his 
in  the  view  of  the  sun  :  nay,  the  sanguinary  Richard 
hesitates  in  proposing  the  murder  of  his  nephews 
to  Buckingham.  In  this  instance  then,  as  well  as 
that  of  Charalois,  our  poet  may  seem  to  deviate  from 
nature,  for  ambition  is  a  stronger  passion  than  love, 
yet  Sforza  decides  with  more  promptness  and  confi- 
dence than  either  of  Shakspeare's  characters.  We 
must  consider,  however,  that  timidity  and  irresolu- 
tion are  characteristics  of  John,  and  that  Richard's 
hesitation  appears  to  be  assumed,  only  in  order  to 
transfer  the  guilt  and  odium  of  the  action  to  Buck- 
ingham. 

It  was  hinted  before,  that  the  character  of  Pisan 
der,  in  "The  Bondman,"  is  more  interesting  than  that 
of  Sforza.  His  virtues,  so  unsuitable  to  the  character 
of  a  slave,  the  boldness  of  his  designs,  and  the 
steadiness  of  his  courage,  excite  attention  and  anx- 
iety in  the  most  powerful  manner.  He  is  perfectly 
consistent,  and,  though  lightly  shaded  with  chivalry, 
is  not  deficient  in  nature  or  passion.  Leosthenes  is 
also  the  child  of  nature,  whom  perhaps  we  trace  in 
some  later  jealous  characters.  Cleora  is  finely 
drawn,  but  to  the  present  age,  perhaps,  appears 
rather  too  masculine :  the  exhibition  of  characters 
which  should  wear  an  unalterable  charm,  in  their 
finest  and  almost  insensible  touches,  was  peculiar  to 
the  prophetic  genius  of  Shakspeare*.  Massinger 
has  given  a  strong  proof  of  his  genius,  by  intro- 
ducing in  a  different  play,  a  similar  character,  in  a 
like  situation  to  that  of  Pisander,  yet  with  sufficient 
discrimination  of  manners  and  incident :  I  mean  don 
John, in"  TheVery  Woman,"  wholike Pisander,  gains 
his  mistress's  heart,  under  the  disguise  of  a  slave. 
Don  John  is  a  model  of  magnanimity,  superior  to 
Cato,  because  he  is  free  from  pedantry  and  osten- 


ESSAY  ON  THE  WRITINGS  OF  MASSIXGER. 


tation.     I  believe  he  may  be  regarded  as  an  original 
character.     It  was  easy  to  interest  our  feelings  for 
all  the  characters  already  described,  but   no  writer, 
before  Massinger,  had  attempted    to  make  a  plaver 
the  hero  of  tragedy.     This,  however,  lie  has  exe- 
cuted   with  surprising-    address,   in    "  The    Roman 
Actor."     It  must  be  confessed  that  Paris,  the  actor, 
owes  much  of  his  dignity  to  incidents  ;  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  play,  he  defends  his  profession  success- 
fully   before    the    senate ;    this    artful    introduction 
raises  him,  in  our  ideas,  above  the  level  of  his  situa- 
tion,  for  the  poet   has  "  graced   him  with   all   the 
power  of  words ;"  the    empress's   passion  for  him 
places  him  in  a  still  more  distinguished   light,  and 
he  meets  his  death  from  the  hand    of  the  emperor 
himself,  in  a  mock  play.   It  is,  perhaps,  from  a  sense 
of  the  difficulty  of  exalting  Pans's  character,  and  of 
the    dexterity  requisite   to    fix   the  attention  of  the 
audience  on  it,  that  Massinger  savs,  in  the   dedica- 
tion of  this   play,  that  "  he  ever  held  it   the  most 
perfect  birth  of  his  Minerva."     I  know  not  whether 
it  is  owing  to  design,  or  to  want  of  art,  that  Ilomont, 
in  "  The   Fatal  Dowry,"  interests    us  as   much   as 
Charalois,    the  hero.     If  Charalois    surrenders   his 
liberty  to  procure  t'uneral  rites   for  his   father,  Ro- 
mont  previously  provokes   the    court  to   imprison 
him,  by  speaking  with  two  much  animation   in   the 
cause  of  his  friend.     Ilomont,   though  insulted   by 
Charalois,  who  discredits  his  report  of  Beaumelle's 
infidulity,  flies  to  him  with  all   the  eagerness  of  at- 
tachment, when  Charalois  is  involved  in  difficulties 
by  tbe  murder  of  Nova'l  and  his  wife,  and  revenges 
his   death,  when    he   is   assassinated   by   Pontalier. 
Rowe,  who  neglected  the  finest  parts  of  this  tragedy 
in    his  plagiarism  "The    Fair   Penitent,"  has    not 
failed  to  copy  the   fault  I    have    pointed  out.     His 
Horatio  is  a  much  finer  character  than  his  Altamout, 
yet  he  is   but  a  puppet   when  compared  with  Mas- 
singer's  Romont.     Camiola,  "  The  Maid  of  Honour," 
is  a   most  delightful   character;  her   fidehtv,  gene- 
rosity, dignity  of  manners,  and  elevation  of  senti- 
ments  are    finely    displayed,   and    nobly   sustained 
throughout.     It  is  pity  that  the  poet  thought  him- 
self obliged  to   debase  all  the  other   characters  in 
the  piece  in  order  to  ex-alt  her.    There  is  an  admirable 
portrait  of  Old  Malefort,  in  that  extravagant  com- 
position  "Tbe     Unnatural     Combat."      The    Poet 
seems  to  equal  the  art  of  the  writer  whom  he  here 
imitates : 

I  have  known  him 

From  his  first  youth,  but  never  yet  observed, 
In  all  the  passages  of  his  life  and  fortunes, 
Virtues  so  mix'd  with    vices  :  valiant  the  world 

speaks  him, 

But  with  that,  bloody  ;  liberal  in  his  gifts  too, 
But  to  maintain  his  prodigal  expense, 
A  fierce  extortioner  ;  an  impotent  lover 
Of  women  for  a  flash,  but,  his  fires  quench'd, 
Hating  as  deadly  :  Act.  111.  sc.  ii. 

Almira  and  Cardenes,  in  "  The  Very  Woman," 
are  copied  from  nature,  and  therefore  never  obso- 
lete. They  appear,  like  many  favourite  characters 
in  our  present  comedy,  amiable  in  their  tempers,  and 
warm  in  their  attachments,  but  capricious,  and  im- 
patient of  control.  Massinger,  with  unusual  charity, 
has  introduced  a  plnsiciaii  in  a  respectable  point  of 
view,  in  this  play.  We  are  agreeably  interested  in 
Durazzo*,  who  has  all  the  good  nature  of  Terence's 

•  "The  Guardian." 


Micio,  with  more  spirit.  His  picture  of  country 
sports  may  be  viewed  with  delight,  even  by  those 
who  might  not  relish  the  reality  : 

-  rise  before  the  sun, 

i  hen  make  a  breakfast  of  the  morning-  dew, 
Served  up  by  nature  on  some  grassy  hill  ; 
You'll  find  it  nectar. 

In  "  The  City  Madam"  we  are  presented  with  the 
character  of  a  finished  hypocrite,  but  so  artfully 
drawn,  that  he  appears,  to  be  rather  governed  by 
external  circumstances,  to  which  he  adapts  himself, 
than  to  act,  like  Moliere's  Tartuflv,  t'roin  a  formal 
system  of  wickedness.  His  humility  and  benevo- 
lence, while  he  appears  as  a  ruined  man,  and  as  his 
brother's  servant,  are  evidently  produced  by  the 
pressure  of  his  misfortunes,  and  he  discovers  a 
lameness,  amidst  the  insults  of  his  relations,  that 
indicates  an  inherent  baseness  of  disposition*. — 
When  he  is  informed  that  his  brother  has  retired 
from  the  world,  and  has  left  him  his  immense  for- 
tune, he  seems  at  first  to  apprehend  a  deception  ; 

O  my  good  lord  ! 

This  heap  of  wealth  which  you  possess  me  of, 
Which  to  a  vvordly  man  had  been  a  blessing, 
And  to  the  messenger  might  with  justice  challenge 
A  kind  of  adoration,  is  to  me 
A  curse  I  cannot  thank  you  for;  and  much  less 
Rejoice  in  that  tranquillity  of  mind 
My  brjther's  vows  must  purchase.     I  have  made 
A  dear  exchange  with  him:  he  now  enjoys 
My  peace  and  poverty,  the  trouble  of 
His  wealth  conferr'd  on  me,  and  that  a  burthen 
Too  heavy  for  my  weak  shoulders. 

Act  III.  sc.  ii. 

On  receiving  the  will,  he  begins  to  promise  un- 
bounded lenity  to  his  servants,  and  makes  pro- 
fessions and  promises  to  the  ladies  who  used  him 
so  cruelly  in  his  adversity,  which  appear  at  last  to 
be  ironical,  though  they  take  them  to  be  sincere 
He  does  not  display  himself  till  he  has  visited  his 
wealth,  the  sight  of  which  dazzles  and  astonishes 
him  so  far  as  to  throw  him  off  his  guard,  and  to 
render  him  insolent.  Massinger  displays  a  know- 
ledge of  man,  not  very  usual  with  drama'ic  writers, 
while  he  represents  the  same  person  as  prodigal  of 
a  small  fortune  in  his  youth,  servile  and  hypocritical 
in  his  distresses,  arbitrary  and  r.ipacious  in  tha 
possession  of  wealth  suddenly  acquired  :  for  those 
seeming  changes  of  character  depend  on  the  same 
disposition  variously  influenced  ;  I  mean  on  a  base 
and  feeble  mind,  incapable  of  resisting  the  power  of 
external  circumstances.  In  order,  hoiTever,  to 
prepare  us  for  the  extravagances  of  this  character, 
after  he  is  enriched,  the  poet  delineates  Li»  exces- 
sive transports  on  viewing  his  wealth,  in  a  speech 
which  cannot  be  injured  by  a  comparison  with  any 
soliloquy  in  our  language  • 

Twas  no  fantastic  object,  but  a  truth, 
A  real  truth  ;  nor  dream  :  1  dk!  not  slumber) 
Arvl  could  wake  ever  with  a-brooding  eye 
To  gazeupon't!  it  did  endure  the  touch, 
I  saw  and  felt  it !     Yet  what  I  beheld 
And  handled  oft,  did  so  transcend  belief, 
(My  wonder  and  astonishment  pass'd  o'er), 
1  faintly  could  give  credit  to  my  senses. 


•  See  particularly  hissoliloquy,  Act  III.  Sc.  ii. 


ESSAY  ON  THE  WRITINGS  OF  MASSINGER. 


Thou  dumb  magician — [Taking  out  a  key~\, — that 

without  a  charm 

Did'st  make  my  entrance  easy,  to  possess 
What  wise  men  wish   and  toil    foi  !      Hermes' 

moly, 

Sibylla's  golden  bough,  the  great  elixir, 
Imagined  only  by  the  alchynust, 
Compared   with   thee    are    shadows, — thou    the 

substance, 

And  guardian  of  felicity  !     No  marvel 
My  brother  made  thy  place  of  rest  his  bosom, 
Thou  being  the  keeper  of  his  heart,  a  mistress 
To  be  hugg'd  ever  !  In  by-corners  of 
This  sacred  room,  silver  in  bags,  heap'd  up 
Like  billets  saw'd  and  ready  for  the  fire, 
Unworthy  to  hold  fellowship  with  bright  gold 
That  flovv'd  about  the  room,  conceal'd  itself. 
There  needs  no  artificial  light ;  the  splendour 
Makes  a  perpetual  day  there,  night  and  darkness 
By  that  still-burning  lamp  for  ever  banish'd  ! 
But  when,  guided  by  that,  my  eyes  had  made 
Discovery  of  the  caskets,  and  they  open'd, 
Each  sparkling  diamond  Jrom  itselj  shotjurth 
A  pyramid  of  flatties,  and  in  iherooj 
Fii'd  it  a  glorious  star,  and  made  the  place 
Heaven's  abstract  or  epitome ! — rubies,  sapphires, 
And  ropes  of  oriental  pearl ;  these  seen,  I  could 

not 
But  look  on   gold  with  contempt*.     And  yet  I 

found 

What  weak  credulity  could  have  no  faith  in, 
A  treasure  far  exceeding  these  :  here  lay 
A  manor  bound  fast  in  a  skin  of  parchment, 
The  wax  continuing  hard,  the  acres  melting  ; 
Here  a  sure  deed  of  gift  for  a  market  town, 
]f  not  redeem'd  this  day,  which  is  not  in 
The  unthrit't's  power ;  there  being  scarce  one  shire 
In  Wales  or  Kngland  where  my  monies  are  not 
Lent  out  at  usury,  the  certain  hook 
To  draw  in  more.     1  am  sublimed!   gross  earth 
Supports    me    not ;    I   walk    on   air !       Who's 

there  ? 
Enter  Lard  LACY  with  Sir  JOHN  FRUGAL,  Sir  MAURICE 

LACY,  and  PLENTY,  disguised  as  Indians. 
Thieves  !  raise  the  street !  thieves  ! 

Act  III.  sc.  iii. 

It  was  a  great  effort,  by  which  such  a  train  of  vio- 
lent emotions,  and  beautiful  images  was  drawn,  with 
the  strictest  propriety,  from  the  indulgence  of  a  pas- 
sion to  which  other  poets  can  only  give  interest  in 
its  anxieties  and  disappointments.  Every  sentiment 
in  this  fine  soliloquy  is  touched  with  the  hand  of  a 
master  ;  the  speaker,  overcome  by  the  splendour  of 
his  acquisitions,  can  scarcely  persuade  himself  that 
the  event  is  real ;  "  it  is  no  fantasy,  but  a  truth  ;  a 
real  truth,  no  dream  ;  he  does  not  slumber  ;"  the 
natural  language  of  one  who  strives  to  convince 
himself  that  he  is  fortunate  beyond  all  probable 
expectation  ;  for  "  he  could  wake  ever  to  gaze  upon 
his  treasure  :"  again  he  reverts  to  his  assurances  . 

*  In  these  quotations,  the  present  edition  has  been  hitherto 
followed.  Dr.  Ferriar,  it  appears,  made  use  of  Mr.  M. 
Mason's,  to  whose  vitiated  readings  it  is  necessary  to  recur 
on  (he  present  occasion,  aa  the  Doctor  founds  on  them  his 
exception  to  the  general  excellence  of  Massinger's  versifica- 
tion. Tht  reader  who  wishes  to  know  how  these  lines  were 
re:»Ily  given  by  the  1'oet,  must  turn  to  piiuc  3U3,  where  he 
will  find  them  to  be  as  flowing  and  harmoiiioui  as  any  part 
of  the  speech.— EuiTOU. 


"  it  did  endure  the  touch,  he  saw  and  felt  it." 
These  broken  exclamations  and  anxious  repetitions, 
are  the  pure  voice  of  nature.  Recovering  from  his 
astonishment,  his  mind  dilutes  with  the  value  of  his 
possessions,  and  the  poet  finely  directs  the  whole 
gratitude  of  this  mean  character  to  the  key  of  his 
stores.  In  the  description  which  follows,  there  is  a 
striking  climax  in  sordid  luxury  ;  that  passage  where 

Each  sparkling  diamond  from  itself  shot  forth 
A  pyramid  of  flames,  and  in  the  roof 
Fix'd  it  a  gloiious  star,  and  made  the  place 
Heaven's  abstract,  or  epitome  ! 

though  founded  on  a  false  idea  in  natural  history 
long  since  exploded,  is  amply  excused  by  tbe  sin- 
gular and  beautiful  image  which  it  presents.  The 
contemplation  of  his  enoimous  wealth,  still  ampli- 
fied by  his  fancy,  transports  him  at  length  to  a  degree 
of  frenzy  ;  and  now  seeing  strangers  approach,  he 
cannot  conceive  them  to  come  upon  >my  design  but 
that  of  robbing  him,  and  with  the  appeasing  of  his 
ridiculous  alarm,  this  storm  of  passion  subsides, 
which  stands  unrivalled  in  its  kind  in  dramatic 
history.  The  soliloquy  possesses  a  very  uncommon 
beauty,  that  of  forcible  description  united  with 
passion  and  character.  I  should  scarcely  hesitate 
to  prefer  the  description  of  Sir  John  Frugal's  count- 
ing-house to  Spenser's  house  of  riches. 

it  is  verv  remarkable,  that  in  this  passage  the 
versification  is  so  exact  (two  lines  only  txtepied), 
and  the  diction  so  pure  and  elegant,  that,  although 
much  more  than  a  century  has  elapsed  since  it  was 
written,  it  would  be,  perhaps,  impossible  to  alter  the 
measure  or  language  without  injury,  and  certainly  very 
difficult  to  produce  an  equal  length  of  blank  verse, 
from  any  modern  poet,  which  should  bear  a  compari- 
son with  Massinger's,  even  in  the  mechanical  part  of 
its  construction.  This  observation  may  ho  extended  to 
all  our  poet's  productions  :  majesty,  elegance,  and 
sweetness  of  diction  predominate  in  them.  It  is 
needless  to  quote  anv  single  passage  for  proof  of 
this,  because  none  of  those  which  1  am  going 
to  introduce  will  afford  any  exception  to  the 
remark.  Independent  of  character,  the  writings  of 
this  great  poet  abound  with  noble  passages.  It  is 
only  in  the  productions  of  true  poetical  genius  that 
we  meet  successful  allusions  to  sublime  natural 
objects;  the  attempts  of  an  inferior  writer,  in  this 
kind,  are  either  borrowed  or  disgusting.  If  Mat- 
singer  were  to  be  tried  by  this  rule  alone,  we  must 
rank  him  very  high  ;  a  few  instances  will  prove  this. 
Theopbilus,  speaking  of  Dioclesian's  arrival,  says, 

-         -         -         The  marches  of  great  princes, 
Like  to  the  motions  of  prodigeous  meteors, 
Are  step  by  step  observed  ; 

Virgin  Martyr,  Act  I.  sc.  i. 

The  introductory  circumstances  of  a  threatening  piece 
of  intelligence,  are 

but  creeping  billows. 
Not  got  to  shore  yet:  Ib.  Act  II.  sc.  ii. 

In  the  same  play,  we  meet  with  this  charming  image, 

applied  to  a  modest  young  nobleman  : 

The  sunbeams  which  the  emperor  throws  upon  him, 

Shine  there  but  as  in  water,  and  gild  him 

Not  with  one  spot  of  pride  :  Ib*  sc.  ii:. 

No   other    figure    could    so   happily    illustrate    tba 

peace  and  purity  of  an  ingenuous  mind,  uncorrupted 


ESSAY  ON  THE  WRITINGS  OF  MASSINGER. 


by  favour.  Massinger  seems  fcad  of  this  thought ; 
we  meet  with  a  similar  one  in  "  The  Guardian  :" 

I  have  seen  those  eyes  with  pleasant  glances  play 

Upon  Adorio's,  like  Phoebe's  shine, 

Gilding  a  crystal  river  ;  Act  1 V.  sc.  i. 

There  are  two  parallel  passages  in  Shakspeare,  to 
whom  we  are  prohably  indebted  for  this,  as  well  as 
for  many  other  tine  images  of  our  poet.  The  first 
is  in  "  The  Winter's  Tale:" 

He  says  he  lores  my  daughter : 
I  think  so  too  :  for  never  gazed"  the  moon 
Upon  the  water,  as  he'll  stand  and  read, 
As  'twere  my  daughter's  eyes.          Act  IV.  sc.  iv. 

The  second  is  ludicrous  : 

King.  Vouchsafe,  bright  moon,  and  these  thy  stars, 

to  slime 
(Those   clouds  remov'd)     upon    our   wat'ry 

eyne. 
Jlos.     O,  vain  petitioner!  beg  a  greater  matter ; 

Thou  now  request's!  but  moon-shine  in  the 
water. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost,  Act  V.  sc.  ii. 

The  following  images  are  applied,  I  think,  in  a  new 
manner : 

as  the  sun, 
Thou   didst    rise   gloriously,  kept'st   a  constant 

course 

lu  all  thy  journey  ;  and  now,  in  the  evening, 
When  thou  shpufd'st  pass  with  honour  to  thy  rest, 
\Vilt  thou  fall  like  a  meteor? 

Virgin-Martyr,  Act  V.  sc.  ii. 

O  summer  friendship, 

W  hose  flattering  leaves  that  sbadow'd  us  in  our 
Prosperity,  with  the  least  gust  drop  off 
lu  the  autumn  of  adversity. 

Maid  of  Honour,  Act  III.  SC.  i. 

In  the  last  quoted  play,  Camiola  says,  in  perplexity, 

-  What  a  sea 

Of  melting  ice  I  walk  on  !  Act  III.  sc.  iv. 

A  very  noble  figure,  in  the  following  passage,  seems 
borrowed  from  Shakspeare  : 

-  What  a  bridge 

Of  glass  I  walk  upon,  over  a  river 
Of  certain  ru:n,  mine  own  weighty  fear* 
Cracking  vhat  should  support  me  ! 

The  Bondman,  Act  IV.  sc.  iii. 

I'll  read  you  matter  deep  and  dangerous ; 
As  full  of  peril  and  advent'rous  spirit, 
As  to  o'er-walk  a  current,  roaring  loud, 
On  the  unsteadfast  fooling  of  a  spear. 

Henry  1 V.,  Part  I.  Act  I.  SC.  iii. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  Massinger  has  improved 
on  his  original :  he  cannot  be  said  to  borrow, 
so  properly  as  to  imitate.  1  his  remark  may  be 
applied  to  many  other  passages :  thus  Harpax's 
menace, 

I'll  take  thee    -     -    and  hang  thee 
In  a  contorted  chain  of  icicles 
In  the  frigid  zone  : 

The  Virgin-Martyr,  Act  V.  sc.  i. 

Is  derived  from  the  same  source  with  that  passage 
in  "  Measure  for  Measure,"  where  it  is  said  to  be 
a  punishment  in  a  future  state, 


to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice. 

Again,  in  "  The  Old  Law,"  we  meet  with  a  passage 
similar  to  a  much  celebrated  one  of  Shakspeara's, 
but  copied  with  no  common  hand  : 

In  my  youth 

I  was  a  soldier,  no  coward  in  my  age; 
I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  my  foe  ; 
I  have  felt  nature's  winters,  sicknesses, 
Vet  ever  kept  a  lively  sap  in  me 
To  greet  the  cheerful  spring  of  health  again. 

Act  I.  sc.  i. 

Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty  : 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  to  my  blood; 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility  ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty,  but  kindly*. 

As  You-  Like  It,  Act.  II.  sc.  iii. 

Our  poet's  writings  are  stored  with  fine  senti- 
ments, and  tbe  same  observation  which  has  been 
made  on  Shakspeare's,  holds  true  of  our  Author,  that 
his  sentiments  are  so  artfully  introduced,  that  they 
appear  to  come  uncalled,  and  so  force  themselves  on 
the  mind  of  the  speakerf.  In  the  legendary  play  of 
"  The  Virgin-Martyr,"  Angelo  delivers  a  beau- 
tiful sentiment,  perfectly  in  the  spirit  of  the  piece  : 

Look  on  the  poor 

With  gentle  eyes,  for  in  such  habits,  often, 
Angels  desire  an  alms. 

When  Francisco,  in  "  The  Duke  of  Milan,"  suc- 
ceeds in  his  designs  against  the  life  of  MarceLa,  he 
remarks  with  exultation,  that 

When  he's  a  suitor,  that  brings  cunning  arm'd 
With  power,  to  be  his  advocaies,  the  denial 
Is  a  disease  as  killing  as  the  plague, 
And  chastity  a  clue  that  leads  to  death. 

Act  IV.  sc.  ii. 

Pisander,  in  "  Tbe  Bondman,"  moralizes  the  inso- 
lence of  the  slaves  to  their  late  tyrants,  after  the 
revolt,  in  a  manner  that  tends  strongly  to  interes* 
us  in  his  character: 

Here  they,  that  never  see  themselves,  but  in 
The  glass  of  servile  flattery,  might  behold 
The  weak  loundation  upon  which  they  build 
1  heir  trust  in  human  fraiity.     Happy  are  those, 
That  knowing,  in  their  births,  they  are  subject  tc 
Uncertain  change,  are  still  prepared,  and  arm'd 
For  either  fortune  :  a  rare  principle, 
And   with  much    labour,     learn  d   in   wisdom's 

school ! 

For,  as  these  bondmen,  by  their  actions  show- 
That  their  prosperity,  like  too  large  a  sail 
For  their  small  bark  of  judgment,  sinks  them  with 
A  fore-right  gale  ot  liberty,  ere  they  reach 
The  port  they  long  to  touch  at :  so  these  wretches, 

»  In  an  expression  of  Archid.imiis,  in  "  The  Bou'lnian,'' 
we  discover,  perhaps,  the  origin  of  an  image  in  "  ParadiM 
Lost  ;••'— 

O'er  our  heads,  with  sail  Krctch'cl  wing', 

Detraction  hovers.  'Ihe  llvndman,  Act  1.  §e.  lit. 

Hilton  says  of  Satan, 

His  tail  broad  vannt 

He  spreads  lor  flight. 

t  Mrs.  Alonugu's  "  Essay  on  Sh»ksp«ar«. 


ESSAY  OX  THE  WRITINGS  OF  MASSINGER. 


Swollen  with  the  false  opinion  of  their  wort'i. 
And  proud  of  blessings  left  them,  not  acquired  ; 
That  did  believe  they  could  with   giant  arras 
Fathom  the  earth,  and  were  above  their  fates, 
Those    oorrow'd   helps  that  did  support  them, 

vanish'd, 

Fall  of  themselves,  nnd  by  unmanly  suffering-, 
Betray  their  proper  weakness.          Act  JII.  sc.  iii. 

His  complaint  of  the  hardships  of  slavery  must  not 
*>e  entirely  passed  over  : 

The  noble  horse, 

That,  in  his  fiery  youth,  from  his  wide  nostrils 
Keigk'd  courage  to  his  rider,  and  brake  through 
Groves  of  opposed  pikes,  bearing  his  lord 
Safe  to  triumphant  victory  ;  old  or  wounded 
Was  set  at  liberty,  and  freed  from  service. 
The  Athenian  mules,  that  from  the  quarry  drew 
Marble,  hevv'd  for  the  temples  of  the  gods, 
The  great  work  ended,  were  dismissed  and  fed 
At  the  public  cost  ;  nay,  faithful  dogs  have  found 
Their  sepulchres  ;  but  man,  to  man  more  cruel, 
Appoints  no  end  to  the  sufferings  of  his  slave. 

Ib.  Act  IV.  sc.  ii. 

The  sensa  of  degradation  in  a  lofty  mind,  hurried 
into  vice  by  a  furious  and  irresistible  passion, 
is  expressed  very  happily  in  "  The  Reuegado,"  by 
Donusa  : 

-  What  poor  means 

Must  I  make  use  of  now  !  and  flatter  such, 

To  whom,  till  I  betray'd  my  liberty, 

One  gracious  look  of  mine  would  have  erected 

An  altar  to  my  service  !  Act  II.  sc.  i. 

Again, 

0  that  I  should  blush 
To  speak  what  1  so  much  desire  to  do  ! 

When  Mathias,  in  "  The  Picture,"  is  informed  by 
the  magical  skill  of  his  friend,  that  his  wife's  honour 
is  in  danger,  his  first  exclamations  have  at  least  as 
much  sentiment  as  passion  : 

It  is  not  more 

Impossible  in  nature  for  gross  bodies, 
Descending  of  themselves  to  hang  in  the  air; 
Or  with  my  single  arm  to  underprop 
A  falling  tower  :  nay,  in  its  violent  course 
To  stop  the  lightning,  than  to  stay  a  woman 
Hurried  by  two  furies,  lust  and  falsehood, 
In  her  full  career  to  wickedness  ! 

1  am  thrown 

From  a  steep  rock  headlong  into  a  gulph 

Of  misery,  and  find  myself  past  hope, 

In  the  same  moment  that  I  apprehend 

That  1  am  falling.  Act  IV.  sc.  i. 

But  if  Massinger  does  not  always  exhibit  the  live- 
liest and  most  natural  expressions  of  passion  ;  if, 
like  most  olher  poets,  he  sometimes  substitutes  de- 
clamation for  those  expressions ;  in  description  at 
least  he  puts  forth  all  his  strength,  and  never 
disappoints  us  of  an  astonishing  exertion.  We  may 
be  content,  to  rest  his  character,  in  the  description 
cf  passion,  on  the  following  single  instance.  In 
"  The  Very  Woman,"  Almira's  Lover,  Cardenes,  is 
dangerously  wounded  in  a  quarrel,  by  don  John 
Antonio,  who  pays  his  addresses  to  her.  Take, 
now,  a  description  of  Almira's  frenzy  on  this  event, 
which  the  prodigal  author  has  put  into  the  mouth 
>f  a  chambermaid  i 


-  If  she  slumber'd,  straight, 

As  if  some  dreadful  vision  had  nppear'd, 
She  started  up,  her  hair  unbound,  and,  with 
Distracted  looks,  staring  about  the  chamber, 
She  asks  aloud,  Where  is  Martina?  where 
Have    you    concealed    him  ?     sometimes     names 

Antonio, 

Trembling  in  every  joint,  her  broics  contracted, 
Her  fair  face  as  'twere  changed  into  <t  curse, 
Her  hands  held  up  thus  ;  and,  as  if  her  words 
Were  too  big  to  find  passage  through  her  mouth, 
She  groans,  then  throws  herself  upon  her  bed, 
Beating  her  breast.  Act  II.  sc.  iii. 

To  praise  or  to  elucidate  this  passage,  would  be 
equally  superfluous;  I  am  acquainted  with  nothing 
superior  to  it,  in  descriptive  poetry,  and  it  would  be 
hardy  to  bring  any  single  instance  in  competition 
with  it.  Our  poet  is  not  less  happy  in  his  descrip- 
tions of  inanimate  nature,  and  his  descriptions  bear 
the  peculiar  stamp  of  true  genius  in  their  beautiful 
conciseness.  What  an  exquisite  picture  does  he 
present  in  the  compass  of  less  than  two  lines  ! 

-  yon  hanging  clift',  that  glasses 
His  rugged  forehead  in  the  neighbouring  lake, 

Renegatlt>,  Act  II.  sc.  v. 

Thus,  also  Dorothea's  description  of  Paradise  : 

There's  a  perpetual  spring,  perpetual  youth  : 
No  joint-benumbing  cold,  or  scorching  heat, 
Famine,  nor  age,  have  any  being  there. 

The  Virgin  Martyr,  Act  IV.  Sc.  iii. 

After  all  the  encomiums  on  a  rural  life,  and  after 
all  the  soothing  sentiments  and  beautiful  images 
lavished  on  it  by  poets  who  never  lived  in  the 
country,  Massinger  has  furnished  one  of  the  most 
charming  unborrowed  descriptions  that  can  be  pro- 
duced on  the  subject: 

Happy  the  golden  mean  !  had  I  been  born 

In  a  poor  sordid  cottage,  not  nurs'd  up 

With  expectation  to  command  a  court, 

I  might,  like  such  of  your  condition,  sweetest, 

Have  ta'en  a  safe  and  middle  course,  and  not, 

As  I  am  now,  against  my  choice,  compell'd 

Or  to  lie  grovelling  on  the  earth,  or  raised 

So  high  upon  the  pinnacles  of  state, 

That  I  must  either  keep  my  height  with  danger, 

Or  fall  with  certain  ruin 

-  we  might  walk 

In  solitary  groves,  or  in  choice  gardens; 

From  the  variety  of  curious  flowers 

Contemplate  nature's  workmanship  nacl  wonders  • 

And  then,  for  change,  near  to  the  murmur  of 

Some  bubbling  fountain,  1  might  hear  you  sing, 

And,  from  the  well-tuned  accents  of  your  tongue, 

In  my  imagination  conceive 

With  what  melodious  harmony  a  quire 

Of  angels  sing  above  their  Maker's  praises. 

And  then  with  chaste  discourse,  as  we  return'd, 

Imp  feathers  to  the  broken  wings  of  time  :— 

-  walk  into 

The  silent  groves,  and  hear  the  amorous  birds 
Warbling  their  wanton  notes  ;  here,  a  sure  shade 
Of  barren  siccamores,  which  the  all-seeing  sun 
Could  not  pierce  through ;  near  that, an  arbour  hung 
With  spreading  eglantine  ;  there,  a  bubbling  spring 
Watering  a  bank  of  hyacinths  and  lilies  ; 

The  Great  Duhe  of  'Florence,  Act  I.  Sc.  i.   and 
A".t  IV.  Sc.  ii. 


ESSAY  ON  THE  WRITINGS  OF  MASSINGER. 


Let  us  oppose  to  these  peaceful  and  inglorious  ima- 
ges, the  picture  of  a  triumph  by  the  same  masterly 
band  : 

-  when  she  views  you, 

Like  a  triumphant  conqueror,  carried  through 
The  streets  of  Syracusa,  the  glad  people 
Pressing  to  meet  you,  and  the  senators 
Contending  who  shall  heap  most  honours  on  you ; 
The  oxen,  crown'd  with  garlands,  led  before  you, 
Appointed  for  the  sacrifice  ;  and  the  altars 
Smoking  with  thankful  incense  to  the  gods  : 
The  soldiers  chaunting  loud  hymns  to  your  praise, 
The  windows  fill'd  with  matrons  and  with  virgins, 
Throwing  upon  your  head,  as  you  pass  by, 
The  choicest  flowers,  and  silently  invoking 
The  queen  of  love,  with  their  particular  vows, 
To  be  thought  worthy  of  you 

the  Bondman,  Act  III.  Sc.  iv. 

Every  thing  here  is  animated,  yeX  every  action  is  ap- 
propriate :  a  painter  might  work  after  this  sketch, 
without  requiring  an  additional  circumstance. 

The  speech  of  young  Charalois,  in  the  funeral  pro- 
cession, if  too  metaphorical  for  his  character  and 
situation,  is  at  least  highly  poetical: 

How  like  a  silent  stream  shaded  with  night, 
And  gliding  softly  with  our  windy  sighs, 
Moves  the  whole  frame  of  this  solemnity  ! 

Whilst  I,  the  only  murmur  in  this  grove 
Of  death,  thus  hollowly  break  forth. 

The' Fatal  Dowry,  Act  II.  Sc.  i. 

It  may  afford  some  consolation  to  inferior  genius, 
to  remark  that  even  MasMnger  sometimes  employs 
pedantic  and  overstrained  allusions.  He  was  fond 
of  displaying'  the  little  military  knowledge  he  pos- 
sessed, which  he  introduces  in  the  following 
passage,  in  a  most  extraoidmary  manner:  one  beau- 
tiful image  in  it  must  excuse  the  rest : 

-  were  Margaret  only  fair, 
The  cannon  of  her  more  than  earthly  form, 
Though  mounted  high,  commanding  all  beneath  it, 
And  ramm'd  with  bullets  of  her  sparkling  eyes, 
Cf  all  the  bulwiirks  that  defend  your  senses 
Could  batter  none,  but  that  which  guards  your  sight. 
But 

when  you  feel  her  touch,  and  breath 
Like  a  soft  western  wind,  when  it  glides  o'er 
Arabia,  creating  gums  and  spices  ; 
And  in  the  van,  the  nectar  of  her  lips, 
Which  you  must  taste,  bring  the  battalia  on, 
Well  arm'd,  and  strongly  lined  with  her  discourse, 

Hippolytus  himself  would  leave  Diana, 
To  follow  such  a  Venus. 

A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,  Act  II F.  Sc.  i. 

What  pity,  that  he  should  ever  write  so  extrava- 
gantly, who  could  produce  this  tender  and  delicate 
image,  in  another  piece  : 

What's  that?  oh.nothingbut  the  wliispering wind 
Breathes  through  yon  churlish  hawthorn,  that  grew 

rude, 
As  if  it  chid  the  gentle  breath  that  kiss'd  it. 

The  Old  Law,  Act  IV.  Sc.  ii. 

I  wish  it  could  be  added  to  Massinger's  just  praises, 
that  he  I, ad  preserved  his  scenes  from  the  impure 
dialogue  which  disgusts  us  in  most  of  our  old 


writers.  But  we  may  observe,  in  defence  of  his 
failure,  that  several  causes  operated  at  that  lime 
to  produce  such  a  dialogue,  and  that  an  author  who 
subsisted  by  writing,  was  absolutely  subjected  to 
the  influence  of  those  causes.  The  manners  of  the 
age  permitted  great  freedoms  in  language;  the  the- 
atre was  not  frequented  by  the  best  company  :  the 
male  part  of  the  audience  was  by  much  the  more 
numerous  ;  and  what,  perhaps,  had  a  greater  effect 
than  any  of  these,  the  women's  parts  were  performed 
by  boys.  So  powerful  was  the  effect  of  those  cir- 
cumstances, that  Cariwright  is  the  only  dramatist  of 
that  age  whose  works  are  tolerably  free  from  inde- 
cency. Massinger's  error,  perhaps,  appears  more 
strongly,  because  his  indelicacy  has  not  always  the 
apology  of  wit  ;  for,  either  from  a  natural  deficiency 
in  that  quality,  or  from  the  peculiar  model  on  which 
he  had  formed  himself,  his  comic  characters  are  less 
witty  than  those  of  his  contemporaries,  and  when 
he  attempts  wit,  he  frequently  degenerates  into 
buffoonery.  But  he  has  showed,  in  a  remarkable 
manner,  the  justness  of  his  taste,  in  declining  the 
practice  of  quibbling  ;  and  as  wit  and  a  quibble  were 
supposed,  in  that  age,  to  be  inseparable,  we  are  per- 
haps to  seek,  in  his  aversion  to  the  prevailing  folly, 
the  true  cause  of  his  sparing  emplojment  of  wit. 

Our  Poet  excels  more  in  the  description  than  in 
the  expression  of  passion  ;  this  may  be  ascribed,  in 
some  measure,  to  his  nice  attention  to  the  fable  : 
while  his  scenes  are  managed  with  consummate  skill, 
the  lighter  shades  of  character  and  sentiment  are 
lost  in  the  tendency  of  each  part  to  the  catastrophe. 

The  prevailing  beauties  of  liis  productions  are 
dignity  and  elegance  ;  their  predominant  fault  is 
want  of  passion. 

The  melody,  force,  and  variety  of  his  versification 
are  every  where  remarkable  :  admitting  the  force  of 
all  the  objections  which  are  made  to  the  employment 
of  blank  verse  in  comedy,  Massinger  possesses 
charms  sufficient  to  dissipate  them  all.  It  is,  indeed, 
equally  different  from  that  which  modern  authors 
are  pleased  to  style  blank  verse,  and  from  the  flip- 
pant prose  so  loudly  celebrated  in  the  comedies  of 
the  day.  The  neglect  of  our  old  comedies  seems 
to  arise  from  other  causes,  than  from  the  employ- 
ment of  blank  verse  in  their  dialogue  ;  for,  in 
general,  its  construction  is  so  natural,  that  in  the 
mouth  of  a  good  actor  it  runs  into  elegant  prose. 
The  frequent  delineations  of  perishable  manners,  in 
our  old  comedy,  "have  occasioned  this  neglect,  and 
we  may  foresee  the  fate  of  our  present  fashionable 
pieces,  in  that  which  has  attended  Jonson's,  Fletcher  s, 
and  Massinger's  :  they  are  either  entirely  overlooked, 
or  so  mutilated,  to  fit  them  for  representation,  as 
neither  to  retain  the  dignity  of  the  old  comedy,  nor 
to  acquire  the  graces  of  the  new. 

The  changes  of  manners  have  necessarily  pro- 
duced very  remarkable  effects  on  theatrical  perform- 
ances. In  proportion  as  our  best  writers  are 
further  removed  from  the  present  times,  they 
exhibit  bolder  and  more  diversified  characters, 
because  the  prevailing  manners  admitted  a  fuller 
display  of  sentiments  in  the  common  intercourse  of 
life.  Our  own  limes,  in  which  the  intention  of 
j  polite  education  is  to  produce  a  general,  uniform 
manner,  afford  little  diversity  of  character  for  the 
stage.  Our  dramatists,  therefore,  mark  the  dis- 
tinctions of  their  characters,  by  incidents  more  than 
by  sentiments,  and  abound  more  in  striking  situ- 
ations, than  interesting  dialogue. 


In    the    old 


ESSAY  ON  THE  WRITINGS  OF  MASSINGER. 


comedy,  the  catastrophe  is  occasioned,  in  general, 
bv  n  change  in  the  mind  of  some  principal  character, 
artfully  prepared,  and  cautiously  conducted  ;  in  the 
modern,  the  unfolding  of  the  plot  is  effected  by  the 
overturning  of  a  screen,  the  opening  of  a  door,  or 
by  some  other  equally  dignified  machine. 

When  we  compare  Massinger  with  the  other 
dramatic  writers  of  his  age,  we  cannot  long  hesitate 
where  to  place  him.  More  natural  in  his  charac- 
ters, and  more  poetical  in  his  diction  than  Jonson 
or  Cartwright,  more  eleyated  and  nervous  than 
Fletcher,  the  onlv  writers  who  can  be  supposed  to 
contest  his  pre-eminence,  Massinger  ranks  imme- 
diately under  Shakspeare  himself. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  in  comedy  Massinger 
falls  considerably  beneath  Shakspeare ;  his  wit  is 
less  brilliant,  arid  his  ridicule  less  delicate  and 
rarious ;  but  he  affords  a  specimen  of  elegant 


comedy*,  of  which  there  is  no  archetype  in  hia 
great  predecessor.  By  the  rules  of  a  very  judicious 
criticf.  the  characters  in  this  piece  srppear  to  he  of 
too  elevated  a  rank  for  comedy :  yet  thougli 
the  plot  is  somewhat  embarrassed  by  this  circam- 
stance,  the  diversity,  spirit,  and  consistency  of  th» 
characters  render  it  a  most  interesting  play.  In 
tragedy,  Massinger  is  rather  eloquent  than  pathetic; 
yet  he  is  often  as  majestic,  and  generally  more 
elegant  than  his  master ;  he  is  as  powerful  a  ruler 
of  the  understanding  as  Shakspeare  is  of  the  paa- 
sions :  with  the  disadvantages  of  succeeding  that 
matchless  poet,  there  is  still  much  original  beauty  in 
his  works  ;  and  the  most  extensive  acquaintance 
with  poetry  will  hardly  diminish  the  pleasure  of  a 
reader  and  admirer  of  Massinger. 

•  "  The  Great  Duke  of  Florence." 

*  See  (be  "  Kssay  on  the  Provinces  of  the  Drann," 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES    ON    MASSINGER. 


UPON  THIS  WORK  (THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN)  OF  HIS  BFLOVID 
FRIEND  THE  AUTHOR. 

I  AM  snapt  already,  and  may  go  my  way  ; 

The  poet-critic's  come  ;  I  hear  him  sav 

This  youth's  mistook,  the  author's  work's  a  play. 

He  could  not  miss  it,  he  will  straight  appear 
At  such  a  bait ;  'twas  laid  on  purpose  tliere 
To  take  the  vermin,  and  I  have  him  here. 

Sirrah !  you  will  be  nibbling ;  a  small  bit, 
A  syllable,  when  you're  in  the  hungry  fit, 
Will  serve  to  stay  the  stomach  of  your  wit. 

Fool,  knave,  what  worse,  for  worse  cannot  deprave 

thee ; 

And  were  the  devil  now  instantly  to  have  thee, 
Thou  canst  not  instancesuch  a  work  to  save  thee, 

'Mongst  all  the  ballads  which  thou  dost  compose, 
And  what  thou  stvlest  thy  poems,  ill  as  those, 
And  void  of  rhyme  and  reason,  thy  worse  prose 

Yet  like  a  rude  jack-sauce  in  poesy, 

With  thoughts  unblest,  and  hand  unmannerly, 

Ravishing  branches  from  Apollo's  tree  ; 

Thou  mak'st  a  garland,  for  thy  touch  unfit, 

And  boldly  deck'st  thy  pig-brain'd  sconce  with  it, 

As  if  it  were  the  supreme  head  of  wit : 

The  blameless  Muses  blush  ;  who  not  allow 
That  reverend  order  to  each  vulgar  brow, 
Whose  sinful  touch  profanes  the  holy  bough. 

Hence,  shallow  prophet,  and  admire  the  strain 
Of  thine  own  pen,  or  thy  poor  cope-mate's  vein  ; 
This  piece  too  curious  is  for  thy  coarse  brain. 

Here  wit,  more  fortunate,  is  join'd  with  art, 
And  that  most  secret  frenzy  bears  a  part, 
Infused  by  nature  in  the  poet's  heart. 

Here  may  the  puny  wits  themselves  direct, 
Here  may  the  wisest  find  what  to  affect, 
And  kings  may  learn  their  proper  dialect. 


On  then,  dear  friend,  thy  pen,  thy  name,  shall  spread, 
AD'}  shouldst  thou  write,  while   thou  shall  not  to 

read, 

The  Muse  must  labour,  when  thy  hand  is  dead. 

W.B*. 

THE  AUTHOR'S  FRIEND  TO  THE  READER,  ON  "TH» 

BONDMAN." 

THE  printer's  ha>te  calls  on  ;  I  must  not  drive 

My  time  past  six,  though  I  begin  at  five. 

One  hour  I  have  entire,  and  'tis  enough, 

Here  are  no  gipsy  jigs,  no  drumming  stuff, 

Dances,  or  other  trumpery  to  delight, 

Or  take,  by  common  way,  the  common  sight. 

Tlie  author  of  this  poem,  as  he  dares 

To  stand  the  austerest  censures,  so  he  cares 


•  W.  B.]  'Tis  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Reed,  that  the  initials 
W.  B.  stand  for  William  Brown,  the  author  of  "  Briitannia'i 
Pastorals.  1  see  no  reason  to  think  otherwise,  except  that 
Ben  Jonson,  whom  VV.  B.  seems  to  attack  all  through  this 
poem,  had  greatly  celebrated  Brown's  "  I'astorals;"  but, 
indeed,  Joh*on  was  so  capricious  in  his  temper,  that  we 
must  not  suppose  him  to  be  very  constant  in  his  friendships, 
DA  VIES. 

This  is  a  pretty  early  specimen  of  the  judgment  which 
Davies  brought  to  the  elucidation  of  his  work.  Not  a  line, 
not  a  syllable  of  this  little  pot  in  can,  by  any  violence,  be 
tortured  into  a  reflection  on  Jonson,  whom  he  supposes  to 
be  "  attacked  all  through  it !"  In  I  Oil,  when  it  WHS  written, 
that  great  poet  was  at  ~lhe  height  of  his  reputation,  the  envy, 
the  admiration,  and  the  terror, of  his  contemporaries  :  would 
a  "young"  writer  presume  to  term  such  a  man  "fool, 
knave  ,"&c.?  would  lie— but  the  enquiry  is  too  absurd  for 
further  pursuit. 

I  know  not  the  motives  which  induced  Mr.  Reed  to  at- 
tribute these  stanzas  to  W.  Brown  ;  they  may,  1  think,  with 
some  probability,  be  referred  to  \V.  Basse,  a  minor  poet, 
whose  tribute  of  praise  is  placed  at  the  head  of  the  commen- 
datory verses  on  Shakspe.ire;  or  to  W.  Barksted,  author  of 
"  Myrrha  the  Moth.r  of  Adonis,"  a  poem,  1607.  Barksted 
was  an  actor,  as  appears  from  a  list  of  "  the  principal  come- 
dims"  who  represented  Jonson's  "  Silent  Woman;"  and, 
Jlit-refore,  not  less  likely  than  the  author  of  "Britannia! 
1'astorals,"  to  say ,  that, 


in  the  way  of  poetry,  now  a-days, 


Of  all  that  are  call'd  works  the  best  are  play«  ' 

There  is  not  much  to  be  said  for  these  introductory  poeraf, 

whicii   must  be  viewed   rather  as   pro"fs  of  friendship  than 

of  talents.     In  die   former  edition*   they  are  given  with  a 

decree  of  ignorance  and  inattention  truly  scandalou*. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES   ON  MASSINGER. 


As  little  what  it  is  ;  his  own  hest  way 

Is  to  be  judge,  and  author  of  his  play  ; 

It  is  his  knowledge  makes  him  thus  secure  ; 

Nor  does  he  write  to  please,  but  to  endure. 

And.  reader,  if  you  have  disburs'd  a  shilling, 

To  see  this  worthy  story,  and  are  willing 

To  have  a  large  increase,  if  ruled  by  me, 

You  may  a  merchant  and  a  poet  be. 

'Tis  granted  for  your  twelve-pence  you  did  sit, 

And  see,  and  hear,  and  understand  not  yet. 

The  author,  in  a  Christian  pity,  takes 

Care  of  your  good,  and  prints  it  for  your  sakes, 

That  such  as  will  but  venture  sixpence  more, 

May  know  what  they  but  saw  and  heard  before  ; 

'Twill  not  be  money  lost,  if  you  can  read 

("There's  all  the  doubt  now),  but  your  gains  exceed, 

If  you  can  understand,  and  you  are  made 

Free  of  the  freest  and  the  noblest  trade  ; 

And  in  the  way  of  poetry,  now-a-days, 

Of  all  that  are  call'd  works  the  best  are  plays. 

W.  B. 

TO    MY  HONOURED    FRIEND,    MASTER    PHILIP    MAS- 
SINGER,  UPON  HIS  "  HENEGADO." 

DABBLER*  in  poetry,  that  only  can 
Court  this  weak  lady,  or  that  gentleman, 
With  some  loose  wit  in  rhyme  ; 
Others  that  fright  the  time 
Into  belief,  with  mighty  words  that  tear 
A  passage  through  the  ear; 

Or  nicer  men, 

That  through  a  perspective  will  see  a  play, 
And  use  it  the  wrong  way 

(Not  worth  thy  pen), 

Though  all  their  pride  exalt  them,  cannot  be 
Competent  judges  of  thy  lines  or  thee. 

I  must  confess  I  have  no  public  name 
To  rescue  judgment,  no  poetic  flame 
To  dress  thy  Muse  with  praise, 
And  Phcebus  his  own  bays  ; 
Yet  I  commend  this  poem,  and  dare  tell 
The  world  1  liked  it  well  ; 

And  if  there  be 

A  tribe  who  in  their  wisdoms  dare  accuse 
This  offspring  of  thy  Muse, 

Let  them  agree 

Conspire  one  comedy,  and  they  will  say, 
''Tis  easier  to  commend  than  make  a  play. 

JAMES  SHIRLEY*. 

TO  HIS  WORTHY  FRIEND,  MASTER  PHILIP  MASSINGER,  ON 
HIS  PLAY  CALL'D  THE  "  HESEGADO." 

THE  bosom  of  a  friend  cannot  breath  forth 

A  flattering  phrase  to  speak  the  noble  worth 

Of  him  that  hath  lodged  in  his  honest  breast 

So  large  a  title  :  I,  among  the  rest 

That  honour  thee,  do  only  seem  to  praise, 

Wanting  the  flowers  of  art  to  deck  that  bays 

Merit  has    crown'd    thy  temples    with.       Knov, 

friend. 
Though  there  are  some  who  merely  do  commend 

*  JAMES  SHIRLEY.]  A  well-known  dramatic  writer. 
His  works,  \\liicli  are  very  voluminous,  have  never  been 
coll.  clod  in  au  uniform  edition,  though  highly  deserving  of 
it.  He  assisted  Fletcher  in  many  of  his  plays;  am)  some, 
lay  his  biographers,  thought  liim  equal  to  that  great  pott. 
tie  died  in  lliou.  (They  were  afterwards  collected  and 
tubliaued  in  6  Vols.,  by  Mr.  Uiiiord  him-clr. 


To  live  i'  the  world's  opinion  such  as  can 

Censure  with  judgment,  no  such  piece  of  man 

Makes  up  my  spirit;  where  desert  does  live, 

There  will  I  plant  my  wonder,  and  there  give 

My  best  endeavours  to  build  up  his  story 

That  truly  merits.     I  did  ever  glory 

To  behold  virtue  rich  ;  though  cruel  Fate 

In  scornful  malice  does  beat  low  their  state 

That  best  deserve ;  when  others  that  but  know 

Only  to  scribble,  and  no  more,  oft  grow 

Great  in  their  favours  that  would  seem  to  be 

Patrons  of  wit,  and  modest  poesy  ; 

Yet,  with  your  abler  friends,  let  me  say  this, 

Many  may  strive  to  equal  you,  but  miss 

Of  your  fair  scope  ;  this  work  of  yours  men  may 

Throw  in  the  face  of  envy,  and  then  say 

To  those,  that  are  in  great  men's  thoughts  morn 

blest, 

Imitate  this,  and  call  that  work  your  best. 
Yet  wise  men,  in  this,  and  too  often  err, 
When  they  their  love  before  the  work  prefer. 
If  I  should  say  more,  some  may  blame  me  for't, 
Seeing  your  merits  speak  you,  not  report. 

DANIEL  LAKYN. 


TO  HIS  DEAR  FRINED  THE  AUTHOR,  ON  THE    "  ROMAN 
ACTOR." 

I  AM  no  great  admirer  of  the  plays, 

Poets,  or  actors,  that  are  now-a-days  ; 

Yet,  in  this  work  of  thine,  methinks,  I  see 

Sufficient  reason  for  idolatry. 

Each  line  thouhast  taught  Caesar  is  as  high 

As  he  could  speak,  when  groveling  flattery, 

And  his  own  pride  (forgetting  heaven's  rod) 

By  his  edicts  styled  himself  great  Lord  and  God. 

By  thee,  again,  the  laurel  crowns  his  head, 

And,  thus  revived,  who  can  affirm  him  dead? 

Such  power  lies  in  this  lofty  strain  as  can 

Give  swords  and  legions  to  Domitian : 

And  when  thy  Paris  pleads  in  the  defence 

Of  actors,  every  grace  and  excellence 

Of  argument  for  that  subject  are  by  thee 

Contracted  in  a  sweet  epitome. 

Nor  do  thy  women  the  tired  hearers  vex 

With  language  no  way  proper  to  their  sex. 

Just  like  a  cunning  painter  thou  let's  fall 

Copies  more  fair  than  the  original. 

I'll  add  but  this  :  from  all  the  modern  plays 

The  stage  hath  lately  born,  this  wins  the  bays; 

And  if  it  come  to  trial,  boldly  look 

To  carry  it  clear,  thy  witness  being  thy  book. 

T.  J* 


IN  PHILLIPI   MASSINGERI    POET*    ELEGANTISS  ACTOREM 
ROMANUM  TYPIS  EXCUbUM. 


ECCE  Philippine  celebrata  Tragoedia  Musae, 
buam  Hoseus  Britonum  Rosciust  egit,  adest. 


•  T.  J.]  Coxetcr  gives  these  initials  to  Sir  Thomas  Jay, 
or  Jeay,  to  whom  the  play  is  dedicated:  he  is,  probably 
right.  Sir  Thomas,  who  was  "no  great  admirer"  of  the 
pla>sof  his  days,  when  Jonson,  Shirley,  Ford,  &c.  were 
in  full  vigour,  would  not,  I  siupect,  be  altogether  enrap- 
tured if  he  could  witiu^s  those  ot  ours! 

t  Jto.nnii3.}  Tills  was  Joseph  Taylor,  whose  name  occur! 
in  a  subsequent  page. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES  ON  MASSINGER. 


Semper  fronde  ambo  vireant  Parnasside,  semper 

Liber  ab  invidize  dentibus  esto,  liber. 
Crebra  papyrivori  spernas  incendia  pasti, 

Thus,  vsenum  expositi  tegraina  suta  libri: 
Net  metuas  raucos,  Momorum  sibila,  rhoncos, 

Tarn  bardus  nebulo  si  tamen  ullus  erit. 
Nam  toties  festis,  actum,  placuisse  theatris 

Quod  liquet,  hcc,  cusum,  crede,  placebit,  opus. 

TBO.  GOFF*. 

TO  HIS   DESERTING   FRIEND,  MR.  PHILIP  MASSINGER, 
UPON  HIS  TRAGEDY  "  THE  ROMAN  ACTOR." 

PARIS,  the  best  of  actors  in  bis  age, 

Acts  yet,  and  speaks  upon  our  Roman  stage 

Such  lines  by  tbee  as  do  not  derogate 

From  Rome's  proud  heights,  and  her  then  learned 

state. 

Nor  great  Domitian's  favour  ;  nor  the  embraces 
Of  a  fair  empress,  nor  those  often  graces 
Which  from  th'  applauding  theatres  were  paid 
To  his  brave  action,  nor  his  ashes  laid 
In  the  Flaminian  way.  where  people  strow'd 
His  grave  with  flowers,  and  Martial's  wit  bestow'd 
A  lasting  epitaph  ;  not  all  these  same 
Do  add  so  much  renown  to  Paris'  name 
As  this  that  thou  present's!  his  history 
So  well  to  us  :  for  which,  in  thanks,  would  he 
(If  that  his  soul,  as  thought  Pythagoras, 
Could  into  any  of  our  actors  pass) 
Life  to  these  lines  by  action  gladly  give, 
Whose  pen  so  well  has  made  his  story  live. 

THO. 


UPON  MR.  MASSINGER  HIS   "  ROMAN    ACTO*." 

To  write  is  grown  so  common  in  our  time, 
That  every  one  who  can  but  frame  a  rhyme, 
However  monstrous  gives  himself  that  praise 
Which  only  he  should  claim  that  may  wear  bays 
Bu'  their  applause  whose  judgments  apprehend 
The  weight  and  truth  of  what  they  dare  commend, 
In  this  besotted  age,  friend,  'tis  thy  glory 
That  here  tbou  hast  outdone  the  Roman  story. 
Domitian's  pride  :  his  wife's  lust  unabated 
In  death  ;  with  Paris  merely  were  related 
Without  a  soul,  until  thy  abler  pen 
Spoke  them,  and  made  them  speak,  nay,  act  again 
In  such  a  height,  that  here  to  know  their  deeds, 
He  may  become  an  actor  that  but  reads. 

JOHN  FORD}. 

UPON  MR.  MASSINGER'S  "  ROMAN  ACTOR." 

LONO'ST  thou  to  see  proud  Ceesar  set  in  state, 
His  morning  greatness,  or  his  evening  fate, 
With  admiration  here  behold  him  fall, 
And  yet  outlive  his  tragic  funeral  : 
For  'tis  a  question  whether  Cicsar's  glory 
Rose  to  its  height  before  or  in  this  story  ; 

•  THO.  GOFF.]  Goff  was  a  man  of  considerable  learning 
and  highly  celebrated  for  his  oratorical  powers,  which  he 
tin  iied  to  the  best  of  purposes,  in  the  service  of  the  church. 
He  also  wrote  several  plays;  but  these  do  no  honour  to  his 
memory,  being  full  of  the  most  ridiculous  bombast. 

J  THO.  MAY.]  May  translated  7,t/cai»  into  English  verse. 
and  was  a  candidate  for  the  office  of  Poet  l.anreat  with  Sir 
William  Davenant.  He  wrote  several  plays;  his  Latin 
"  Supplement  to  Lucan"  is  much  admired  by  the  learned. 
DAVIJS. 

1  JOTTN  Ford.]  Ford  was  a  very  good  poet.  \Ve  have 
eleven  plays  of  his  wrking,  none  of  which  are  without 
merit.  The  writers  of  his  time  opposed  him  with  some  suc- 
cess to  Jonson. 


Or  whether  Paris,  in  Domitian's  favour, 
Were  more  exalted  that  in  this  thy  labour. 
Each  line  speaks  him  an  emperor,  every  phrase 
Crowns  thy  deserving  temples  with  the  bays  ; 
So  that  reciprocally  both  agree, 
ThouJiv'st  in  him,  and  he  survives  in  thee. 

ROBERT  HARVEY. 


TO  HIS  LONG-KNOWN  AND    LOVED   FRIEND,    MR.  PHILIP 
MASSINGER,  UPON  HIS  "  ROMAN  ACTOR." 

IF  that  my  lines,  being  placed  before  thy  book, 
Could  make  it  sell,  or  alter  but  a  look 
Of  some  sour  censurer,  who's  apt  to  say, 
No  one  in  these  times  can  produce  a  play 
Worthy  his  reading,  since  of  late,  'tis  true, 
The  old  accepted  are  more  than  the  new  : 
Or,  could  I  on  some  spot  o'the  court  work  so, 
To  make  him  speak  no  more  than  he  doth  know; 
Not  borrowing  from  his  flatt'ring  flatter'd  friend 
What  to  dispraise,  or  wherefore  to  commend  : 
Then,  gentle  friend,  I  should  not  blush  to  be 
Rank'd  'mongst  those  worthy  ones  which  here  I  see 
Ushering  this  work  ;  but  why  I  write  to  thee 
Is,  to  profess  our  love's  antiquity, 
Which  to  this  tragedy  must  give  my  test, 
Thou  hast  made  many  good,  but  this  thy  best. 

JOSEPH  TAYI.OP.. 


TO  MR.  PHILIP  MASSINGER,  MY  MUCH-ESTEEM  D  FHIEXD, 
ON  HIS    "  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE." 

ENJOY  thy  laurel !  'tis  a  noble  choice. 

Not  by  the  suffrages  of  voice 
Procured,  but  by  a  conquest  so  achieved, 

As  that  thou  hast  at  full  relieved 
Almost  neglected  poetry,  whose  bays, 

Sullied  by  childish  thirst  of  praise,  i 

Wither'd  into  a  dullness  of  despair, 

Had  not  thy  later  labour  (heir 
Unto  a  former  industry)  made  known 

This  work,  which  thou  mayst  call  thine  own, 
So  rich  in  worth,  that  th'  ignorant  may  grudge 
To  find  true  virtue  is  become  their  judge. 

GEORGE  DONNE. 


TO  THE  DESERVING  MEMORY  OF  THIS  WORTHY  WOHI 
("THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE")  AND  THE  AU- 
THOR, MR.  PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

ACTION  gives  many  poems  right  to  live  . 

This  piece  gave  life  to  action  ;  «nd  will  give 

For  state  and  language,  in  each  change  of  age, 

To  time  delight,  and  honour  to  the  stage. 

Should  late  prescription  fail  which  fames  that  seat 

This  pen  might  style  the  Duke  of  Florence  Great. 

Let  many  write,  let  much  be  printed,  read 

And  censur'd  ;  toys  no  sooner  hatch'd  than  dead. 

Here,  without  blush  to  truth  of  commendation, 

Is  proved,  how  art  hath  outgone  imitation. 

JOHN  F«HD. 

TO  MY  WORTHY  FRIEND,  THE  AUTHOR,  UPON  HIS  TRAOI 
COMEDY  "  THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR." 

WAS  not  thy  Emperor  enough  before 
For  thee  to  give,  that  thou  dost  give  us  more? 
I  would  be  just,  but  cannot:  that  I  know 
I  did  not  slander,  this  I  fear  1  do. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES  ON  MASSINGER. 


But  pardon  me,  if  I  offend  ;  thy  •  -e 
Let  equal  poets  praise,  while  1  adi*ire. 
If  any  say  that  1  enough  have  writ. 
They  are  thy  foes,  and  envy  at  thy  wit. 
Believe  not  them,  nor  me ;  they  know  thy  lines 
Deserve  applause,  hut  speak  against  their  minds. 
I,  out  of  justice,  would  commend  thy  play, 
But  (friend  forgive  me)  'tis  above  my  way. 
One  word,  and  1  have  done  (and  from  my  heart 
Would  I  could  speak  the  whole  truth,  not  the  part 
Because  'tis  thine),  it  henceforth  will  be  said. 
Not  the  Maid  of  Honour,  but  the  Honour'd  Maid. 
ASTON  COCKAINE*. 


TO  HIS    WORTHY  FRIEND,  MR.  PHILIP  MASSINGER,  UPON 
HIS  TRAGI-COMEDY,  STYLED    "  THE  PICTURE" 

METHINKS  I  hear  some  busy  critic  say, 

Who's  this  that  singly  ushers  in  this  play  ? 

'Tis  boldness,  I  confess,  and  yet  perchance 

It  may  be  construed  love,  not  arrogance. 

I  do  not  here  upon  this  leaf  intrude, 

By  praising  one  to  wrong  a  multitude. 

Nor  do  I  think  that  all  are  tied  to  be 

(Forced  by  my  vote)  in  the  same  creed  with  me, 

Each  man  hath  liberty  to  judge  ;  free  will, 

At  his  own  pleasure  to  speak  good  or  ill. 

But  yet  your  Muse  already's  known  so  well 

Her  worth  will  hardly  find  an  infidel. 

Here  she  hath  drawn  a  picture  which  shall  lie 

Safe  for  all  future  times  to  practice  by  ; 

Whate'er  shall  follow  are  but  copies,  some 

Preceding  works  were  types  of  this  to  come. 

'Tis  your  own  lively  image,  and  sets  forih, 

When  we  are  dust,  the  beauty  of  your  worth. 

He  that  shall  duly  read,  and  not  advance 

Aught  that  is  here,  betrays  his  ignorance  : 

Yet  whosoe'er  beyond  desert  commends, 

Errs  more  by  much  than  he  that  reprehends; 

For  praise  misplaced,  and  honour  set  upon, 

A  worthless  subject,  is  detraction. 

I  cannot  sin  so  here,  unless  I  went 

About  to  style  you  only  excellent. 

Apollo's  gifts  are  not  confined  alone 

To  your  dispose,  he  hath  more  heirs  than  one, 

And  such  as  do  derive  from  his  blest  hand 

A  large  inheritance  in  the  poets'  land, 

As  well  as  you  ;  nor  are  you,  I  assure 

Myself,  so  envious,  but  you  can  endure 

To  hear  their  praise,  whose  worth  long  since  was 

known, 

And  justly  too  preferr'd  before  your  own, 
I  know  you'd  take  it  for  an  injury, 
(And  'tis  a  well-becoming  modesty), 
To  be  parallel'd  with  Beaumont,  or  to  hear 
Your  name  by  some  too  partial  friend  writ  near 
Unequall'd  Jonson  ;  being  men  whose  fire 
At  distance,  and  with  reverence,  you  admire. 
Do  so,  and  you  shall  find  your  gain  will  be 
Much  more,  by  yielding  them  priority, 
Than  with  a  certainty  of  loss,  to  hold 
A  foolish  competition :  'tis  too  bold 
A  task,  and  to  be  shunn'd  :  nor  shall  my  praise, 
With  too  much  weight,  ruin  what  it  would  raise. 

THOMAS  JAY. 


COCKAINC.]   See  the  Introduction  pattim. 


TO  MY  WORTHY  FRIEND,  Mr.  PHILIP  MASSINGER 
UPON  HIS  TRAGI-COMtDV  CALLED  THE  "  EMPEROR  Of 
THE  EAST." 

SUFFER,  my  friend,  these  lines  to  have  the  grace, 
That  they  mav  be  a  mole  on  Venus'  face. 
There  is  no  fault  about  thy  book  but  this, 
And  it  will  show  how  fair  thy  Emperor  is, 
Thou  more  than  poet!  our  Mercury,  that  art 
Apollo's  messenger,  and  dost  impart 
His  best  expressions  to  our  ears,  live  long 
To  purify  the  slighted  En°rlish  tongue, 
That  both  the  nymphs  of  Tagus  and  of  Po 
May  not  henceforth  despise  our  language  so. 
Nor  could  they  do  it,  if  they  e'er  had  seen 
The  matchless  features  of  the  Fairy  Queen  ; 
Read  Jonson,  Shukspeare,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  or 
Thy  neat-limned  pieces,  skilful  Massinger. 
Thou  known,  all  the  Castilians  must  confess 
Vego  de  Carpio  thy  foil,  and  bless 
His  language  can  translate  thee,  and  the  fine 
Italian  wits  yield  to  this  work  of  thine. 
Were  old  Pythagoras  alive  again, 
In  thee  he  might  find  reason  to  maintain 
His  paradox,  that  souls  by  transmigration 
In  divers  bodies  make  their  habitation: 
And  more,  than  all  poetic  souls  yet  known, 
Are  met  in  thee,  contracted  into  one. 
This  is  a  truth,  not  an  applause  :  I  am 
One  that  at  furthest  distance  views  thy  flame, 
Yet  may  pronounce,  that,  were  Apollo  dead, 
In  thee  his  poesy  might  all  be  read. 
Forbear  thy  modesty  :   thy  Emperor's  vein 
Shall  live  admired,  when  poets  shall  complain 
It  is  a  pattern  of  too  high  a  reach, 
And  what  great  Phoebus  might  the  Muses  teach. 
Let  it  live,  therefore,  and  I  dare  he  bold 
To  say,  it  with  the  world  shall  not  grow  old. 

ASTON 


A     FRIEND      TO    THE    AUTHOR,     AND    WELL-WISHER      TO 
THE   READER,  ON  THE   EMPEROR  OF  "  THE  EAST." 

WHO  with  a  liberal  hand  freely  bestows 

His  bounty  on  all  comers,  and  yet  knows 

No  ebb,  nor  formal  limits,  but  proceeds 

Continuing  his  hospitable  deeds, 

With  daily  welcome  shall  advance  his  nnme 

Beyond  the  art  of  flattery  ;  with  such  fame 

May  yours,  dear  friend,  compare.     Your  muse  hath 

been 

Most  bountiful,  and  I  have  often  seen 
The  willing  seats  receive  such  as  have  fed, 
And  risen  thankful ;  yet  were  some  misled 
By  NICETY,  when  this  fair  banquet  came 
(So  I  allude)  their  stomachs  were  to  blame, 
Because  that  excellent,  sharp,  and  poignant  sauce 
Was  wanting,  they  arose  without  due  grace, 
Lo  !  thus  a  second  time  he  doth  invite  you  : 
Be  your  own  carvers,  and  it  may  delight  you. 

JOHN  CLAVILL. 


TO    MY    THUE    FRIEND     AND    KINSMAN,  PHILIP   MASSiN- 
CER,  ON  HIS  "  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST." 

I  TAKE  not  upon  trust,  nor  am  I  led 
By  an  implicit  faith  :  what  1  have  read 
With  an  impartial  censure  1  dare  crown 
With  a  deserved  applause,  howe'er  cried  down 
By  such  whose  malice  will  not  let  them  be 
Equal  to  any  piece  liran'd  forth  by  thee. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES  ON  MASSINGER. 


Contemn  their  poor  detraction,  and  still  write 
Poems  like  this,  that  can  endure  the  light, 
And  search  of  abler  judgments.     This  will  raise 
Thy  name  ;  the  others'  scandal  is  thy  praise. 
This,  oft  perused  by  grave  wits,  shall  live  long, 
Not  die  as  soon  as  past  the  actor's  tongue, 
The  fate  of  slighter  toys ;  and  1  must  say, 
'Tis  not  enough  to  make  a  passing  play 
In  a  true  poet :  works  that  should  end"ure 
Must  have  a  genius  ;n  the\n  strong  as  pure, 
And  such  is  thi'-e,  friend  :  nor  shall  time  devour 
The  well-forin'd  features  of  thy  Emperor. 

WILLIAM  SINGLETON. 


TO  THE  INGENIOUS  AUTHOR  MASTER  PHILIP  MAS- 
SINGER,  ON  HIS'  COMEDY  CALLED  "  A  NEW  WAY  TO 
PAY  OLD  DEBfi." 

'Tis  a  rare  charity,  and  thou  couldst  not 

So  proper  to  the  time  have  found  a  plot : 

Yet  whilst  you  teach  to  pay,  you  lend;  the  age 

We  wretches  live  in,  that  to  come  the  stage, 

The  thronged  audience  that  was  thither  brought, 

Invited  by  you    fame,  and  to  be  taught 

This  lesson  ;  all  are  grown  indebted  more, 

And  when  they  look  for  freedom,  ran  in  score. 

It  was  a  cruel  courtesy  to  call 

In  hope  of  liberty,  and  then,  inthrall. 

The  nobles  are  your  bondmen,  gentry,  and 

All  besides  those  that  did  not  understand. 

They  were  no  men  of  credit,  bankrupts  born. 

Fit  to  be  trusted  with  no  stock  but  scorn- 


You  have  more  wisely  credited  to  such, 
That  though  they  cannot  pay,  can  value  much. 
I  am  your  debtor  too,  but,  to  my  shame, 
Repay  you  nothing  back  but  your  own  fame. 

HENRY  MOODY*.     Miles. 

TO     HIS     FRIEND    THE    AUTHOR,     ON     "  A     NEW  WAY    TO 
PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 

You  may  remember  how  you  chid  me,  when 

I  rank'd  you  equal  with  those  glorious  men, 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :  if  you  love  not  praise, 

You  must  forbear  the  publishing  of  plays. 

The  crafty  mazes  of  the  cunning  plot, 

The  polish'd  phrase,  the  sweet  expressions,  got 

Neither  by  theft  nor  violence  ;  the  conceit 

Fresh  and  unsullied  ;  all  is  of  weight, 

Able  to  make  the  captive  reader  know 

I  did  but  justice  when  I  placed  you  so. 

A  shamefaced  blushing  would  become  the  brow 

Of  some  weak  virgin  writer;  we  allow 

To  you  a  kind  of  pride,  and  there  where  most 

Should  blush  at  commendations,  you  should  boast. 

If  any  think  I  flatter,  let  him  look 

Off  from  my  idle  trifles  on  thy  book. 

THOMAS  JAY.     Miles 


•  HENRY  MOODY.!  Sir  Henry  Moody  play»  on  the  titte 
of  the  piece.  He  has  not  much  of  the  poet  in  him,  but  ap 
pears  to  be  a  friendly,  good-natured  rjan.  A  short  poem  ot 
his  i«  prefixed  to  the  folio  edition  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
He  was  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  Honorary  degree* 
conferred  on  them  by  Charles  I.,  on  h'u  return  to  Oxford 
from  the  battle  of  Edge-hill. 


GLOSSARIAL     INDEX. 


ABRAM  HEN,  356 

absurd,  294 

abase,  240 

acts  of  parliament,  497 

actuate,  189 

aerie,  72,  230 

affects,  97 

alba  regalis,  271 

•Itar,  158 

a  many,  11 

amorous,  207 

Amsterdam,  121 

Anaxarete,  185 

•ngel  (bird),  11 

ape,  105 

apostata,  25,  29,  37.  38 

apple,  305 

Argiers,  37 

arrearages,  264 

as  (as  if)  359 

astrology,  386 

atheism,  240 

atonement,  82 

Aventine,  173 

B. 

bake-house,  166 
bandog,  13 
banquet,  44,384 
banqueting-house,  93 
Baptista  Porta,  254 
bar,  157 
barathrum,  363 
barley-break,  28 
bases,  260 

basket,  337,  353,  379 
battalia.  260 
batile  of  Sabla,  472 
beadsmen,  383,  391 
bearing  dishes,  374 
Beaumelle,  322 
betco,  *32 
bees,  399 
beetles.  73 
beg  estates,  588 
b«glerbeg,  135 


Bellona,  262 

cautelus,  10J 

bells  ring  backward,  62 

cavallery,  234 

bend  the  body,  7  2,  482 

censure,  116,  221 

beneath  the  salt,  378 

ceruse,  3% 

beso  las  rnanos,  213 

chamber,  147 

betake,  399 

chapel  fall,  118 

bind  with,  412 

chapines,  123 

bird-bolts,  420 

Charles  the  robber,  418 

birthright,  99 

charms  on  rubies,  207 

Biscan,  459 

cheese-trenchers,  502 

bisognion,  241 

chiaus,  135 

blacks,  319 

chine  evil,  274 

blasphemous,  210 

choice  and  richest,  126 

bloods,  333 

chreokopia,  496 

blue  gown,  405 

chuffs,  73 

braches,  54,349,  390 

church-book,  496 

brave,  142,  461 

circular,  296 

braveries,  92,  155 

civil,  144,  08! 

bravery,  54,  261,  501 

clap-dish,  154 

Breda,  351 

clemm'd,  182 

Brennus,  339 

close  breeches,  331 

broadside  (to  shew),  147 

clubs,  125,  380 

brother  in  arms,  233 

coats,  507 

buck,  24 

Colbrand,  331 

bug,  365 

colon,  35.260 

bullion,321 

come  aloft,  105 

buoy'd,  354 

comfort,  471 

burial  denied,  316 

coming  in,  74 

burse,  389 

commence,  80,  293 

bury  money,  515 

commodities,  102 

but,  123,  S06 

come  off,  54 

Butler  (Dr.),  504. 

commoner,  20 

comparison,  263 

C. 

comrogues,  395 

calver'd  salmon,  237,  429 

conceited,  101 

camel,  322 

conclusions,  80 

cancelier,  41S 

conduit,  166 

canters,  349 

conquering  Romans,  105 

Caranra,  42,  422 

consort.  259,  331 

carcanet,  400,  439 

constable,  to  steal  a,  246 

caroch,  123,  248 

constant  in,  4 

carouse,  62 

constantly,  220 

carpet  knights,  235 

cooks'  shops,  358 

caster,  397 

Corinth,  93 

casting,  278 

corsives,  192,3(10 

cast  suit,  275 

counsel,  74,  loV* 

cater,  385 

counterfeit  gold  dread,  3A4 

GLOSSARIAL  INDEX. 


courtesy,  208 

courtship,  79,  77,  203,  217,  439 

courtesies,  372 

cpw-eyes,  51 ,  293 

crack,  34 

crincomes,  430 

crone,  34 

crosses,  130 

crowd.  522 

crowns  o'  the  sun,  35 

cry  absurd  !  294 

cry  aim,  96.  122 

Cupid  and  Death,  24 

culliona,  419 

cunning,  417 

curiosity,  379 

Curious  Impertinent,  329 

curiousness,  49,  151 

cyprets,  481 

D. 

dags, 332 

dalliance,  22 

danger,  318,  404 

dead  pays,  54 

death,  the,  66 

deck, 422 

decline,  227 

deduct,  506 

deep  ascent,  480 

deer  of  ten,  301 

defeature,  108 

defensible,  411 

degrees,  184 

Delphos,  ?39 

demeans,  253 

denying  burial,  316 

depart,  123 

dependencies,  226 

deserved  me,  369 

Diana,  82 

discourse  and  reason,  39 

disclose,  230 

dispartations,  131 

dissolve,  83,  186 

distaste,  49,  123 

divert,  202 

doctor,  go  out,  80, 

doctrine,  226,  297 

diad,8 

drawer-on,  417 

dresser,  cook's  drum,  43,  422 

drum-wine,  889 

Dunkirk,  77 

E. 

elenchs,  294 
elysium,  95 
empiric,  303 
entradas,  433 
equal,  35 
equal  mart,  477 
estridge,  234 
extend,  373,  404 
eyasses,  278 

F. 

faith,  17 
fame,  462 
far-fetch'd,  419 


fault,  114,  510 

fautors,  117 

fellow,  266 

festival  exceedings,  278 

fetch  in,  188 

fewterer,  232,  278 

Fielding,  398 

fineness,  137 

Fiorinda,  199 

flies,  11 

for,  27 

forks,  213 

forms,  46 

fore-right,  147 

forth,  308 

frequent,  174,  176 

frippery,  379 

fur,  380 

G. 

gabel,  289 

gallant  of  the  last  edition,  379 

galley  foist,  321 

galliard,  511 

garden-house,  93 

gauntlets,  47 

Gay,  320 

gazet,  237 

gemonies,  174 

gimcrack,  83 

Giovanni,  199 

gliid  to,  11 

glorious,  37,  51,202 

go  by,  246 

God  be  wi*  you,  389 

gods  to  friend,  174 

gold  and  store,  263,  397 

"•olden  arrow,  186 

less,  393,  484 
golls,  395 
jo  near,  129 
jood,  394 
rood  fellows,  435 
rood  lord,  284 
jood  man,  317 
jood  mistress,  176 
joody  wisdom,  321 
aorgon,  471 
governor's  place,  8 
iranson,  317 
Great  Britain  ,27 
jreen  apron,  122 
jresset,  470 
jrim  sir,  46 
rub  up  forests,  419 
juard,  256 

H. 

iairy  comet,  36 
land,  133 
lawking,  278 
leats,  97 

lecatombaion,  507 
'rlecuba,  187 
iell,  378,  478 
ligh  forehead,  34 
lole,  378 

lorued  moons,  130 
hose,  213 
uraanity,  319 


hunt's  up,  71 
hurricano,  58 


I. 


Jane  of  apes,  105 
jewel,  432,  457 
imp,  147,  195.  201 
impotence,  192,  444 
impotent,  45 
Indians,  402 
induction,  335 
ingles,  395 
interess,  63 
Iphis,  185 

K 

ka  me  ka  tbee,  385 
katexochien,  420 
keeper  of  the  door,  164 
knock  on  the  dresser,  43 


Lachrymje,  226,  281 

lackeying,  4 

Lady  Compton,  387 

lady  of  the  lake,  356 

lanceprezado,  237 

lapwing's  cunning,  516 

lavender,  273 

lavolta,  215,  390 

leaden  dart,  7 

leaguer,  254,  326 

leege,  301 

Lent,  143 

I'envoy,  484,  490 

leper,  154 

lets,  8,  57 

tightly,  106 

line,  11 

little,  69 

lively  grave,  319 

living  funeral,  110 

looking-glasses  at  the  girdle,  378 

ost,  146 

loth  to  depart,  514 

lottery,  167 

overs  perjuries,  208 

Lowin,  John, 173 

Ludgate,  382 

Luke,  402 

ye  abroad,  121 

M. 

M.  for  master,  398 
magic  picture,  255 
magnificent,  292 

Mahomet,  121 

Malefort,  36 

Mammon,  181 
mandrakes,  3 1 
mankind,  390 
marginal  fingers,  329 
marmoset,  389 
IMars.262 
Marseilles,  35,  151 
masters  of  dependencies,  226 

Mephostophilus,  280 
mermaid,  514 

Minerva,  194 
miniver  cap,  400 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX. 


mirror  of  knighthood,  414 

possessed.  209 

shining  slices,  419 

mistress,  48,  152 

power  of  th'ngs,  174 

Sir  Giles  Mompesson,  354 

mistress'  colours,  116 

practice,  167,  223 

skills  not.  62,  170,  173 

moppes,  105 

practick,  29  + 

sleep  on  either  ear,  416 

Moral,  317 

precisian,  319 

small  legs,  450 

more,  262 

prest,  393 

softer  neck,  50 

most  an  end,  449 

prettv.  §40 

so,  ho,  birds,  278 

music,  333 

prevent,  .371,  498 

solve.  83 

music-master,  333 

prevented,  126 

sort,  20 

progress,  410 

sovereign,  522 

N. 

provant  sword,  226 

sought  to,  57 

Nancy,  317 

providence,  361 

sparred,  22 

Mvtr-felting,  288 

pull  down  the  side,  40,  216 

Spartan  boy,  426 

Nell  of  Greece,  515 

puppet,  70 

sphered,  22 

niggle,  310 

purer,  68 

spit,  28 

nightingale,  202 

purge,  265 

spitnl,  390 

night-rail,  393 

put  on,  79,  314,  363,  403 

spittle,  274,  327,  390 

nimming,  434 

spring,  48 

no  cunning  quean,  92 

Q. 

squire  o'dames,  164,  287 

north  passage,  388 
Novall,  330 

quality,  176,  260,  333,  510 

squire  o'  Troy,  421 
stale  the  jest,  53,  487 

number  his  years,  178 

quirpo,  321 
quited,  505 

stiirtup,  279 
state,  93,  93,  222 

O. 

statute  against  witches,  373 

October,  98 

R. 

__       ota/? 

staunch,  93 

oil  of  angels,  76 
oil  of  talc,  396 
Olympus,  367 

rag,  3zo 
Ram  Alley,  358 
remarkable,  41 

i-oli/t     1  ao 

steal  a  constable,  226 
steal  courtesy  from  heaven,  208 
Sterne,  321 

Ovid,  484 
outcry,  382 

relic,  i  zo 
remember,  111,  156,  429 

stiletto,  271 
still  an  end,  449 

owe,  99 

remora,  130 

stones,  278 

owes,  7,  128 

re-refine,  289 

story,  215 

resolved,  72,  281 

strange,  92 

P. 

packing   212 

rest  on  it,  95 
riches  of  catholic  king,  483 

o    • 

strongly,  302 
street  tired,  118 

padder,  356 

ride,  390 

strengths,  139,  146,  301 

palo-spirited,  356 

rivo.  131 

striker,  54 

Pandarus,  421 

roarer,  126 

suit,  391 

paned  hose,  213,  501 
pantofle,  sworn  to,  46 

Roman,  398 
roses,  379,  401 

sworn  servant,  181 
Swiss,  517 

parallel,  81,230 

rouse,  62,  102 
royal  merchant,  129 

synonyma,  287,  336 

|)HrlGt  4/1 

parted,  12,  217 

rubies,  207 

T. 

parts,  2  13 

table,  502 

pash,  12 

S. 

taint,  164 

passionately,  508 

Sabla,  battle  of,  472 

take  in,  374 

passions,  496,  524 

sacer,  305 

take  me  with  you,  215,  241,  459 

pastry  fortifications,  351 

sacratus,  305 

take  up,  203 

Patch,  364.  374 

sacred  badj;e,  141 

tall  ships,  30 

Pavia,  battle  of,  63 

sacrifice,  320 

tall  trenchermen,  44 

peat,  233 

sail-stretch'd,  37 

tamin,361 

peevish,  20 

tainted,  277 

tattered,  13 

peevishness,  371 

St.  Dennis,  154 

Termagant,  121 

perfected  49 

St.  Martin's,  397 

theatre,  173 

perseVer,  4,  250 

sanzacke,  135 

Theocrine,  38 

personate,  217,  254 

salt,  above  the,  44 

thick-skinned,  82 

Pescara,  66 

scarabs,  73 

thing  of  things,  102 

physicians,  445 

scenery,  381 

third  meal,  73 

piety,  476 

scholar,  254 

thought  for,  373 

pine-tree,  70 

seirophorion,  507 

Thrace,  262 

pip,  321 

scotomy,  511 

time,  180 

place,  413,  492 

sea-rats,  461 

Timoleon,  94 

play  my  prize,  370 

Sedgely  curse,  387 

to-to,  453 

plumed  victory.  40 

seisactheia,  496 

token,  349,  399 

plurisy,  5t 

servant,  48,  50,  152,  414 

toothful,  28 

Plymouth  cloak,  349,  397 

shadows,  43 

toothpicks,  213 

Ponialier,  328 

shall  be,  is,  416 

tosses,  263 

poor  John,  121,  265 

shape,  117,  164,  184,  186,  299 

touch,  484 

porter's  lodge,  76,  350 

she-Dunkirk,  77 

train,  53 

ports,  4 

sheriffs  basket,  379 

tramontane!,  206 

GLOSSARIAL  INDEX. 


trillibubs,  511 

roley,  270 

where,  (whereas)  152,  314,  349 

trimmed,  153 

votes,  431 

441,464 

try  conclusions,  80 

while,  194,  499 

tune,  180 

W. 

whiting-mop,  429 

turn  Turk,  145,  232 

waistcoateer,  390 

whole  field  wide,  232,  392 

twines,  411 

walk  after  supper,  44 

why,  when  !  1  92 

walk  the  round,  259,  423 

witches,  373 

U. 

ward,  256 

witness,  295 

uncivil,  330 

wards,  409 

wishes,  as  well  as,  455 

unequal  308 

wardship,  409 

wolf,  471 

uses,  226,  297 

watchmen,  497 

work  of  grace,  137 

way  of  youth,  175,  456 

wreak,  122 

V. 

weakness  the  last,  462 

rail,  241,  289 

wear  the  caster,  397 

Y. 

varlets.  336 

wear  scarlet,  381 

yaws,  453 

Venice  glasses,  125 

well,  323 

yellow,  80 

\irbius,  185 

wheel,  262 

yeoman  fewterer,  232,  27t 

A   LIST 


Of 


MASSINGER'S     PLAYS. 


Thoat  marked  thu*  *  are  in  the  present  Edition. 

1.  THE  Forced  Lady,  T.    This  was  one  of  the  plays  destroyed  by  Mr.  Warburton's  servant*. 

2.  The  Noble  Choice,  C.  ~j  Entered    on    the     Stationers'    books,    by    H.   Moseley, 

3.  The  Wandering  Lovers,  C.  /-"Sept.  9,  1653  ;  but  not  printed.     These  were  among  the 

4.  Philenzo  and  Hippolita,  T.  C.  J  plays  destroyed  by  Mr.  Waiburton's  servant. 

5.  Antonio  and  Valliaf,  C.  ~)  Entered  on  the  Stationers'  books,  by  H.  Mosely,  June  29, 

6.  The  Tyrant,  T.  V1660,   but  not  printed.      These  too  were  among  the  plays 

7.  Fast  and  Welcome,  C.  J  destroyed  by  Mr.  Warburton's  servant. 

8.  The  Woman's  Plot,  C.     Acted  at  court  1621.     Destroyed  by  Mr.  Warburton's  servant. 

9.  *The  Old  Law,  C.     Assisted  by  Rowley  and  Middleton,  Quarto,  1656. 

10.  *The  Virgin-Martyr,  T.    Assisted  by  Decker.    Acted  by  the  servants  of  his  Majesty's  revels.    Quarto, 

1622  ;  Quarto,  1631 ;  Quarto,  1661. 

11.  *The  Unnatural  Combat,  T.    Acted  at  the  Globe.     Quarto,  1639. 

12.  *The  Duke  of  Milan,  T.     Acted  at  Black-Friars.     Quarto,  1623  ;  Quarto,  1638. 

13.  "The  Bondman,  T.  C.      Acted  December  3,  16'23,  at  the  Cockpit,   Drury  Lane.     Quarto,  1624 ; 

Quarto,  1638. 

14.  *The  Renegado,  T.  C.    Acted  April  17,   1624,  at  the  Cockpit,  Drury  Lane.     Quarto,  1630. 

15.  *The   Parliament  of  Love,   C.      Unfinished.     Acted   November   3,   1624,  at  the  Cockpit,  Drury 

Lane. 

16.  The   Spanish   Viceroy,  C.     Acted  in   1624.     Entered  on  the  Stationers'  books,  September  9,   1653, 

by  H.  Moseley,  but  not  printed.     This  was  one  of  the  plays  destroyed  by  Mr.  Warburton's 
servant. 

17.  "The  Roman  Actor,  T.    Acted  October  11,1626,  by  the  King's  company.     Quarto,  1629. 

18.  The  Judge.     Acted  June  6,  1627,  by  the  King's  company.     This  play  is  lost. 

19.  *The  Great  Duke  of  Florence.     Acted  July  5,  1627,  at  the  Phoenix,  Drury  Lane.    Quarto,  1636. 

20.  The  Honour  of  Women.    Acted  May  6,  1628.     This  play  is  lost. 

21.  *The  Maid  of  Honour,  T.  Cj.     Acted  at  the  Phoenix,  Drury  Lane.     Date  of  its  first  appearance 

uncertain.     Quarto,  1632. 

22.  *The  Picture,  T.C.    Acted  June  3,  1629,  at  the  Globe.     Quarto,  1630. 

23.  Minerva's   Sacrifice,  T.      Acted    November   3,   1629,    by   the    King's   company.      Entered    on   the 

Stationers'  books  Sept.  9,  1653,  but  not  printed.     This  was  one  of  the  plays  destroyed  by  Mr. 
Warburton's  servant. 

•  In  his  first  edition,  Mr.  Gifford  had  entered  after  this  play  Me  Secretary,  of  which  the  title  appears  in  the  catalogue 
wliich  furnished  the  materials  for  Poole's  Parnassus.  Mr.  Gilchnst  having  discovered  among  some  old  rubbish  in^a 
village  library,  that  the  work  referred  to  is  a  translation  of  familiar  letters  by  Mons.  La  Serre,  aud  that  the  translator's 
name  was  John  Massinger.it  was  omitted  in  the  list  furnished  for  tlie  second  edition. 

+  In  Ihat  most  curious  MS.  Register  discovered  at  Dulwich  College,  and  subjoined  by  Mr.  Malone  to  his  "  Historical 
Account  of  the  English  St.ige,  is  the  following  entry,  "  R.  20  of  June,  1695,  at  antany  and  vallea  01.  xxs.  Od  "  If  this 
be  the  play  entered  by  Mosely,  Massinger's  claims  can  only  arise  from  his  having  revised  and  altered  it;  for  he  must  have 
be«!n  a  mere  child  when  it  was  first  produced.  See  the  Introduction,  p. 

J  Mr.  Malone  thinks  this  to  be  the  play  immediately  preceding  it,  with  a  new  title.    This  is,  however,  extremely  doubtful 


LIST  OF  MASLINGER'S  PLAtS 


«4.  'The  Emperor  of  the  East,  T.  C.     Acted  March  11,  1831.  at  Black  Friars.     Quarto,  1632. 

85.  Believe  as  you  List,  C.     Acted  May  7,  1631.     Entered  on  the  Stationers'  books,   September  9,  1653. 

and  again   June  29,   1660,  but  not   printed.     This  also  was  one  of  the  plays  destroyed   by  Mr 

\Varb urton's  servant. 
4t>.  The  Italian  Nightpiece,  or  The  Unfortunate  Piety,  T.     Acted  June  13,  1631,  by  the  King's  companj. 

1'bis  play  is  lost. 
«T.  "The  Fatal" Dowry,  T.     Assisted  by  Field.     Acted  by  the  King's  company.     Quarto,  1632. 

28.  *A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,  C.     Acted  at  the  Phoenix,  Drury  Lane.     Quarto,  1633. 

29.  *The  City  Madam,  C.     Acted  May  2.5,  1632,  by  the  King's  company.     Quarto,  1659. 
SO.  *  The  Guardian,  C.     Acted  October  31,  1633,  by  the  King's  company.     Octavo,  1655. 

31.  The  Tragedy  of  Cleander.     Acted  May  7,  1634,  by  the  King's  company.      This  play  is  lost. 

32.  *A  Very  Woman,  T.  C.     Acted  June  6,  1634.  by  the  King's  company.     Octavo,  1655. 

33.  The  Orator.     Acted  June  10,  1635,  by  the  King's  company.     This  play  is  lost. 

34.  *The  Bashful  Lover,  T.  C.     Acted  May  9,  1636,  by  the  King's  company.     Octavo,  1655. 

35.  The  King  and  the  Subject.     Acted  June  5,  1638,  by  the  King's  company.     This  play  is  lost. 

36.  Alexius,   or  the  Chaste   Lover.||      Acted   September    25,    1639,     by   the   King's    company.      This 

play  is  lost. 

37.  The  Prisoner,  or  the  Fair  Anchoress  of  Pausilippo.     Acted  June  26,  1640,  by  the  King's  company 

This  play  is  lost. 


THE 


VIRGIN    MARTYR. 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR.]  Of  this  Tragedy,  which  appears  to  nave  been  very  popular,  there  are  three 
editions  in  quarto,  1622,  1631,  and  1661;  the  last  of  which  is  infinitely  the  worst.  It  is  not  possible  to 
ascertain  when  it  was  first  produced  ;  but  as  it  is  not  mentioned  among  the  dramatic  pieces  "  read  and 
allowed  "  by  Sir  H.  Herbert,  whose  account  commences  with  1622,  it  was  probably  amongst  the  author's 
earliest  efforts.  In  the  composition  of  it  he  was  assisted  by  Decker,  a  poet  of  sufficient  reputation  to 
provoke  the  hostility  or  the  envy  of  Jonson,  and  the  writer  of  several  plays  much  esteemed  bj  ms  con- 
temporaries. 

In  the  first  edition  of  this  tragedy  it  is  said  to  have  been  "  divers  times  publicly  acted  with  great  applause 
by  the  servants  of  his  Majesty's  Revels."  The  plot  of  it,  as  Coxeter  observes,  is  founded  on  the  tenth  and 
last  general  persecution  of  the  Christians,  which  broke  out  in  the  nineteenth  year  of  Dioclesian's  reign,  with 
a  fury  hardly  to  be  expressed  ;  the  Christians  being  every  where,  without  distinction  of  sex,  age,  or 
condition,  dragged  to  execution,  and  subjected  to  the  most  exquisite  torments  that  rage,  cruelty,  and  hatred 
could  suggest. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


DlOCLESIAN, 

MAXIMINOS, 
King  of  Pontus. 
King  of  Epire. 
King  of  Macedon. 
SAPRITIUS,  Governor  of  Cresarea. 
TIIF.OPHILUS,  a  zealous  persecutor  of  the  Chriitiant 
SEMPRONIUS,  captain  of  SAPRITIUS'  guards. 
ANTONINUS,  son  to  SAPRITIVS. 
MACRINUS,  friend  to  ANTONINUS. 
HAIIPAX,  an  evil  spirit,  following  THEOPHILUS  in  the 
shape  of  a  secretary. 


ANOELO,  a  good  spirit,  serving  DOROTHEA  in  the  habit  of 

a  page. 

HIRCIUS,  a  whoremaster, >  ..  _. 

SPUNGIUS,  a  drunkard,   I*™**  °J  DOROTHEA. 
Priest  of  Jupiter. 
British  Slavs. 

AUTEMIA,  daughter  to  DIOCLESIAN. 

CHmsTETA,}^^  to  THEOPHILW. 
DOROTHEA,  the  Virgin-Martyr. 
Officers  and  Executioners. 


SCENE,  Cajsarea. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  L—  The  GOVERNOR'S  Palace. 


Enter  THEOPHILUS  and  HARPAX. 

Theoph.  Come  to  Cresarea  to-night ! 

Harp.  Most  true,  sir. 

Theoph.  The  emperor  in  person ! 

farp.  Do  I  live  ? 

rheoph.  'Tis  wondrous  strange  !    The  marches  of 

great  princes, 

Lu  )  to  the  motions  of  prodigious  meteors, 
Art  step  by  step  observed  ;  and  loud-tongued  Fame 
Tht,  harbinger  to  prepare  their  entertainment : 
And,  were  it  possible  so  great  an  army, 
Though  coverd  with  the  night,  could  be  so  near, 
The  governor  cannot  be  so  unfriended 
Among  the  many,  that  attend  his  person, 
But,  by  some  secret  means,  he  should  have  notice 


Of  Czesar's  purpose* ; — in  this  then  excuse  me. 
If  I  appear  incredulous. 

Harp.  At  your  pleasure. 

Theoph.  Yet,  when  I  call  to  mind  you  never  fail'd 
In  things  more  difficult,  but  have  discover'd  [me, 
Deeds  that  were  done  thousand  leagues  distant  from 

me, 

When  neither  woods,  nor  caves,  nor  secret  vaults, 
No,  nor  the  Power  they  serve,   could   keep  these 

Christians 
Or  from  my  reach  or  punishment,  but  thy  magic 

•  Of  Censor's  p  trpose  ; — in  this  then  excuse  me,}  Before 
Mr.  M.  Masoa's  e  ii;ion,  it  stood : 

lie  should  have  noticg 

Of  Conor's  purpose  in  this, 

meaning,  perhaps,  in  this  hasty  and  unexpected  visit :  i 
have  not,  however,  allured  the  pointing. 

a  2 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  L 


Still  laid  them  open ;  I  begin  again 
To  be  as  confident  as  heretofore. 
It  is  not  possible  thy  powerful  art 
Should  meet  a  check,  or  fail. 
Enter  a  Priest  with  the  Image  of  Jupiter,  CALISTA 
and  CHRISTETA. 

Harp.  Look  on  the  Vestals, 
The  holy  pledges  that  the  gods  have  given  you, 
Your  chaste,  fair  daughters.     Wer't  not  to  upbraid 
A  service  to  a  master  not  unthankful, 
I  could  say  these,  in  spite  of  your  prevention, 
Seduced  by  an  imagined  faith,  not  reason, 
(Which  is  the  strength  of  nature,)  quite  forsaking 
The  Gentile  gods,  had  yielded  up  themselves 
To  this  new-found  religion.     This  I  cross'd, 
Discover'd  their  intentions,  taught  you  to  use, 
With  gentle  words  and  mild  persuasions, 
The  power  and  the  authority  of  a  father 
Set  off  with  cruel  threats  ;  and  so  reclaim'd  them  : 
And,  whereas  they  with  torments  should  have  died, 
(Hell's  furies  to  me,  had  they  undergone  it !) 

[Aside. 

They  are  now  votaries  in  great  Jupiter's  temple, 
And,  by  his  priest  instructed,  grown  familiar 
With  all  the  mysteries,  nay,  the  most  abstruse  ones, 
Belonging  to  his  deity. 

Theoph.  'Twas  a  benefit, 

For  which  I  ever  owe  you.     Hail,  Jove's  flamen  ! 
Have  these  my  daughters  reconciled  themselves, 
Abandoning  for  ever  the  Christian  way, 
To  your  opinion  ? 

Priest.  And  are  constant  in*  it.  [nient, 

They  teach  their  teachers  with  their  depth  of  judg- 
And  are  with  arguments  able  to  convert 
The  enemies  to  our  gods,  and  answer  all 
They  can  object  against  us. 

Theoph.  My  dear  daughters  !  [sect, 

Cal.  We   dare  dispute  against  this  new-sprung 
In  private  or  in  public. 

Harp.    My  best  lady, 
PerseVerf  in  it. 

Chris.  And  what  we  maintain, 
We  will  seal  with  our  bloods. 

Harp.  Brave  resolution ! 
I  e'en  grow  fat  to  see  my  labours  prosper. 

Tlieopli.  I  young  again.     To  your  devotions. 

Harp.  Do — 
My  prayers  be  present  with  you. 

[Exeunt  Priest  and  Daughter  of  Theophilus. 

Theoph.  O  my  Harpax  ! 

Thou  engine  of  my  wishes,  thou  that  steel'st 
My  bloody  resolutions  ;  thou  that  arm'st         [sion  ; 
My  eyes  'gainst  womanish  tears  and  soft  compas- 
Instructing  me,  without  a  sigh,  to  look  on 
Babes  torn  by  violence  from  their  mothers'  breasts 
To  feed  the  fire,  and  with  them  make  one  flame ; 
Old  men,  as  beasts,  in  beasts'  skins  torn  by  dogs  ; 
Virgins  and  matrons  tire  the  executioners  ; 
Yet  I,  unsatisfied,  think  their  torments  easy. 

Harp.  And  in  that,  just,  not  cruel. 


*  Priest  And  are  constant  in  it.]  So  the  first  two  edi- 
tions. The  last,  which  is  very  incorrectly  printed,  reads  to 
it,  and  is  followed  by  the  modern  editors. 

t  Persever  in  it.]  So  this  word  was  anciently  written 
and  pronounced  :  thus  the  king,  in  Hamlet : 

but  to  persever 

In  obttinate  condolement. 

Coxeter  adopts  the  unmetrical  reading  of  the  third  quarto, 
persevere  in  it,  and  is  followed  by  Mr.  M.  Mason,  who  how- 
ever, warns  the  reader  to  lay  the  accent  on  the  penultimate. 


Theoph.  Were  all  sceptres 
That  grace  the  hands  of  kings,  made  into  one, 
And  oifer'd  me,  all  crowns  laid  at  my  feet, 
I  would  contemn  them  all,— thus  spit  at  them  ; 
So  1  to  all  posterities  might  be  call'd 
f  he  strongest  champion  of  the  Pagan  gods, 
And  rooter  out  of  Christians. 

Harp.  Oh,  mine  own. 

Mine  own  dear  lord !  to  further  this  great  work, 
I  ever  live  thy  slave. 

Enter  SAPIUTIUS  and  SEMPRONIUS. 

Theoph.  No  more — the  governor.  [doubled  j 

Sap.  Keep  the  ports  close*,  and  let  the  guards  be 
Disarm  the  Christians,  call  it  death  in  any 
To  wear  a  sword,  or  in  his  house  to  have  one. 

Semp.  I  .shall  be  careful,  sir. 

Sap.  Twill  well  become  you. 
Such  as  refuse  to  offer  sacrifice 
To  any  of  our  gods,  put  to  the  torture. 
Grub  up  this  growing  mischief  by  the  roots  ; 
And  know,  when  we  are  merciful  to  them, 
We  to  ourselves  are  cruel. 

Semp.  You  pour  oil 

On  fire  that  burns  already  at  the  height  : 
I  know  the  emperor's  edict,  and  my  charge. 
And  they  shall  find  no  favour. 

Theoph.  My  good  lord, 
This  tare  is  timely  for  the  entertainment 
Of  our  great  master,  who  this  night  in  person 
Comes  here  to  thank  you. 

Sap.  Who  !  the  emperor  ?  [triumph, 

Harp.  To  clear  your  doubts,  he  doth  return  iu 
Kings  lackeying  t  by  his  triumphant  chariot ; 
And  in  this  glorious  victory,  my  lord, 
You  have  an  ample  share  :  for  know,  your  son, 
The  ne'er-enough  commended  Antoninus, 
So  well  hath  flesh'd  his  maiden  sword  i,  and  died 
His  snowy  plumes  so  deep  in  enemies'  blood, 
That,  besides  public  grace  beyond  his  hopes, 
There  are  rewards  propounded. 

Sap.  I  would  know 
No  mean  in  thine,  could  this  be  true. 

Harp.  My  head 
Answer  the  forfeit. 

Sap.  Of  his  victory- 
There  was  some  rumour  ;  but  it  was  assured, 


•  Sap.  Keep  the  ports  dote,]  Thij  word,  which  is  di- 
rectly from  the  Latin,  is  so  frequently  used  by  Alassiiiger 
and  the  writers  of  his  time,  for  the  yatcs  of  a  town,  that  it 
appears  superfluous  to  produce  any  examples  of  it.  To  have 
noticed  it  once  is  sufficient. 

t  Kinys  lackeying  by  his  triumphant  chariot ;]  Running 
by  the  side  of  ii  Use  lackies,  or  loot  boys.  So  in  Marston'ti 
Antonio  and  Mellida: 

"  Oh  that  our  power 
Could  lackey  or  keep  pace  with  our  desire!" 

J  So  well  hath  fltsh'd,  &c.]  Massingerwas  a  great  reader 
and  admirer  of  Shakspeare  :  he  has  here  not  only  adopted 
his  sentiment,  but  his  words  . 

"  Come,  brother  John,  full  bravely  hast  thoujlesh'd 

7  ky  maiden  sword" — 

But  Shakspeare  is  in  every  one's  head,  or,  at  least,  in  every 
one's  hand  ;  and  I  should  therefore  be  constantly  antici- 
pated, in  such  remarks  as  these. 

I  will  take  this  opportunity  to  say,  that  it  is  not  my  in- 
tention to  encumber  the  page  with  tracing  every  phrase  of 
Massinger  to  it»  imaginary  source.  This  is  a  compliment 
which  should  only  be  paid  to  great  and  ruighty  geniusei; 
with  respect  to  those  of  a  second  or  third  order,  it  it  gome 
what  worse  than  superfluous  to  hunt  them  through  innu- 
merable works  of  all  descriptions,  for  tlie  purpose  of  disco 
vering  whence  every  common  epithet,  or  trivial  expression 
was  taken. 


THE  VIRGIN  MARTYR, 


The  army  pass'cl  a  full  day's  journey  higher, 
Into  the  country. 

Harp.  It  was  so  determined  ; 
But,  for  the  further  honour  of  your  son. 
And  to  observe  the  government  of  the  city, 
And  with  what  rigour,  or  remiss  indulgence, 
The  Christians  are  pursued,  he  makes  his  stay  here  : 

[Trumpets. 
For  proof,  his  trumpets  speak  his  near  arrival. 

Sap.  Haste,  good  Sempronius,  draw  up  our  guards, 
And  with  all  ceremonious  pomp  receive 
The  conquering  army.     Let  our  garrison  speak 
Their  welcome  in  loud  shouts,  the  city  shew 
Her  state  and  wealth. 

Semp.  I'm  gone.  [Exit. 

Sap.  O,  I  am  ravish'd 

With  this  great  honour  !  cherish,  good  Theophilus, 
This  knowing  scholar  ;  send  [for]  your  fair  datigh- 
I  will  present  them  to  the  emperor,  [ters*; 

And  in  their  sweet  conversion,  as  a  mirror, 
Express  your  zeal  and  duty. 

Theoph.  Fetch  them,  good  Ilarpax. 

[Eiit  Ilarpax. 

A  guard  brought  in  hif  SEMPRONU'S,  soldiers  leading 
in  three  kings  bound  ;  ANTONINUS  and  MACHINVS 
carrying  tie  Emperor's  eagles  ;  DIOCI.ISIAN  icith 
a  gilt  laurel  on  his  head,  boding  in  ARTEMIA  : 
SAPRIITUS  kisses  tl,e  Emperor's  hand,  then  em- 
braces his  Son;  HARPAX  brings  in  CAJ.ISTA  and 
CHRISTETA.  Loud  iliouts. 

Diode.  So  :  at  all  parts  I  find  Cwsarea 
Completely  govern'd  ;  the  licentious  soldier  f 
Confined  in  modest  limits,  and  the  people 
Taught  to  obey,  and,  not  compell'd  with  rigour  : 
The  ancient  Roman  discipline  revived,  [her 

Which  raised  Rome  to  her  greatness,  and  proclaim'd 
The  glorious  mistress  of  the  comjuer'd  world  ; 
But,  above  all,  the  service  of  the  gods 
So  zealously  observed,  that,  good  Sapritius, 
In  words  to  thank  you  for  your  care  and  duty, 
Were  much  unworthy  Dioclesian's  honour, 
Or  his  magnificence  to  his  loyal  servants. — 
But  I  shall  find  a  time  with  noble  titles 
To  recompense  your  merits. 

Sap.  Mightiest  Cjusar, 

J  Whose  power  upon  this  globe  of  earth  is  equal 
To  Jove's  in  heaven  ;  whose  victorious  triumphs 
On  proud  rebellious  kings  that  stir  against  it, 
Are  perfect  figures  of  his  immortal  trophies 
\\oii  in  the  Giants'  war  ;  whose  cono-iering  sword, 
Guided  by  hi.3  strong  arm,  as  deaJl'-"  I'J.'j 
As  did  Lis  thunder  !  all  that  I  have  done, 
Or,  if  my  strength  were  centupled,  could  do, 
Conies  short  of  what  my  loyalty  must  challenge. 

*  said  [fin]  your  fair  daughters ;]     AH  the  copies 

read, — send  your  fair  dauyldcrs  ;  for,  which  I  lime  inserted 
steins  um^.-.'.n,  t»  complete  the  Mi:se  as  \M-11  as  the  metre; 
as  Harpax  is  immediately  dispatched  to  bring  Ihein. 

t the  licentious  soldier]    \.r.  M.  Mason    reads  tol- 

dierg,  the  old  and  true  lection  is  soldier.  The  stage  direction 
in  this  place  is  very  strangely  yiven  by  the  former  editors. 
I  may  t.ere  observe,  that  [  do  nut  mean  10  notice  every 
slj jrt:  correction  :  already  several  errors  have  been  silently 
reformed  by  the  assistance  of  the  first  quarto :  without 
reckoning  the  removal  of  such  barbarous  contractions  as 
conq'ring,  ad'inant,  ranc'rons,  iyn'rance,  rhet'iick,  Jcr.  with 
which  the  modern  edition*  are  everywhere  deformed  with- 
out authority  or  reason. 

I   II' hone  power,  &c.]    A  translation  of  the  well-known 
line  : 

Divisum  imperium  ?um  Jove  Ccesar  habet. 


But,  if  in  any  tiling  I  have  deserved 
Great  Ca-sar's  smile,  'tis  in  mv  humble  care 
Still  to  preserve  the  honour  of  those  gods, 
That  make  him  what  he  is  :  my  zeal  to  them, 

I  ever  have  express'd  in  my  fell  hate 
Against  the  Christian  sect  that,  with  one  blow, 
(Ascribing  all  things  to  an  unknown  power,) 
Would   strike  down  all  their  temples,  and  allowi 
Nor  sacrifice  nor  altars.  [them* 

Diode.  Thou,  in  this, 

U  alk'st  hand  in  hand  with  me  :  my  will  and  power 
Shall  not  alone  confirm,  but  honour  all 
That  are  in  this  most  forward. 

Sap.  Sacred  Caesar, 

If- your  imperial  majesty  stand  pleased 
To  shower  your  favours  upon  such  as  are 
The  boldest  champions  of  our  religion  ; 
Look  on  this  reverend  man,  to  whom  the  power 
Of  searching  out,  and  punishing  such  delinquents, 
Was  by  your  choice  committed;  and,  for  proof, 
He  hath  deserved  the  grace  imposed  upon  him, 
And  with  a  lair  and  even  hand  proceeded, 
Partial  to  none,  not  to  himself;  or  those 
Of  equal  nearness  to  himself;  behold 

I 1  his  pair  of  virgins. 
Diode.  What  are  these  1 

Sap.  His  daughters.  [ones, 

Artcm.  Now  by  your  sacred  fortune,  they  are  fait 
Exceeding  fair  ones  :  would  'twere  in  my  power 
To  make  them  mine  ! 

Theoph.  They  are  the  gods',  great  lady, 
They  were  most  happy  in  your  service  else : 
On  these,  when  they  fell  from  their  father's  faith, 
I  used  a  judge's  power,  entreaties  failing 
(They  being  seduced)  to  win  them  to  adore 
The  holy  powers  we  worship  ;  1  put  on 
The  scarlet  robe  of  bold  authority, 
And  as  they  had  been  strangers  to  my  blood, 
Presented  them,  in  the  most  horrid  form, 
All  kind  of  tortures  :  part  of  which  they  suffer'd 
With  Roman  constancy. 

Artem.  And  could  you  endure, 
Being  a  father,  to  behold  their  limbs 
Extended  on  the  rack  > 

Theoph.  1  did  ;  but  must 

Confess  there  was  a  strange  contention  in  me, 
Between  the  impartial  office  of  a  judge, 
And  pity  of  a  father  ;  to  help  justice 
Religion  stept  in,  under  which  odds 
Compassion  fell : — yet  still  I  was  a  father; 
For  e'en  then,  when  the  flinty  hangman's  whips 
Were  worn  with  stripes  spent  on  their  tender  limbs 
I  kneel'd  and  wept,  and  begged  them,  though  thej 
Be  cruel  to  themselves  they  would  take  pity  [would 
On  my  grey  hairs  :  now  note  a  sudden  change, 
\\  hich  1  with  joy  remember  ;  those  whom  torture, 
Nor  fear  of  death  could  terrify,  were  o'eicome 
By  seeing  of  my  sufferings;  and  so  won, 
Returning  to  the  faith  that  they  were  born  in, 
I  gave  them  to  the  gods  :  and  be  assured, 
1  that  used  justice  with  a  rigorous  hand, 
Upon  such  beauteous  virgins,  and  mine  own, 
\\  ill  use  no  favour,  where  the  cause  commands  me, 

•  and  allows  them 

Nor  sacrifice,  nor  altars.]    'I  he  modem  editors  haye, 

and  allow  them 

No  sacrifice  nor  til/ttrs  : 
which  is  the  corrupt  reading  of  the  ruiart",  10(51. 

t  This  pair  of  viryins.}     Changed,  I    know  not  why,  by 
the  modern  editors,  into — These  ]?air  of  ciiyinr. 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  L 


To  any  other  ;  but,  as  rocks,  be  deaf 
To  all  entreaties. 

Diocle.  Thou  deserv'st  thy  place  ; 
Still  hold  it,  and  with  honour.     Things  thus  order'd 
Touching  the  gods;  'tis  lawful  to  descend 
To  human  cares,  and  exercise  that  power 
Heaven  has  conferr'd  upon  me  ; — which  that  you, 
Rebels  and  traitors  to  the  power  of  Rome, 
Should  not  with  all  extremities  undergo, 
What  can  you  urge  to  qualify  your  crimes, 
Or  mitigate  my  anger? 

*K.  of  Epire.  We  are  now 

Slaves  to  thy  power,  that  yesterday  were  kings, 
And  had  command  o'er  others  ;  we  confess 
Our  grandsires  paid  yours  tribute,  yet  left  us, 
As  their  forefathers  had,  desire  of  freedom. 
Aud,  if  you  Romans  hold  it  glorious  honour 
Not  only  to  defend  what  is  your  own, 
But  to  enlarge  your  empire,  (though  our  fortune 
Denies  that  happiness,)  who  can  accuse 
The  famish'd  mouth  if  it  attempt  to  feed  ? 
Or  such,  whose  fetters  eat  into  their  freedoms, 
If  they  desire  to  shake  them  off? 

K.  of  Pontus.  We  stand 
The  last  examples,  to  prove  how  uncertain 
All  human  happiness  is ;  and  are  prepared 
To  endure  the  worst. 

K.  of  Macedon.    That  spoke,  which  now  is  highest 
In  fortune's  wheel,  must  when  she  turns  it  next, 
Decline  as  low  as  we  are.     This  consider'd, 
Taught  the  /Egyptian  Hercules,  Sesostris, 
That  had  his  chariot  drawn  by  captive  kings, 
To  free  them  from  that  slavery  ; — but  to  hope 
Such  mercy  from  a  Roman,  where  mere  madness  : 
We  are  familiar  with  what  cruelty 
Rome,  since  her  infant  greatness,  ever  used 
Such  as  she  triumph'd  over  ;  age  nor  sex 
Exempted  from  her  tyranny  :  scepter'd  princes 
Kept  in  her  common  dungeons,  and  their  children, 
In  scorn  train'd  up  in  base  mechanic  arts, 
For  public  bondmen.     In  the  catalogue 
Of  those  unfortunate  men,  we  expect  to  have 
Our  names  remember'd. 

Diode.  In  all  growing  empires, 
Even  cruelty  is  useful ;  some  must  suffer, 
And  be  set  up  examples  to  strike  terror 
In  others,  though  far  off :  but  when  a  state 
Is  nii.sed  to  her  perfection,  and  her  bases 
Too  firm  to  shrink,  or  yield,  we  may  use  mercy, 
And  do't  with  safety  :f  but  to  whom?  not  cowards, 
Or  such  whose  baseness  shames  the  conqueror, 


*  K.  of  Epire.     We  are  now 

Slaves  to  thy  power,  &c.]  I  have  observed  several  imi- 
tations of  Massinger  in  the  dramas  of  Mason  :  there  is,  for 
Instance,  a  striking  similarity  between  this  spirited  speech, 
and  the  indignant  exclamation  of  the  brave  but  unfortu- 
nate Caractacus : 

"  Soldier,  I  had  arms, 

Had  neighing  steeds  to  whirl  my  iron  cars, 
Had  wealth,  dominions  :  Dost  thou  wonder,  Roman, 
I  fought  to  save  them  !     What  if  Ciesar  aims 
To  lord  it  universal  o'er  the  world, 
Shall  the  world  tamely  crouch  to  Caesar's  footstool  ?" 
I  And  do't  with  safety  :]    This  is  admirably  expressed  ; 
the  maxim  however,  though  just,  is  of  the  most  dangerous 
nature,  for  what  ambitious  chief  will  ever  allow  the  state  to 
be  "  raised  to   her  perfection,"  or  that  the  lime   for  using 
"  merry  with  safety"  is   arrived'?  even  Dioclcsian  lias  his 
exceptions, — strong  ones  too !  for  Rome  was  old  enough  in 
bis  time.    There  is  au  allusion  to  Virgil,  in  the  opening  of 
this  speech : 

ftes  dura,  et  novita*  reyni  me  talia  coyunt 
Afvliri,  4& 


And  robs  him  of  his  victory,  as  weak  Perseus 

Did  great  ^'Emilius.*  Know,  therefore,  kings 

Of  Epire,  Pontus,  and  of  Macedon, 

That  I  with  courtesy  can  use  my  prisoners,  : 

As  well  as  make  them  mine  by  force,  provided 

That  they  are  noble  enemies :  such  I  found  you, 

Before  I  made  you  mine  ;  and,  since  you  were  so, 

You  have  not  lost  the  courages  of  princes 

Although  the  fortune.     Had  you  born  yourselves 

Dejectedly,  and  base,  no  slavery 

Had  been  ',00  easy  for  you  :  but  such  is 

The  power  of  nobie  valour,  that  we  love  it 

Even  in  our  enemies,  and  taken  with  it, 

Desire  to  make  them  friends,  as  I  will  you. 

K.  of'  Epire.  Mock  us  not,  Ctcsar. 

Diode.   By  the  gods,  I  do  not. 

Unloose  theirbonds  ;  —I  nowas  friends  embrace  you  ; 
Give  them  their  crowns  again. 

K.  of  Pontus.  We  are  twice  o'ercome ; 
By  courage  and  by  courtesy. 

K.  of  Macedon.  But  this  latter, 
Shall  teach  us  to  live  ever  faithful  vassals 
To  Dioclesian,  and  the  power  of  Home. 

K.  of  Epire.  All  kingdoms  fall  before  her  ' 

K.  of  Pontus.  And  all  kings 
Contend  to  honour  Caesar  ! 

Diode.  I  believe 

Your  tongues  are  the  true  trumpets  of  your  hearts, 
And  in  it  I  most  happy.     Queen  of  fate, 
Imperious  fortune  !  mix  some  light  disaster 
With  my  so  many  joys,  to  season  them, 
And  give  them  sweeter  relish :   I'm  girt  round 
With  true  felicity  ;  faithful  subjects  here, 
Here  bold  commanders,  here  with  new-made  friends 
But,  what's  the  crown  of  all,  in  thee,  Artemia, 
My  only  child,  whose  love  to  me  and  duty, 
Strive  to  exceed  each  other  ! 

Artem.  I  make  payment 
But  of  a  debt,  which  I  stand  bound  to  tender 
As  a  daughter  and  a  subject. 

Diode.  Which  requires  yet 
A  retribution  from  me,  Artemia, 
Tied  by  a  father's  care,  how  to  bestow 
A  jewel,  of  all  things  to  me  most  precious  : 
Nor  will  I  therefore  longer  keep  thee  from 
The  chief  joys  of  creation,  marriage  rites  ;  [of, 

Which  that  thou  may'st  with  greater  pleasures  taste 
Thou  shall  not  like  with  mine  eyes,  but  thine  own. 
Among  these  kings,  forgetting  they  were  captives 
Or  those,  remembering  not  they  are  my  subjects, 
Make  choice  of  any  ;  by  Jove's  dreadful  thunder, 
My  will  shall  rank  with  thine. 

Artem.  It  is  a  bounty 

The  daughters  of  great  princes  seldom  meet  with  ; 
For  they,  to  make  up  breaches  in  the  state, 
Or  for  some  other  public  ends,  are  forced 
To  match  where  (hey  affect  iiot.f     May  my  life 
Deserve  this  favour  ! 

Diode.  Speak  ;  I  long  to  know 
The  man  thou  wilt  make  happy. 


as  weak  Perseus 


Pa 


—  «o  w/r«.«  A   vt  turns 

Did  yreat  ^Kmilitts.}  It  is  said  that  Perseus  sent  to  desire 
i  aulus  .'Kniiliiis  1101  to  exhibit  him  as  a  spectacle  to  the 
Romans,  and  to  spare  him  the  indignity  of  being  led  in 
triumph.  yEmilius  replied  coldly  :  The  favour  he  ask*  of 
me  is  in  his  own  power ;  he  can  procure  it  for  himself. 
COXETER. 

t  To  match  where  they  affect  not.]  This  does  better  for 
modern  than  Roman  practice;  ami  indeed  the  author  was 
thinking  more  of  Hamlet  than  Diocletian,  in  this  part  of 
(he  dialogue. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  VIBGIN-MARTYR. 


Artem.  If  that  titles, 

Or  the  adcred  name  of  Queen  could  take  me, 
Here  would  1  fix  mine  eyes,  and  look  no  further : 
But  these  are  baits  to  take  a  mean-born  lady, 
Not  her,  that  boldly  may  call  Caesar  father; 
In  that  I  can  bring:  honour  unto  any, 
Hut  from  no  king  that  lives  receive  addition: 
To  raise  desert  and  virtue  bv  my  fortune, 
Though  in  a  low  estate,  were  greater  glory 
Than  to  mix  greatness  with  a  prince  that  owes* 
No  worth  but  that  name  only. 

Diode.   1  commend  thee, 
'Tis  like  myself. 

Artem.  If  then,  of  men  beneath  me, 
My  choice  is  to  be  made,  where  shall  I  seek, 
But  among  those  that  best  deserve  from  vou  ? 
That  have  served  you  most  faithfully  ;  that  in  dangers 
Have  stood  next  to  you  ;  4hat  have  interposed 
Their  breasts  as  shields  of  proof,  to  dull  the  swordsf 
Aim'd  at  your  bosom  ;  that  have  spent  their  blood 
To  crown  your  brows  with  laurel  .' 

Alacr.  Cytherea, 
Great  Queen  of  Love,  be  now  propitious  to  me ! 

Harp,  (to  Sap.)  Now  mark  what  I  foretold. 

Anton.     Her  eye's  on  me. 
Fair  Venus'  son,  draw  forth  a  leaden  dart,  i 
And.  that  she  may  hate  me,  transfix  her  with  it  J 
Or,  if  thou  needs  wilt  use  a  golden  one, 
Shoot  it  in  the  behalf  of  any  other  : 
Thou  know'st  I  am  thy  votary  elsewhere.        [Aside. 

Artem.  (to  An  ton . )  Sir. 

Theoph.  How  he  blushes ! 

Sap.   Welcome,  fool,  thy  fortune. 
Stand  like  a  block  when  such  an  angel  courts  thee  ! 

Artem.     I  am  no  object  to  divert  your  eye 
From  the  beholding:. 

Anton.   Rather  a  bright  sun, 
Too  glorious  for  him  to  sjaze  upon, 
That  took  not  first  flight  from  the  eagle's  aerie. 
As  I  look  on  the  temples,  or  the  gods, 
And  with  that  reverence,  lady,  I  behold  you, 
And  shall  do  ever. 

Artem.     And  it  will  become  you, 
While  thus  we  stand  at  distance  ;  but,  if  love, 
Love  born  out  of  the  assurance  of  your  virtues, 
1  each  me  to  stoop  so  low 

Auton.     O,  rather  take 
A  higher  flight. 

Artem.     Why,  fear  you  to  be  raised  ? 
Say  I  put  off  the  dreadful  awe  that  waits 
On  majesty,  or  with  you  share  my  beams, 
Nay,  make  you  to  outshine  me  ;  change  the  name 
Of  Subject  into  Lord,  rob  you  of  service 
That's  due  from  you  to  me,  and  in  me  make  it 
Duty  to  honour  you,  would  you  refuse  me  ? 

Anton.   Refuse  you,  madam1  such  a  worm  as  I  amt 


*  Than  to  mix  greatness  with  a  prince  that  owe*] 
Wherever  the  former  editors  meet  with  this  w»  rd,  in  the' 
sense  uf  possess,  they  alter  it  into  oirns,  though  it  is  so  used 
in  almost  every  page  of  our  old  dramatists. 

t  —  —    to  dull  the  swords]     So  the  old  copies.     Mr. 

M.  Mam*,  reads,  to  dull  tbeir  swords  > 

;  Fair  Venus1  ton  draw  forth  a  leaden  dart,}  The  idea 
of  this  double  etlect,  to  which  Massiu<;er  has  more  than  one 
aHiiMon,  is  from  Ovid  : 

Filius  hnic  Veneris  ;  Figat  tnus  omnia,  Phcebe, 
Te  rneus  arcus,  ait ;— Parna.'si  constitit  arce, 
Eque  sagittifera  promsit  duo  ttU  pharetra 
Uiversorimi  operum  :  fugat  hoc.  lacit  illnd  amorcm. 
Quod  (Hci1,  auratum  est,  ct  cuspide  fulget  acnta  ; 
Quod  lugat,  obtusum  est,  et  habct  sub  ai  undine  plumbum. 

Met.  lib   1.  470. 


Refuse  what  kings  upon  their  knees  would  sue  for! 

Call  it,  great  lady,  by  another  name ; 

An  humble  modesty,  that  would  not  matci 

A  molehill  with  Olympus. 

Artem.  He  that's  famous 
For  honourable  actions  in  the  war, 
As  you  are,  Antoninus,  a  proved  soldier, 
Is  fellow  to  a  king. 

Anton.  If  you  love  valour, 
As  'tis  a  kingly  virtue,  seek  it  out, 
And  cherish  it  in  a  king  :  there  it  shines  brightest, 
And  yields  the  bravest  lustre.     Look  on  Epire, 
A  prince,  in  whom  it  is  incorporate  ; 
And  let  it  not  disgrace  him  that  he  was 
O'ercome  by  Ca?sar  ;  it  was  victory. 
To  stand  so  long  against  him  :   had  you  seen  him, 
How  in  one  bloody  scene  he  did  discharge 
The  parts  of  a  commander  and  a  soldier, 
W  ise  in  direction,  bo'd  in  execution  ; 
Vou  would  have  said.  Great  C;esar's  self  excepted, 
The  world  yields  not  his  equal. 

Artem.  Yet  I  have  heard, 

Encountering  him  alone,  in  the  head  of  his  troop, 
\  ou  took  him  prisoner. 

A',  of  Epire.  'Tis  a  truth,  great  princess  ; 
I'll  not  detract  from  valour. 

Anton.  T\vas  mere  fortune; 
Courage  had  no  hand  in  it. 

Tlieoph.  Did  ever  man 
Strive  so  atrainst  iiis  >  wn  good  ? 

•S</;>.  Spiritless  villain  ! 

How  I  am  tortured !    By  the  immortal  gods, 
I  now  could  kill  him. 

Diode.  Hold,  Sapritius,  hind, 
On  our  displeasure  hold  ! 

Harp.   Why,  this  would  make 
A  father  mad,  'tis  not  to  be  emluxtxl  ; 
\  our  honour's  tainted  in't. 

Zap.  By  heaven,  it  is  ; 
I  shall  think  of  it. 

Harp.  'Tis  not  to  be  forgotten. 

Artem.  Nay,  kneel  not,  sir,  I  am  no  ravisher, 
Nor  so  far  gone  in  fond  affection  to  you, 
But  that  I  can  retire,  my  honour  safe  : — 
Yet  say,  hereafter,  that  thou  hast  neglected 
What,  hut  seen  in  possession  of  another, 
Will  make  thee  mad  with  envy. 

Anton.  In  her  looks 
Revenge  is  written. 

Mac.  As  you  love  your  life, 
Study  to  appease  her. 

Anton.  Gracious  madam,  hear  me. 

Artem.  And  be  again  refused? 

Anton.  The  tender  of 

My  life,  my  service,  or,  since  you  vouchsafe  it,* 
My  love,  my  heart,  my  all :  and  pardon  me, 
Pardon,  dread  princess,  that  I  made  some  scruple 
To  leave  a  valley  of  security, 
To  mount  up  to  the  hill  of  majesty, 
On  which,  the  nearer  Jove,  the  nearer  lightning. 
What  knew  I,  but  your  grace  made  trial  of  me : 
Durst  I  presume  to  embrace,  where  but  to  touch 
With  an  unmanner'd  hand,  was  death  ?     Tbe  fox. 
When  he  saw  first  the  forest's  king,  the  lion, 


*  Uly  life,  my  service,  or,  since  you  vouchsafe  it. 

My  love,  &c.]  This  is  the  rcaiiing  of  the  first  edition 
ana  is  evidently  right.  Coxeter  follows  the  Kcond  ami  third, 
•which  read  not  instead  of  or.  How  did  this  nonsense  escape 
Mr.  M.  Mason  1 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  II. 


Was  almost  dead  with  fear  ;*  the  second  view 
Onlv  a  little  daunted  him;  the  third, 
He  durst  salute  him  boldly  :  pray  you,  apply  this; 
And  you  shall  find  a  little' time  will  teach  me 
To  look  with  more  familiar  eyes  upon  you, 
Than  duty  yet  allows  me. 

Sap.  Well  excused. 

A  rtem.  You  may  redeem  all  yet. 

Diode.  And,  that  he  may 
Have  means  and  opportunity  to  do  so, 
Artemia,  I  leave  you  my  substitute 
In  fair  Cresarea. 

Sap.  And  here,  as  yourself, 
We  will  obey  and  serve  her. 

Diode.  Antoninus, 

So  you  prove  hers,  I  wish  no  other  heir  ; 
Think  on't :— be  careful  of  your  charge,  Theophilus  ; 
Sapritius,  be  you  my  daughter's  guardian. 
Your  company  I  wish,  confederate  princes, 
In  our  Dalmatian  wars,  which  finished 
With  victory  I  hope,  and  Maximinus, 
Our  brother  and  copartner  in  the  empire, 
At  my  request  won  to  confirm  as  much. 
The  kingdoms  I  took  from  you  we'll  restore, 
And  make  you  greater  than  you  were  before. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Antoninus  and  Macri/uis. 

Anton.  Oh,  I  am  lost  for  ever !  lost,  Macrinus  ! 
The  anchor  of  the  wretched,  hope,  forsakes  me, 
And  with  one  blast  of  fortune  all  my  light 
Of  happiness  is  put  out. 

Mac.  You  are  like  to  those 
That  are  ill  only,  'cause  they  are  too  well  ; 
That,  surfeiting  in  the  excess  of  blessings, 
Call  their  abundance  want.     What  could  you  wish, 
That  is  not  fall'n  upon  you  ?  honour,  greatness, 
Respect,  wealth,  favour,  the  whole  world  for  a  dower  ; 
And  with  a  princess,  whose  excelling  form 
Exceeds  her  fortune. 

Anton.  Yet  poison  still  is  poison, 
Though  drunk  in  gold  ;  and  all  these  nattering  glories 
To  me,  ready  to  starve,  a  painted  banquet, 
And  no  essential  food.     When  I  am  scorch'd 
With  fire,  can  flames  in  any  other  quench  me  ? 
What  is  her  love  to  me,  greatness,  or  empire, 
That  am  slave  to  another,  who  alone 
Can  give  me  ease  or  freedom  ? 

Mac.  Sir,  you  point  at 
Your  dotage  on  the  scornful  Dorothea : 


|    Is  she,  though  fair,  the  same  day  to  be  named 
With  best  Artemia  ?  In  all  their  courses, 
Wise  men  propose  their  ends  :  with  sweet  Artemia 
There  comes  along  pleasure,  secui  ity, 
Usher'd  by  all  that  in  this  life  is  precious  : 
With  Dorothea  (though  her  birth  be  noblw. 
The  daughter  of  a  senator  of  Rome, 
By  him  left  rich,  yet  with  a  private  wealth. 
And  far  inferior  to  yours)  arrives 
The  emperor's  frown,  which,  like  a  mortal  plague, 
Speaks  death  is  near  ;  the  princess'  heavy  scorn, 
Under  which  you  will  shrink  ;t  your  father's  fury, 
Which  to  resist,  even  piety  forbids  : — 
And  but  remember  that  she  stands  suspected 
A  favourer  of  the  Christian  sect ;  she  brings 
Not  danger,  but  assured  destruction  with  her. 
This  truly  weigh'd  one  smile  of  great  Artemia 
Is  to  be  cherish'd,  and  pr-eferr'd  before 
All  joys  in  Dorothea  :  therefore  leave  her.  [thoti  art 
Anton.  In  what  thou  think'st  thou  art  most  wise 
Grossly  abused,  Macrinus,  and  most  foolish. 
For  any  man  to  match  above  his  rank, 
Is  but  to  sell  his  liberty.     With  Artemh 
I  still  must  live  a  servant  ;  but  enjoying 
Divinest  Dorothea,  I  shall  rule, 
Rule  as  becomes  a  husband  :  for  the  danger, 
Or  call  it,  if  you  will,  assured  destruction, 
I  slight  it  vhus. — If,  then,  thou  art  my  friend, 
As  I  dare  swear  thou  art,  and  wilt  not  take 
A  governor's  place  upon  thee.t  be  my  helper. 

Mac.  You  know  I  dare,  and  will  do  any  thing  ; 
Put  me  unto  the  test. 

Anton.  Go  then,  Macrinus, 
To  Dorothea  ;  tell  her  I  have  worn. 
In  all  the  battles  I  have  fought,  her  figure, 
Her  figure  in  my  heart,  which,  like  a  deity, 
Hath  still  protected  me.     Thou  can'st  speak  well, 
And  of  thy  choicest  language  spare  a  little, 
i   To  make  her  understand  how  much  I  love  her, 
•   And  how  I  languish  for  her.     Bear  these  jewels, 
j   Sent  in  the  way  of  sacrifice,  not  service, 
|   As  to  my  goddess  :  all  lets$  thrown  behind  me, 
Or  fears  that  may  deter  me,  say,  this  morning: 
I  mean  to  visit  her  by  the  name  of  friendship  : 
— No  words  to  contradict  this. 

Mac.  I  am  yours  ; 

And,  if  my  travail  this  way  be  ill  spent, 
Judge  not  my  readier  will  by  the  event.        [Eueunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  DOROTHEA'S  Hvuse. 

Enter  SPUNGIUS,  and  HIRCIUS.|| 
Spun.  Turn  Christian  \V  >u Id  he  that  first  tempted 


•  I \ 'at  almost  dead  with  fear  ,-]  The  reading  of  the  first 
quarto  is  drad,  which  may  perhaps,  be  the  genuine  word. 
The  fabl*  is  from  the  Greek.  In  a  preceding  line  there  is 
an  allusion  to  the  proverb  : — Procul  a  Jove,  scd  pron.1  « 
fit /mine. 

f  Under  which  you  will   shrink  ;]     So  all  the  old  copies. 
Modern  editors  incorrectly,  and  unmctrically  read : 
Under  which  you'll  sink,  &c.  (omitted  in  Edit,  of  1813.) 

t  A  governor's  place  vpon  thee.\  From  the  Latin  :  nc  sis 
mihi  tutor. 

6 All  lets  thrman  behind  me,"]  i.  e.  All  impedi- 
menta. So  in  the  Mayor  of  Quinborouyh  : 


me  to  have  my  shoes  walk  upon  Christian  soles,  had 
turn'd  me  into  a  capon ;  for  I  am  sure  now,  the 
stones  of  all  my  pleasure,  in  this  fleshly  life,  are 
cut  off. 


"  Hope,  and  be  sure  I'll  soon  remove  the  let 
That  stands  between  thee  and  thy  glory." 

U  Very  few  of  our  old  English  plajs  are  free  from  these 
dialogues  of  low  wit  and  buttbonery  :  'twas  the  \ice  of  the 
asje  >  nor  '8  Massingcr  less  free  from  it  thap  his  cotcmpo- 
rarics.  To  defend  them  is  impossible,  nor  snail  I  attempt 
it.  They  arc  of  this  use,  that  they  mark  the  taste,  display 
the  manners,  and  shew  us  what  was  the  chief  delight  and 
entertainment  of  our  forefathers.  COXETEK. 

It  should,  however,  be  observed,  in  jnslice  to  our  old 
plays,  that  few,  or  rather  none  of  them,  are  contaminated 
with  such  detestable  ribaldry  as  the  present.  To  "  low  wit," 


SCF.NE  I.J 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR, 


Hir.  So  then,  if  any  coxcomb  has  a  galloping  de- 
sire to  ride,  here's  a  gelding,  if  he  can  but  sit  hi  n. 

Spun.  I  kick,  for  all  that,  like  a  horse ; — look 
else. 

Hir.  But  that  is  a  kickish  jade,  fellow  Spungius. 
Have  not  I  as  much  cause  to  complain  as  thou  hast  ? 
When  1  was  a  pagan,  there  was  an  infidel  punk  of 
mine,  would  have  let  me  come  upon  trust  for  my 
curvetting:  a  pox  on  your  Christian  cockatrices  ! 
they  cry,  like  poulterers'  wives:  —  No  money,  no 
coney. 

Spun.  Bacchus,  the  god  of  brew'd  wine  and  sugar, 
grand  patron  of  rob-pots,  upsy-freesy  tipplers,  and 
super-naculum  takers ;  this  Bacchus,  who  is  head 
warden  of  Vintners'-hall,  ale-conner,  mayor  of  all 
victualling-houses,  the  sole  liquid  benefactor  to  bawdy 
houses;  lanceprezade  to  red  noses,  and  invincible 
adelantado  over  the  armado  of  pimpled,  deep-scarleted, 
rubified,  and  carbuncled  faces 

Hir.   What  of  all  this  ? 

Spun.  This  boon  Bacchanalian  skinker,  did  I  make 
legs  to. 

Hir.  Scurvy  ones,  when  thou  wert  drunk. 

Spun.  There  is  no  danger  of  losing  a  man's  ears 
by  making  these  indentures ;  he  that  will  not  now 
and  then  be  Calabingo,  is  worse  than  a  Calamoothe. 
When  I  was  a  pagan,  and  kneeled  to  this  Bacchus, 
I  durst  out-drink  a  lord ;  but  your  Christian  lords 
out-bowl  me.  I  was  in  hope  to  lead  a  sober  life, 
when  I  was  converted ;  but,  now  amongst  the  Chris- 
tians, I  can  no  sooner  stagger  out  of  one  alehouse, 
but  I  reel  into  another :  they  have  whole  streets  of 
nothing  but  drin king-rooms,  and  drabbing-cham- 
bers,  jumbled  together. 

Hir.  Bawdy  Priapus,  the  first  schoolmaster  chat 
taught  butchers  to  stick  pricks  in  flesh,  and  make  it 
swell,  thou  know'st,  was  the  only  ninglethat  I  cared 
for  under  the  moon  ;  but,  since  I  left  him  to  follow 
a  scurvy  lady,  what  with  her  praying  and  our  fast- 
ing, if  now  I  come  to  a  wench,  and  offer  to  use  her 
any  thing  hardly  (telling  her,  being  a  Christian,  she 
must  endure),  she  presently  handles  me  as  if  I  were 
a  clove,  and  cleaves  me  with  disdain,  as  if  I  were  a 
calf  s  head. 

Spun.  L  see  no  remedy,  fellow  Hircius,  but  that 
thou  and  I  must  be  half  pagans,  and  half  Christians  ; 
for  we  know  very  fools  that  are  Christians. 

Hir.  Right :  the  quarters  of  Christians  are  good 
for  nothing  but  to  feed  crows. 

Spun.  True  :  Christian  brokers,  thou  know'st,  are 
made  up  of  the  quarters  of  Christians  ;  par-boil  one 
of  these  rogues,  and  he  is  not  meat  for  a  dog  :  no, 

or  indeed  to  wit  of  any  kind,  it  has  not  the  slighest  preten- 
sion; being,  in  fact,  nothing  more  than  a  loathsome  sooter- 
Uin  engendered  of  filth  and  dulness.  (It  was  c\iilenlly  the 
anchor's,  design  to  personify  Lust  and  Drunkenneti  in  the 
characters  of  Hircius  and  Spungius,  and  this  muy  account 
for  t:,e  ribaldry  in  which  they  indulge.)  That  Massinger  is 
in. t  free  from  dialogues  of  low  wit  and  butt'oonery  (llimii.li 
certaiaijr,  notwithstanding  Coxeter's  assertion,  he  is  much 
more  so  than  his  contemporaries)  may  readily  be  granted; 
butTlie  person  who,  after  perusing  this  execrable  tr.^h,  can 
imagine  it  to  bear  any  resemblance  to  his  style  and  manner, 
niii.-t  have  reail  him  to  very  little  purpose,  "it  was  assuredly 
_written  by  Decker,  as  was  the  rest  of  this  act,  in  which  there 
b  much  to  approve :  with  respect  to  this  scene,  and  every 
«;her  in  which  the  present  speakers  are  introduced,  I  recom- 
mend them  to  the  reader's  supreme  scorn  and  contempt ;  if 
he  pass  them  entirely  over,  he  will  lose  little  of  the  story, 
and  nothing  of  his  respect  for  the  author.  I  have  carefully 
""netted  the  text  in  innumerable  places,  but  given  it  no 
farther  consideration.  1  repeat  my  eutix-aty  th.it  the  reader 
woulJ  reject  it  altogether. 


j  no,  I  am  resolved  to  have  an  infidel's  heart,  though 
in  shew  I  carry  a  Christian's  face. 

Hir.  Thy  last  shall  serve  my  foot :  so  will  I. 

Spun.  Our  whimpering  lady  and  mistress  sent  me 
with  two  great  baskets  full  of  beef,  mutton,  veal 
and  goose,  fellow  Hircius 

Hir.  And  woodcock,  fellow  Spungius. 

Spun.  Upon  the  poor  lean  ass-fellow,  on  which  I 
ride,  to  all  the  almswomen :  what  think'st  thou  I 
have  done  with  all  this  good  cheer  ? 

7/i'r.  t.u  it ;  or  be  cbok-jd  else. 

Spun.  Would  my  ass,  basket  and  all,  were  in  thy 
maw,  if  I  did  !  Xo,  as  I  am  a  demi-pagan,  I  sold  the 
victuals,  and  coined  the  money  into  pottle  pots  of 
wine. 

Hir.  Therein  thou  shewed'st  thyself  a  perfect 
demi-christian  too,  to  let  the  poor  beg,  starve,  and 
hang,  or  die  of  the  pip.  O^r  puling,  snotty-nose 
lady  sent  me  out  likewise  with  a  purse  of  money,  to 
relieve  and  release  prisoners  : — Did  I  so,  think  you  ? 

Spun.  Would  thy  ribs  were  turned  into  grates  of 
iron  then. 

Hir.  As  I  am  a  total  pagan,  I  swore  they  should 
be  hanged  first ;  for,  sirrah  Spungius,  I  lay  at  my 
old  ward  of  lechery,  and  cried,  a  pox  on  your  two- 
penny wards !  and  so  I  took  scurvy  common  flesh 
for  the  money. 

Spun.  And  wisely  done ;  for  our  lady,  sending  it 
to  prisoners,  had  bestowed  it  out  upon  lousy  knaves  : 
and  thou,  to  save  that  labour,  cast'st  it  away  upon 
rotten  whores. 

Hir.  All  my  fear  is  of  that  pink-an-eye  jack-au- 
apes  boy,  her  page. 

Spun.  As  I  am  a  pagan  from  my  cod-piece  down- 
ward, that  white-faced  monkey  frights  me  too.  I 
stole  but  a  dirty  pudding,  last  day,  out  of  an  alms- 
basket,  to  give  my  dog  when  he  was  hungry,  and  the 
peaking  chitty-face  page  hit  me  in  the  teeth  with  it. 

Hir.  With  the  dirty  pudding  !  so  he  did  me  once 
with  a  cow-turd,  which  in  knavery  I  would  have 
crumb 'd  into  one's  porridge,  who  was  half  a  pagan 
too.  The  smug  dandiprat  smells  us  out,  whatsoever 
we  are  doing.  , 

Spun.  Does  he  t  let  him  take  heed  I  prove  not 
his  back-friend :  I'll  make  him  curse  his  smelling 
what  I  do. 

Hir.  'Tis  my  lady  spoils  the  boy  ;  for  he  is  ever 
at  her  tail,  and  she  is  never  well  but  in  his  company. 

Enter  AsctLO  with  a  book,  and  a  taper  lighted;    they 
seeing  him,  counterfeit  devotion, 

Ang.  O !  now  your  hearts  make  ladders  of  your 

eyes, 

In  shew  to  climb  to  heaven,  when  your  devotion 
Walks  upon  crutches.      Where  did  you  waste  your 
When  the  religious  man  was  on  his  knees,       [time. 
Speaking  the  heavenly  language? 

Spun.  Why,  fellow  Angelo,  we  were  speaking  in 
pedlar's  French,  I  hope, 

Hir.  We  have  not  been  idle,  take  it  upon  my  worl. 

Ang.  Have  you  the  baskets  emptied,  which  your 
Sent,  from  her  charitable  hands,  to  women  ^lad ' 
That  dwell  upon  her  pity  ? 

Spun.  Emptied  them  !  yes  ;  I'd  be  loth  to  hare 
my  belly  so  empty  ;  yet,  I  am  sure,  I  munched  not 
one  bit  of  them  neither. 

An*.  And  went  your  money  to  the  prisoners? 

Hir.  Went  !  no  ;  I  carried  it,  and  with  these  fin- 
gers paid  it  away. 


10 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  II. 


Aug.  What  way  ?  the  devil's  way,  the  way  of  sin, 
The  way  of  hot  damnation,  way  of  lust ! 
And  you,  to  wash  away  the  poor  man's  bread 
In  bowls  of  drunkenness. 

Spun.  Drunkenness  !  yes,  yes,  I  use  to  be  druuk  ; 
our  next  neighbour's  man,  called  Christopher,  hath 
often  seen  me  drunk,  hath  he  not? 

Hir.  Or  me  given  so  to  the  flesh  !  my  cheeks 
speak  my  doings. 

Ang.  Arrant,  ye  thieves,  and  hollow  hypocrites  ! 
Your  hearts  to  me  lie  open  like  black  books, 
And  there  I  read  your  doings. 

Spun.  And  what  do  you  read  in  my  heart  ? 
Hir.  Or  in  mine  ?  come,  amiable  Angelo,  beat  the 
flint  of  your  brains. 

Spun.  And  let's  see  what  sparks  of  wit  fly  out  to 
kindle  your  cerebrum.  [n'ius  call'd, 

Ang.  Your  names  even  brand  you  ;  youareSpun- 
And  like  a  spunge,  you  suck  up  lickerish  wines, 
Till  your  soul  reels  to  hell. 

Spun.  To  hell !  can  any  drunkard's  legs  carry  him 

so  far  ?  food, 

Ang.  For  blood  of  grapes  you   sold  the  widows' 

And   starving  them  'tis  murder :    what's   this   but 

hell  ? 

Ilircius  your  name,  and  goatish  is  your  nature  : 
You  snatch  the  meat  out  of  the  prisoner's  mouth, 
To  fatten  harlots :  is  not  this  hell  too  1 
No  angel,  but.  the  devil,  waits  on  you. 
Spun,  Shall  I  cut  his  throat  ? 
Hir.  No  ;    better  burn   him,  for  I  think  he  is  a 
witch  ;  but  sooth,  sooth  him 

Spun.  Fellow  Angelo,  true  it  is,  that  falling  into 

the  company  of  wicked  he-christians,  for  my  part — 

Hir.  And   she-ones,   for  mine, —  we   have   them 

swim  in  shoals  hard  by 

Spun.  We  must  confess,  I  took  too  much  out  of 
the  pot ;  and  he  of  t'other  hollow  commodity. 

Hir.  Yes,  indeed,  we  laid  Jill  on  both  of  us  :  we 
cozen 'd  the  poor  ;  but  'tis  a  common  thing  ;  many  a 
one,  that  counts  himself  a  better  Christian  than  we 
two,  has  done  it,  by  this  light. 

Spun.  But  pray,  sweet  Angelo,  play  not  the  tell- 
tale to  my  lady  ;  and,  if  you  take  us  creeping  into 
any  of  these  mouse-holes  of  sin  any  more,  let  cats 
flay  off  our  skins. 

Hir.  And  put  nothing  but  the  poison'd  tails  of 
rats  into  those  skins. 

Ang.  Will  you  dishonour  her  sweet,  charity, 
Who  saved  you  from  the  tree  of  death  and  shame  ? 

Hir.  Would  I  were  hang'd,  rather  than  thus  be 
told  of  my  faults. 

Spun.  She  took  us,  tis  true,  from  the  gallows  ; 
yet  I  hope  she  will  not  bar  yeomen  sprats  to  have 
their  swing. 

Ang,  She  comes,  beware  and  mend. 

Hir.  Let's  break  his  neck,  and  bid  him  mend. 

Enter  DOROTHEA. 

Dor.  Have  you  my  messages,  sent  to  the  poor, 
Deliver'd  with  good  hands,  not  robbing  them 
Of  a*iy  jot  was  theirs? 

Spun.  Rob  them,  lady  !  I  hope  neither  my  fellow 
nor  I  am  thieves. 

IJir.  Delivered  with  good  hands,  madam  !  else 
let  me  never  lick  my  fingers  more  when  I  eat  but- 
ter'd  fish. 

Dor.  Who  cheat  the  poor,  and  from  them  pluck 

their  alms. 
Pilfer  from  heaven  ;  and  there  are  thunderbolts 


From  thence  to  beat  them  ever.     Do  not  lie, 
Were  you  both  faithful,  true  distributers  ? 

Spun.  Lie,  madam !  what  grief  is  it  to  see  you 
turn  swaggerer,  and  give  your  poor-minded  rascally 
servants  the  lie. 

Dor.  I'm  gliid  you  do  not ;  if  those  wretched  people 
Tell  you  they  pine  for  want  of  any  thing, 
Whisper  but  to  mine  ear,  and  you  shall  furnish  them. 
Hir.  Whisper!    nay,   lady,  for  my  part    I'll  cry 

whoop. 
Aug.  Play  no  more,  villains,  with  so  good  a  lady  ; 

For,  if  you  do 

Spun.  Are  we  Christians  ? 
Hir.  The  foul  fiend  snap  all  pagans  for  me. 
A  tig.  Away,  and,  once  more,  mend. 
Spun.  Takes  us  for  hoteliers. 
Hir.  A  patch,  a  patch  !*  [Exeunt  Spun,  and  Hir 
Dor.  My  book  and  taper.f 
Aug.   Here,  most  holy  mistress. 
Dor.  Thy  rvoice  sends  forth  such  music,  that  I 
Was  ravish 'd  with  a  more  celestial  sound.       [never 
Werf  every  servant  in  the  world  like  thee, 
So  full  of  goodness,  angels  would  come  down 
To  dwell  with  us  :  thy  name  is  Angelo, 
And  like  that  name  thou  art ;  get  thee  to  res<, 
Thy  youth  with  too  much  watching  is  opprest. 
Ang.  No,  my  dear  lady,  I  could  weary  stars, 
And  force  the  wakeful  moon  to  lose  her  eyes 
By  my  late  watching,  but  to  wait  on  you. 
When  at  your  prayers  you  kneel  before  the  altar, 
Methinks  I'm  singing  with  some  quire  in  heaven, 
So  blest  I  hold  me  in  your  company  : 
Therefore,  my  most  loved  mistress,  do  not  bid 
Your  boy,  so  serviceable,  to  get  hence  ; 
For  then  you  break  his  heart. 

Dor.  Be  nigh  me  still,  then  ; 
In  golden  letters  down  I'll  set  that  day, 
Which  gave  thee  to  me.     Little  did  I  hope 
To  meet  such  worlds  of  comfort  in  thyself, 
This  little,  pretty  body  ;  when  I,  coming 
Forth  of  the  temple,  heard  my  beggar-boy, 
My  sweet-faced,  godly  beggar  boy,  crave  an  alms, 
Which  with  glad  hand  I  gave,  with  lucky  hand  ! — 
Arid  when  I  took  thee  home,  my  most  chaste  bosom, 
Methought,  was  fill'd  with  no  riot  wanton  fire, 
But  with  a  holy  flame,  mounting  since  higher, 
On  wings  if  cherubins,  than  it  did  before. 

Ang.  Proud  am  I,  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 
So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 

Doc.  I  have  offer'd 

Ilandfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 
I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some, 
To  dwell  with  thy  good  father ;  for,  the  son 
Bewitching  me  so  deeply  with  his  presence, 
He  that  begot  him  must  do't  ten  times  more. 
1  pray  thee,  my  sweet  boy,  shew  me  thy  parents  ; 
Be  not  ashamed. 

Ang.  I  am  not :  I  did  never 
Know  who  my  mother  was :  but,  by  yon  palace 


*  Hir.  '  patch,  a  patch  !}  A  knave— a  fool— in  this  sense 
the  word  is  evidently  used  in  the  following. 

"Here  is  such  patcherie,  such  iugling  and  such  knaverie." 

fihak.  Troilns  &  Ores.  Act   II.  Sc.  3. 

although  now  obsolete  in  the  sense  here  intended  ;t  frequently 
occurs  in  the  old  dramatists.   ED. 

+  Dor.  My  booh  and  taper.]  What  follows,  to  the  end  of 
the  scene,  is  exquisitely  bediitilul.  What  pity  that  a  man  .so 
capable  or  interesting  our  best  passions  (tor  I  am  persuaded 
that  this  also  was  written  by  Decker),  shonld  'piMsiiiute  his 
genius  and  his  judgment  to  the  production  of  what  eould 
only  disgrace  himself,  and  disgust  his  reader. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


It 


Fill'd  with  bright  heavenly  courtiers,  I  dare  assure 

And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand,     [you, 

My  father  is  in  heaven  :  and  pretty  mistress, 

If  vour  illustrious  hour-glass  spend  his  sand 

No  worse  than  yet  it  does,  upon  my  life, 

You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there, 

And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome. 

Dor.  A  blessed"  day  ! 
We  all  long  to  be  there,  but  lose  the  way. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Street  near  DOROTHEA'S  House. 
Enter  MACRINUS,  met  by  THEOPUILUS  and  HAUPAX. 

Theop.  The  Sun,    god   of    the   day,   guide   thee, 

Mac.  And  thee,  Theophilus  !  [Macrinus  ! 

Theoph.  Glad'st  thou  in  such  scorn*  ? 
I  call  my  wish  b.ick. 

Mac.  I'm  in  haste. 

Theoph.  One  word. 
Take  the  least  hand  of  time  up  : — stay  : 

Mac.  Be  brief.  [Macrinus, 

Theoph.  As  thought  :    I   prithee    tell    me,   good 
How  health  and  our  fair  princess  lay  together 
This  night,  for  you  can  tell  ;  courtiers  have  fliesf 
That  buzz  all  news  unto  them. 

Mac.  She  slept  but  ill. 

Theoph.  Doublethy  courtesy  ;  how  does  Antoninus? 

Mac.  Ill,  well,  straight,  crooked, — I  know  not  how. 

Theoph.  Once  more  ; 

— Thy  head  is  full  of  windmills  : — when  doth  the 
Fill  a  bed  full  of  beauty,  and  bestow  it  [princess 
On  Antoninus,  on  the  wedding-night'? 

Mac.   I  know  not. 

Thenph.  No  !  thou  art  the  manuscript, 
Where  Antoninus  writes  down  all  his  secrets  : 
Honest  Macrinus,  tell  me. 

Mac.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  [Exit. 

Harp.  Honesty  is  some  fiend,  and  frights  him 
A  many  courtiers  love  it  not}.  [hence  ; 

Theoph.  What  piece 

Of  this  state-wheel,  which  winds  up  Antoninus, 
Is  broke,  it  runs  so  jarringly  1  the  man 
Is  from  himself  divided  :  O  thou,  the  eye 
By  which  I  wonders  see,  tell  me,  my  Harpax, 
What  gad-fly  tickles  this  Macrinus  so, 
That,  flinging  up  the  tail,  he  breaks  thus  from  me. 

Harp.  Oh,  sir,  his  brain-pan  is  a  bed  of  snakes, 
Whose  stings   shoot  through   his  eye  balls,  whose 

poisonous  spawn 

Ingenders  such  a  fry  of  speckled  villainies, 
That,  unless  charms  more  strong  than  adamant 
Be  used,  the  Roman  angel's$  wings  shall  melt, 

*  Theoph.  Glad'st  thou  in  such  scorn  .']  Tliis  is  the  reading 
of  all  the  ol<l  copies,  and  appeal  s  to  be  the  genuine  out. 
Theophilus,  who  is  represented  as  a  fin  ions  zealot  for  pa- 
ganism, is  mollified  at  the  indifference  with  which  Macrinus 
returns  the  happiness  he  had  wished  him  by  his  god.  Mr. 
M.  Mason  reads,  G.iddest  thou  in  such  scorn? 

t courtiers  have  flies]    This  word    is   used    by 

Ben  Jon-on,  a  close  and  devoted  imitator  of  the  ancients, 
fora  domestic  parasite,  a  familiar,  &.:.  and  from  him,  pro- 
bably, Decker  adopted  it  in  tiie  picscnt  sense. 

I  A  many  courtiers  love  it  not  ]  This  is  the  reading  of  the 
first  quarto.  The  editors  follow  that  of  the  last  two  : — And 
many  &c.  which  is  in>t  so  good. 

j the  Raman  ang-.l's]   As  angels  wore  no  part 

of  the  pagan  theology,  this  should  certainly  be  auyel  from 
the  Italian  aiigeUo,  wliieh  means  a  bird.  M.  MASON. 

I.  were  to  be  wished  that  critics  would  sometimes  apply 
lo  themselves  the  advice  which  Guuerill  gives  t»  pool  old 
Lear  : 

.  "  I  pray  you,  father,  being  weak,  seem  so  ;" 


And  Caesar's  diadem  be  from  his  head 

Spurn'd  by  base  feet  ;  the  laurel  which  he  wears, 

Returning  victor,  be  enforced  to  kiss, 

That  which  it  hates,  the  fire.     And  can  this  ram, 

This  Antoninus-engine,  being  made  ready 

To  so  much  mischief,  keep  a  steady  motion  ? — 

His  eyes  and  feet,  you  see,  give  strange  assaults. 

Theoph.  I'm  turn'd  a  marble  statue  at  thy  language 
Which  printed  is  in  such  crabb'd  characters, 
It  puzzles  all  my  reading :  what,  in  the  name 
Of  Pluto,  now  is  hatching  ? 

Harp.  This  Macrinus* 
The  line  is,  upon  which  love-errands  run 
'Twixt  Antoninus  and  that  ghost  of  women, 
The  bloodless  Dorothea,  who  in  prayer 
And  meditation,  mocking  all  your  gods, 
Drinks  up  her  ruby  colour  :  yet  Antoninus 
Plays  the  Endyrnion  to  this  pale-faced  moon, 
Courts,  seeks  to  catch  her  eyes — 

Theoph.  And  what  of  this  ? 

Harp.  These  are  but  creeping  billows, 
Not  got  to  shore  yet :  but  if  Dorothea 
Fall  on  his  bosom,  and  be  fired  with  love, 
(\our  coldest  women  do  so,) — had  you  ink 
Brew'd  from  the  infernal  Styx,  not  all  that  blackness 
Can  make  a  thing  so  foul,  as  the  dishonours, 
Disgraces,  buffetings,  and  most  base  affronts 
Upon  the  bright  Artemia,  star  o'  th"  court, 
Great  Caesar's  daughter. 

Theoph.  I  now  conster  thee.  [fill'd 

Harp.  Nay,  more  ;  a  firmament  of  clouds,  being 
With  Jove's  artillery,  shot  down  at  once, 
To  pashf  your  gods  in  pieces,  cannot  give, 

we  should  not  then  find  so  many  of  these  certainties.  The 
b.irbirons  word  auyel,  of  which  Mr.  M.  Mason  speaks  so 
confidently,  is  foreign  to  our  language,  whereas  anyel,  in 
the  sense  of  birds,  occurs  frequently.  JUIIMHI  beautifully 
calls  the  nightingale,  "the  dear  good  angel  of  the  spiiiig  ;" 
and  if  this  should  be  thought,  as  it  probably  is,  a  Grecism  ; 
yet  we  have  the  same  term  in  another  passage,  which  will 
admit  of  no  dispuie  : 

"  Not  an  angel  of  the  air 
£ird  melodious,  or  bird  fair,  &c. 

Two  Noble  Kinsmen. 

In  Mandeville,  the  barbarous  Herodotus  of  a  baibar^u 
age,  there  is  an  account  of  a  people  (probably  the  remain* 
of  the  old  Guebres)  who  exp<  scd  the  dead  bu!ii>  c.f  their 
parents  to  \\iefotrles  of  the  air.  They  icserved,  however, 
the  sculls,  of  which,  says  he,  the  son, "  letethe  make  a  cuppe, 
and  thereof  drynkethe  he  with  gret  devocionn,  in  reniem- 
braunce  of  the  holy  man  that  the  aunyelcs  of  God  had  eten. 

"  By  this  expression,"  says  Mr.  Hole,  "  Mandeville  postK- 
bly  meant  to  insinuate  that  they  were  considered  as>  sacred 
messengers."  No,  surely :  aunyeles  of  God,  was  synony- 
mous in  Mandeville's  vocabulary,  lofowles  of  the  air.  With 
Greek  phraseology  he  wa«,  perhaps,  but  little  acquainted,  but 
he  knew  his  own  language  well.  (By  anyel  is  meant  the 
Roman  ensign,  the  eayle). 

The  reader  cannot  but  have  already  observed  how  ill  the 
style  of  Decker  assimilates  wilh  that  of  Massinger  :  in  the 
former  act  Harpax  had  spoken  surticiently  plain,  and  told 
Theophilus  of  strange  and  important  events,  without  these 
har«h  and  violent  starts  and  metaphors. 

*  Harp.     This  Macrinus 

The  line  is,  SfC.]  The  old  copies  read  time.  Before  I  »«w 
Mr.  M.  Mason's  emendation,  1  had  altered  'motiving.  Line 
however,  appears  to  be  the  genuine  word.  The  allusion  ii 
to  the  rude  lire-works  of  our  ancestors.  So,  in  the  fawn* 
by  Marston. 

"  Page.  There  be  squibs,  sir,  running  upon  lines,  like 
so.-r.e  ot  our  gawdy  gallants,"  &c.,  (an. I  in  Decker's  Honest 
Whore.  "Troth  mistress,  to  tell  you  true,  the  fire-works 
then  ran  from  me  upon  lines,"  o  c. ) 

+  To  pash  your  yods  in  pieces  ]  So  the  old  copies.  Cox- 
eter  (who  is  followed,  as  usual,  by  Mr.  M.  Mason),  ignorant 
perhaps  of  the  sense  of  pash,  changed  it  to  dash,  a  word  of 
far  lei*  energy,  and  of  a  different  meaning.  The  latter  sig 
nines,  to  throw  one  thing  with  violence  against  another ;  th« 


IS 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  11. 


With  all  those  thunderbolts,  so  deep  a  blow 
To  the  religion  there,  and  pagan  lore, 
As  this  ;  for  Dorothea  hates  your  gods, 
And,  if  she  once  blast  Antoninus'  soul, 
Making  it  foul  like  hers,  Oh  !   the  example — 

Tkeofih.  Eats  through  Caesarea's  heart  like  liquid 

poison. 

Have  I  invented  tortures  to  tear  Christians, 
To  see  but  which,  could  all  that  feel  hell's  torments 
Have  leave  to  stand  aloof  here  on  earth's  stage, 
They  would  be  mad  'till  they  again  descended, 
Holding  the  pains  most  horrid  of  such  souls, 
May-games  to  those  of  mine  :  has  this  my  hand 
Set  down  a  Christian's  execution 
In  such  dire  postures,  that  the  very  hangman 
Fell  at  my  foot  dead,  hearing  but  their  figures  ; 
And  shall  Macrinus  and  his  fellow-masker 
Strangle  me  in  a  dance? 

Harp.  N  o  ; — on  ;  I  hug  thee, 
For  drilling  thy  quick  brains  in  this  rich  plot 
Of  tortures  'gainst  these  Christians  :  on  ;  I  hug  thee  ! 

Theoph.  Both  hug  and  holy  me ;  to  this  Dorothea 
Fly  thou  and  I  in  thunder. 

Harp.  Not  for  kingdoms 
Piled  upon  kingdoms :  there's  a  villain  page 
Waits  on  her,  whom  I  would  not  for  the  world 
Hold  traffic  with  ;  I  do  so  hate  his  sight 
That,  should  1  look  on  him,  I  must  sink  down. 

Theoph.  I  will  not  lose  thee  then,  her  to  confound  ; 
None  but  this  head  with  glories  shall  be  crown'd. 

Harp.  Oh  !  mine  own  as  I  would  wish  thee. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  DOROTHEA'S  House. 
Enter  DOROTHEA,  MACRINUS,  and  ANGELO. 

Dor.  My  trusty  Angelo,  with  that  curious  eye 
Of  thine,  which  ever  waits  upon  my  busine'ss, 
I  prithee  watch  those  my  still-negligent  servants, 
That  they  perform  my  will,  in  what's  enjoin'd  them 
To  the  good  of  others  ;  else  will  you  find  them  flies, 
Not  lying  still,  yet  in  them  no  good  lies  : 
Be  careful,  dear  boy. 

•Ang.  Yes,  my  sweetest  mistress.*  [Exit. 

Dor.  Now,  sir,  you  may  go  on. 

Mac.  I  then  must  study 
A  new  arithmetic,  to  sum  up  the  virtues 
Which  Antoninus  gratefully  become. 
There  is  in  him  so  much  man,  so  much  goodness, 


•ormer,  to  strike  a  thing  with  such  force  as  to  crush  it  to 
piece*.  Thus  in  Act  IV.  of  this  tragedy  : 

when  the  battering  ram 

Was  fetching  his  career  backwards,  to  path, 
Me  witb  his  horns  in  pieces." 

The  word  is  now  obsolete  ;  which  it  to  be  regretted,  as  we 
have  none  that  can  adequately  supply  its  place :  it  is  used  in 
its  proper  sense  by  Dryden,  which  is  tiie  latest  instance  1 
recollect : 

"  Thy  cunning  engines  have  with  labour  raised 
My  heavy  anger,  like  a  mighty  weight, 
To  fall  and  path  thee." 

Mr.  Gifford  might  have  added  the  following  illustration  iu 
which  the  distinction  between  posh  and  dash  is  pointedly 
marked. 

"  They  left  him  (Bccket)  not  till  they  had  cut  and  poshed 
out  his  brains,  and  dashed  them  about  upon  the  church 
pavement."  Holinshed,  Hen.  II.  an.  1171. 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  cite  many  c.thcr  authorities  to 
mpport  of  the  use  here  made  of  this  now  obsolete  word.  Shaks- 
peare  frequently  u.«es  it.  ED. 

•  Ang.  Yeg,  my  sweetest  mistress.]  So  the  old  copies : 
the  modern  editors  read,  Ye>,  my  sweet  mistress,  which  de- 
Uovs  the  metre. 


So  much  of  honour,  and  of  all  things  else, 

Which  make  our  being  excellent,  that  from  his  store 

He  can  enough  lend  others  ;  yet,   much  ta'en  from 

him, 

The  want  shall  be  as  little,  as  when  seas 
Lend  from  their  bounty,  to  fill  up  the  poorness* 
Of  needy  rivers. 

Dor.  Sir  he  is  more  indebted 
To  you  for  praise,  than  you  to  him  that  owes  it. 
Mac.  If  queens,  viewing  his  presents  paid  to  th 

whiteness 

Of  your  chaste  hand  alone,  should  be  ambitious 
But  to  be  parted  in  their  numerous  shares  ;f 
This  he  counts  nothing :  could  you  see  main  armies 
Make  battles  in  the  quarrel  of  his  valour, 
That  'tis  the  best,  the  truest,  this  were  nothing  j 
The  greatness  of  his  state,  his  father's  voice 
And  arm  awing  Ca;sarea,|  he  ne'er  boasts  of; 
The  sunbeams  which  the  emperor  throws  upon  him, 
Shine  there  but  us  in  water,  and  gild  him 
Not  with  one  spot  of  priile  :  no,  dearest  beauty, 
All  these,  heap'd  up  together  in  one  scale, 
Cannot  weigh  down  the  love  he  bears  to  you, 
Being  put  into  the  other. 

Dor.  Could  gold  buy  you 

To  speak  thus  for  a  friend,  you,  sir,  are  worthy 
Of  more  than  I  will  number  ;  and  this  your  language 
Hath  power  to  win  upon  another  woman, 
Top  of  whose  heart  the  feathers  of  this  world 
Are  gaily  stuck :  but  all  which  first  you  numed, 
And  now  this  last,  his  love,  to  me  are  nothing. 
Mac.  You  make  me  a  sad  messenger  ; — but  him- 
self 

Enter  ANTONINUS. 

Being  come  in  person,  shall,  I  hope,  hear  from  you 
Music  more  pleasing. 

Anton.  Has  your  ear,  Macrinus, 
Heard  none,  then  ? 

Mac.  None  I  like. 

Anton.  But  can  there  be 
In  such  a  noble  casket,  wherein  lie 
Beauty  and  chastity  in  their  full  perfections, 
A  rocky  heart,  killing  with  cruelty 
A  life  that's  prostrated  beneath  your  feet? 

Dor.  1  am  guilty  of  a  shame  I  yet  ne'er  knew, 
Thus  to  hold  parley  with  you  ; — pray,  sir,  pardon. 

Anton.  Good  sweetness,  you  now  have  it,  and  shall 
Be  but  so  merciful,  before  your  wounding  me     [goj 
With  such  a  mortal  weapon  as  Farewell, 
To  let  me  murmur  to  your  virgin  ear, 
What  I  was  loth  to  lay  on  any  tongue 
But  this  mine  own. 

Dor.  If  one  immodest  accent 
Fly  out,  1  ha!e  you  everlastingly. 

Anton.  My  true  love  dares  not  do  it. 

Mac.  Hermes  inspire  thee  ! 


*  to  Jill  up  the  poorness.]  The  modern  editors  read 

I  know  not  why — to  Jill  up  their  poornets  .' 

1  Jiut  to  be  paite;!  in  their  numerous  shares  ;]  This  the 
former  editors  have  modernized  into 

But  to  be  partners,  &c. 

a  better  word,  perhaps,  but  not  for  that,  to  be  unwarrantably 
thrust  into  the  text.  The  expression  may  be  found  in  the 
writers  of  our  author's  age,  especially  in  Ben  Jonson,  in  the 
sense  here  required:  to  be  parted ;  to  be  favoured,  or  en- 
dowed with  a  part. 

J  And  arm  awing  Ctesarca.]  I  have  ventured  to  differ 
here  from  all  the  copies,  which  read  owing  ;  the  error,  if  it 
be  one,  as  I  think  it  is,  probably  arose  from  llic  expression 
being  taken  down  by  the  ear. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


13 


Enter  above,  ARTEMIA,  SAPRITIUS,  TUEOPHILUS, 
SFVXGIUS,  and  HIRCICS. 

Spun.  So,  now,  do  you  see  ?  —  Our  work  is  done  ; 
the  fish  you  angle  for  is  nibbling  at  the  hook,  and 
therefore  untruss  the  cod-piece-point  of  our  reward 
no  matter  if  the  breeches  of  conscience  fall  about  our 
heels. 

Theoph.  The  gold  you  earn  is  here  ;  dam  up  your 
And  no  words  of  it.  [mouths, 

Hir.  No ;  nor  no  words  from  you  of  too  much 
damning  neither.  I  know  women  sell  themselves 
dailv,  and  are  hacknied  out  for  silver  :  why  may  not 
we,  then,  betray  a  scurvy  mistress  for  gold  ? 

Spun.  She   saved  us  from  the  gallows,  and,  only 

to  keep  one  proverb  from  breaking  his  neck,  we'll 

hang  her.  [white  boys. 

Theoph.  'Tis  well   done ;  go,  go,  you're  my  fine 

Spun.  If  your  red  boys,  'tis  well  known  more  ill- 
favoured  faces  than  ours  are  painted. 

Sap.  Those  fellows  trouble  us. 

Theoph.   Away,  away! 

Hir.  I  to  my  sweet  placket. 

Spun.  And  I  to  my  full  pot. 

[Exeunt.  Hir.  and  Spun. 

Anton.  Come  let  me  tune  you  :  —  glaze  not  thus 
With  self-love  of  a  vowed  virginity,  [your  eyes 

Make  every  man  your  glass  ;  you  see  our  sex 
Do  never  murder  propagation  ; 
We  all  desire  your  sweet  society, 
And  if  you  bar  me  from  it,  you  do  kill  me, 
And  of  my  blood  are  guilty. 

Artem.  O  base  villain  ! 

Sap.  Bridle  your  rage,  sweet  princess. 

Anton.  Could  not  my  fortunes, 
Rear'd  higher  far  than  yours,  be  worthy  of  you, 
Methinks  my  dear  affection  makes  you  mine. 

Dor.  Sir,  for  your  fortunes,  were  they  mines  of 
He  that  I  love  is  richer  ;  and  for  w  orth,  [gold, 

You  are  to  him  lower  than  any  slave 
Is  to  a  monarch. 

Sap.  So  insolent,  base  Christian  ! 

Dor.  Can  I,  with  wearing  out  mv  knees  before 
Get  you  but  be  his  servant,  you  shall  boast  [him, 
You  re  equal  to  a  king. 

Sap.  Confusion  on  thee, 
For  playing  thus  the  lying  sorceress  !  [the  sun 

Anton.  Your  mocks  are  great  ones  ;  none  beneath 
Will  I  be  servant  to.— On  my  knees  1  beg  it, 
Pity  me,  wondrous  maid. 

Sap.  I  curse  thy  baseness. 

Theoph.  Listen  to  more. 

Dor.  O  kneel  not,  sir,  to  me. 

Anton,  This  knee  is  emblem  of  an  humbled  heart : 
That  heart  which  tortured  is  with  your  disdain, 
Justly  for  scorning  others,  even  this  heart, 
To  which  for  pity  such  a  princess  sues, 
As  in  her  hand  offers  me  all  the  world, 
Great  Caesar's  daughter. 

Artem.  Slave,  thou  liest. 

Anton.  Yet  this 

Is  adamant  to  her,  that  melts  to  you 
In  drops  of  blood. 

Theoph.  A  very  dog  ! 

Anton.  Perhaps 

Tis  my  religion  makes  you  knit  the  brow  ; 
Yet  be  you  mine,  and  ever  be  your  own  : 
I  ne'er  will  screw  your  conscience  from  that  Power, 
On  which  you  Christians  lean. 

Sap.  I  can  no  longer 


Fret  out  my  life  with  weeping  at  thee,  villain. 
Sirrah !  [AUmd, 

Would,  when  I  got  thee,  the  high  Thunderer's  hand 
Had  struck  thee  in  the  womb  ! 

Mac.  We  are  betrav'd. 

Artem.  Is  that  the  Idol,  traitor,  which  thou  kneel'st 
Trampling  upon  my  beauty  ?  [to, 

Theoph.  Sirrah,  bandog*  ! 
Wilt  thou  in  pieces  tear  our  Jupiter 
For  her?  our  .Mars  for  her  ?  our  Sol  for  her  ? 
A  whore!  a  hell-hound  !  In  this  globe  of  brains, 
Where  a  whole  world  of  furies  for  such  tortures 
Have  fought,  as  in  a  chaos,  which  should  exceed, 
These  nails  shall  grubbing  lie  from  skull  to  skull, 
To  find  one  horrider  than  all,  for  you, 
You  three  ! 

Artem.  Threaten  not,  but  strike  :  quick  vengeance 
Into  my  bosomf  !  caitiff!  here  all  love  dies.  [flies 

[Ezeunl  above. 

Anton.  O  !    I  am   thunderstruck  !    \Ve  are  both 
o'erwhelm'd 

Mac.  With  one  high-raging  billow. 

Dor.  You  a  soldier, 
And  sink  beneath  the  violence  of  a  woman  ! 

Anton.  A  woman  !    a  wrong'd  princess.      From 

such  a  star 

Blazing  with  fires  of  hate,  what  can  be  look'd  for, 
But  tragical  events?  my  life  is  now 
The  subject  of  her  tyranny. 

Dor.  That  fear  is  base. 

Of  death,  when  that  death  doth  but  life  displace 
Out  of  her  house  of  earth  ;  you  only  dread 
The  stroke,  and  not  what  follows  when  you're  dead 
There's  the  great  fear,  indeed^  :  come,  let  your  eyes 
Dwell  where  mine  do,  you'll  scorn  their  tyrannies. 

He-enter  below,  ARTEMIA,  SAPRITIUS,  TIIEOPHILUS,  o 
guard  ;  ANGEI.O  comes  and  stands  close  by  DORO- 
THEA. 

Artem.  My  father's  nerves  put  vigour  in  minearm, 
And  I  his  strength  must  use.     Because  I  once 
Shed  beams  of  favour  on  thee,  and,  with  the  lion, 
Play'd  with  thee  gently,  when  thou  struck'st  my 
I'll  not  insult  on  a  base,  humbled  prey,  [heart, 

•  Theoph.    Sirrah,  bandog. 

J T'ilt  thou  in  pieces  tear  our  Jvpiter.]  A  bandog,  as  the 
name  imports,  was  a  (log  so  fierce,  as  to  require  to  be 
chained  up.  Bandogs  are  frequently  mentioned  by  our  old 
writers  (indeed  the  word  ocrurs  three  times  in  this  very 
play)  and  always  with  a  reference  to  their  savage  nature. 
If  the  term  was  appropriated  to  a  species,  it  probably  meant 
a  large  dog,  of  the  mastiff  kind,  which,  tlu-ugh  no  longer 
met  with  here,  is  still  common  in  many  parts  of  Germany  : 
it  was  familiar  to  Snyders.and  is  found  in  most  of  his  hunt- 
ing-pieces. 

In  this  country  the  bandog  was  kept  to  bait  bears:  with 
the  dtclinc  of  that  "  noble  !-port,"  peihap.*,  tlie  animal  fell 
into  disuse,  as  he  was  too  ferocious  fur  any  domestic  pur- 
pose. !Mr.  (lilchrist  has  furnished  me  with  a  curious  pas- 
fage  from  Laneham,  which  renders  any  further  details  on 
the  subject  unnecessary.  •'  On  the  sjxili  d.iy  </t  her  majes- 
ty es  cummins,  a  great  sort  of  bandoijs  whear  tlit-ar  tyed  in 
the  utter  cooitrt,  and  thyrteen  bears  in  the  inner.  Wlioo<o- 
evcr  made  the  panucll  thear  wear  tnoow  lor  a  queast,  and 
one  for  a  challenge  and  need  wear.  A  w  ight  of  great  w  is- 
doom  and  gravitie  seemed  their  foi  email  to  be,  had  it 
cum  to  a  jury  :  but  it  fell  omit  that  they  wear  caused  to 
appeer  thear  upon  no  Mich  matter,  but  onlic  too  cnswear 
to. i  ail  avnclent  quarrele  between  them  and  the  bandogs,"  &c. 
Qiu-en  Elizabeth  s  Entertainment  at  KillingiKorth  Castle,  in 
1575. 

t quick  vengeance  .flies 

Into  my  bosom,  &c.]  The  old  copies  read,  Into  thy 
bosom.  For  the  change,  which  is  obviously  necessary,  I  am 
ai.swerable. 

I  There's  the  great  fear  indeed:]  The  modern  editon 
omit  yrcat,  which  is  louud  in  the  first  ai"l  second  quarto*. 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  II 


By  lingering  out  thy  terrors  ;  but  with  one  frown 
Kill  thee  :     hence  wiih  "em  ;ill  to  execution. 
Seize  him  ;  but  let  even  death  itself  be  weary 
In  torturing  her.     I'll  change  those  smiles  to  shrieks ; 
Give  the  fool  what  she's  proud  of,  martyrdom  : 
In  pieces  rack  that  bawd  too. 

Sap.  Albeit  the  reverence 
I  owe  our  sods,  and  you,  are  in  my  bosom, 
Torrents  so  strong,  that  pity  quite  lies  clrown'd 
From  saving1  this  young  man  ;  yet,  when  I  sen 
What  face  death  gives  him,  and   that  a  thing  within 
Says,  'tis  my  son,  I  am  forced  to  be  a  man,          [me 
And  grow  fond  of  his  life,  which  thus  I  beg. 

Artem.   And  I  deny. 

Anton.  Sir,  you  dishonour  me, 
To  sue  for  that  which  I  disclaim  to  have. 
I  shall  more  glory  in  my  sufferings  gain 
Than  you  in  giving  judgment,  since  I  offer 
My  blood  up  to  your  anger  ;  nor  do  I  kneel 
To  keep  a  wretched  life  of  mine  from  ruin  ; 
Preserve  this  temple,  builded  fair  as  yours  is*, 
And  Cresar  never  vent  in  greater  triumph, 
Than  I  shall  to  the  scaffold. 

Artem.  Are  you  so  brave,  sir? 
Set  forward  to  his  triumph,  and  let  those  two 
Go  cursing  along  with  him. 

Dor.  No,  but  pitying, 

For  my  part,  I,  that  you  lose  ten  times  more 
By  torturing  me,  than  I  that  dare  your  tortures  : 
Through  all  the  army  of  my  sins,  I  have  even 
Labour'd  to  break,  and  cope  with  death  to  th'  face. 
The  visage  of  a  hangman  frights  not  me ; 
The  sight  of  whips,  racks,  gibbets,  axes,  fires, 
Are  scaffoldings  by  which  my  soul  climbs  up 
To  an  eternal  habitation. 

Theoph.  Cmsar's  imperial  daughter,  hear  me  speak 
Let  not  this  Christian  thing,  in  this  her  pageantry 
Of  proud  deriding  both  our  gods  and  Cssar, 
Build  to  herself  a  kingdom  in  her  death. 
Goingf  laughing  from  us  :  no  ;  her  bitterest  torment 
Shall  be,  to  feel  her  constancy  beaten  down  : 
The  bravery  of  her  resolution  lie 
Batter'd,  by   argument,  into  such  pieces, 
That  she  again  shall,  on  her  belly,  creep 
To  kiss  the  pavements  of  our  painim  gods. 

Artem.  How  to  be  done  ? 

Theoph.  I'll  send  my  daughters  to  her, 
And  they  shall  turn  her  rocky  faith  to  wax  ; 
Else  spit  at  me,  let  me  be  made  your  slave, 
And  meet  no  Roman's  but  a  villain's  grave. 

Artem.    Thy   prisoner    let    her   be,    then  ;     and, 

Sapritius,  . 

Your  s.on  and  thatf,  be  yours  :  death  shall  be  sent 
To  him  that  suffers  them,  by  voice  or  letters, 
To  greet  each  other.     Rifle  her  estate  ; 
Christians  to  beggary  brought,  grow  desparate. 

*  Preserve  this  temple,  build  it  fair  as  your*  is.}  As  this 
line  stands,  Antoninus's  request  is,  not  merely  that  Aiirmia 
should  preserve  Dorothea,  but  tli.it  she  should  raise  her  to  a 
degre»  of  splendour  equal  to  her  own.  The  absurdity  of 
supposing  that  lie  should  make  this  request  to  a  princess, 
who  had  condemned  him  to  death,  in  favour  of  her  rival, 
made  me  suppose  that  there  must  be  an  error  in  this  pas- 
sage, and  suggested  ilie  amendment.—  M.  MASON. 

Wonderfully  sagacious!  A  Mingle  glance  at  either  of  the 
first  three  editions  wonM  have  saved  all  this  labour  :  build 
it  is  the  blunder  of  the  quarto,  Ititil,  which  Coxeter  fol- 
lowed ;  in  the  others  it  Mauds  as  in  the  text. 

•t  (loing  lauyhiny  from  us:}  So  the  old  copies;  which  is 
far  more  correct  than  the  modern  reading—  Go,  laughing 
from  us. 

I  Your  snn  and  that,]  Meaning  Macrinus,  whom  before 
the  had  railed  a  bawd.— M.  MASON. 


Dor.  Still  on  the  bread  of  poverty  let  me  feed. 

Ang.  0  !  ray  admired  mistress,  quench  not  out 
The  holy  fires  within  you,  though  temptations 
Shower  down  upon  you  :  clasp  thine  armour  on, 
Fight  well,  and  thou  shalt  see,  after  these  wars, 
Thy  head  wear  sunbeams,  and  thy  fe<-t  touch  stars, 
[Exeunt  all  but  Angelo. 

Enter  Ilirtcius  and  SPUNOIUS. 

Hir.     How  now,  Angelo  ;  how  is  it,  how  is  it  ? 
What   thread  spins  that   whore   Fortune    upon    her 
wheel  now  ? 

.S/WM.   Com'  estn,  coin1  esta,  poor  knave' 

Hir.  Comment  portes-vous,  comment  portez-rouz, 
man  petit  garfon  ? 

Spun.  My  pretty  wee  comrade,  my  half-inch  of 
man's  flesh,  how  run  the  dice  of  this  cheating  world, 
ha? 

An*.  Too  well  on  your  sides  ;  you  are  hid  in  gold 
O'er  head  and  ears. 

Hir.  We  thank  our  fates,  the  sign  of  the  gingle- 
boys  hangs  at  the  doors  of  our  pockets. 

Spun.  Who  would  think  that  we,  coming  forth 
of  the  a — ,  asitwere,  or  fag-end  of  the  world,  should 
yet  see  the  golden  age,  when  so  little  silver  is 
stirring. 

Ilir.  Nay,  who  can  say  any  citizen  is  an  ass,  for 
loading  his  own  back  with  money  till  his  soul  cracks 
again,  only  to  leave  his  son  like  a  gilded  coxcomb 
behind  him?  Will  not  any  fool  take  me  for  a  wise 
man  now,  seeing  me  draw  out  of  the  pit  of  my  trea- 
sury this  little  god  with  his  belly  full  of  gold? 

Spun.  And  this,  full  of  the  same  meat,  out  of  my 
ambry. 

Ang.  That  gold  will  melt  to  poison. 

Spun.  Poison !  would  it  would  ;  whole  pints  for 
healths  should  down  my  throat. 

Hir.  Gold,  poison  !  there  is  never  a  she-thrasher 
in  Cajsarea,  that  lives  on  the  flail  of  money,  will  call 
it  so. 

Ang.  Like  slaves  you  sold  your  souls  for  golden 
Bewraying  her  to  death,  who  stept  between  [dross, 
You  and  the  gallows. 

Spun.  It  was  an  easy  matter  to  save  us,  she  being 
so  well  back'd. 

Hir.  The  gallows  and  we  fell  out ;  so  she  did  but 
part  us. 

Ang.  The  misery  of  that  mistress  is  mine  own  ; 
She  beggar'd,  I  left  wretched. 

Hir.  I  can  but  let  my  nose  drop  in  sorrow,  with 
wet  eyes  for  her. 

Spun,  The  petticoat  of  her  estate  is  unlaced,  I 
confess. 

Hir.  Yes,  and  the  smock  of  her  charity  is  now  all 
to  pieces. 

Ang.  For  love  you  bear  to  her,  for  some  good  tarns 
Done  you  by  me,  give  me  one  piece  of  silver. 

Hir.  How !  a  piece  of  silver  !  if  thou  wert  an 
angel  of  gold,  I  would  not  put  thee  into  white  money, 
unless  I  weighed  thee  ;  and  I  weigh  thee  not  a  rush. 

Spun.  A  piece  of  silver  !  I  never  had  but  two 
calves  in  my  life,  and  those  my  mother  left  me  ;  I 
will  rather  part  from  the  fat  of  tliem,  than  from  a 
mustard-token's  worth  of  argent. 

Hir.  And  so,  sweet  nit,  we  crawl  from  thee. 

Spun.  Adieu,  demi-dandiprat,  adieu  ! 
Aug.  Stay, — one  word  yet ;  you  now  are  full  of 
gold. 

Hir.  I  would  be  sorry  my  dog  were  so  full  of  the 
pox. 


THE  VIRGIX-MARTYR. 


15 


Spun.  Or  any  sow  of  mine  of  the   meazles  either. 

Aug.  Go,  go!  you're  beggars  both  ;  you  are  not 
That  leather  on  your  feet.  [worth 

Hir.  Away,  away,  hoy  ! 

Spun.  Page,  you   do  nothing  but  set  patches  on 
the  soies  of  your  jests. 

Aug.  I  am  glad  1  tried   your  love,  which,  see  !  I 
So  long  as  this  is  full.  [  want  not, 

Both.  And  so  long  as  this,  so  long  as  this. 

Hir.  Spungius,  you  are  a  pickpocket. 

Spun.  Hircius,  thou  hast  nini'd:—  So   long  as ! — 
not  so  much  money  is  left  as  will  buy  a  louse. 

Hir.  Thou  art  a  thief,  and  thou  liest  in  that   gut 
through  which  thy  wine  runs,  if  thou  deniest  it. 

Spun.  Thou   liest  deeper  than  the  bottom  of  mine 
enraged  pocket,  if  thou  affrontest  it. 

Aug.  No   blows,  no  bitter  language ; — all  your 
gold  gone  ! 

Spun.  Can  the  devil  creep  into  one's  breeches  ? 

Hir,  Yes,  if  his  horns  once  get  into  the  cod-piece. 

Ang.  Come,  sigli  not ;  I  so  little  am  in  love 
With  that  whose  loss  kills  you,  that,  see !  'tis  yours. 


I   All  yours  :  divide  the  heap  in  equal  share, 
So  you  will  go  along  with  me  to  prison, 
And  in  our  mistress*  sorrows  bear  a  part- 
Sav,  will  you? 

'Buth.  Will  we! 

Spun.  If  she  were  going  to  hanging,  no  gallows 
should  part  us. 

Hir.  Let  us  both  be  turn'd  into  a  rope  of  ocions, 
if  we  do  not. 

Ang.  Follow  me,  then  :  repair  your  bad  deeds  past ; 
Happy  are  men,  when  their  best  days  are  last ! 

Spun.  True,  master  Angelo  ;  pray,  sir,  lead  the 
way.  [Exit  Angelo. 

Hir.  Let  him  lead  that  way,  but  follow  thou  me 
this  way. 

Spun.  I  live  in  a  gaol ! 

Hir.  Away,  and  shift  for  ourselves: — She'll  do 
well  enough  there ;  for  prisoners  are  more  hungry 
after  mutton,  than  catchpoles  after  prisoners. 

Spun.  Let  her  starve  then,  if  a  whole  gaol  will 
not  fill  her  belly.  [Exeunt 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  DOROTHEA'S  House. 

Enter  SAPIUTIUS,  THEOPHILUS,  Priest,  CALISTA,  and 
CHRISTETA. 

Sap.  Sick  to  the  death,  I  fear*. 

Theopk.  I  meet  your  sorrow, 
With  my  true  feeling  of  it. 

Sap.  She's  a  witch, 
A  sorceress,  Theopbilus  ;  my  son 
Is  charm'd  by  her  enchanting  eyes  ;  and,  like 
An  image  made  of  wax,  her  beams  of  beauty 
Melt  him  to  nothing  :  all  my  hopes'  in  him, 
And  all  his  gotten  honours,  find  their  grave 
In  his  strange  dotage  on  her.     Would,  when  first 
He  saw  and  loved  her,  that  the  earth  had  open'd 
And  swallow'd  both  alive  ! 

Theoph.  There's  hope  left  yet. 

Sap.  IS  ot  any  :  though  the  princess  were  appeased, 
All  title  in  her  love  surrender 'd  up ; 
Yet  this  coy  Christian  is  so  transported 
Wi:h  her  religion,  that  unless  my  son 
H3ut  let  hire  perish  first ! )  drink  the  same  potion, 
And  be  of  her  belief,  she'll  not  vouchsafe 
To  be  his  lawful  wife. 

Priest.  But,  once  removed 
From  her  opinion,  as  I  rest  assured 
The  reasons  of  these  holy  maids  will  win  her, 
You'll  find  her  tractable  to  any  thing, 
For  your  content  or  his. 

Iheoph.  If  she  refuse  it, 
The  Stygian  damps,  breeding  infectious  airs, 
The  mandrake's  shrieks,  the  basilisk's  killing  eye, 
The  dreadful  lightning  that  does  crush  the  bones, 
And  never  singe  the  skin,  shall  not  appear 

*  Sap.  Sick  to  the  death,  I  fear.}  It  is  delightful,  aftei 
the  vile  ribaldry  and  harshness  of  the  preceding  act,  to  fall 
in  again  with  the  clear  and  harmonious  periods  of  Massinger. 
From  hence  to  the  conclusion  of  the  second  scene,  where 
Decker  takes  up  the  story,  every  page  is  crowded  with 
beauties  of  no  common  kind. 


'Less  fatal  to  her,  than  my  zeal  made  hot 
With  love  unto  my  gods.     I  have  deferr'd  it, 
In  hopes  to  draw  hack  this  apostile, 
Which  will  he  greater  honour  than  her  death, 
Unto  her  father's  faith  ;  and,  to  that  end, 
Have  brought  my  daughters  hither. 

Cat.  And  we  doubt  not 
To  do  what  you  desire. 

Sap.  Let  her  be  sent  for. 
Prosper  in  your  good  work  ;  and  were  I  not 
To  attend  the  princess,  I  would  see  and  hear 
How  you  succeed. 

Theoph.  I  am  commanded  too, 
I'll  bear  you  company. 

Sap.  Give  them  your  ring, 
To  lead  her  as  in  triumph,  if  they  win  her 
Before  her  highness.  [  Exit. 

Theoph.  Spare  no  promises, 
Persuasions,  or  threats,  I  do  conjure  you  ; 
If  you  prevail,  'tis  the  most  glorious  work 
You  ever  undertook. 

Enter  DOROTHEA  and  ANGELO. 

Priest.  She  comes. 

Theoph.  We  leave  you  ; 
Be  constant,  and  be  careful. 

[Exeunt  Theoph  and  Priest. 

Ctil.  We  are  sorry 
To  meet  you  under  guard. 

Dor.  But  I  more  grieved 
You  are  »t  liberty.     So  well  I  love  you, 
That  I  could  wish,  for  such  a  cause  as  mine, 
You  were  my  fellow-prisoners  :  Prithee,  Angelo, 
Reach  us  some  chairs.     Please  you  sit 

Cat.  We  thank  you  : 
Our  visit  is  for  love,  love  to  your  safety. 

Christ.  Our  conference  must  be  private,  pray  you, 
Command  your  boy  to  leave  us.  (_ therefore, 

Dor.  You  may  trust  him 
With  any  secret  that  concerns  my  hie, 
Falsehood  and  he  are  strangers  :  had  you,  ladles, 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  IIL 


Been  bless'd  with  such  a  servant,  you  had  never 

Forsook  that  way,  your  journey  even  half  ended, 

That  leads  to  joys  eternal.     In  the  place 

Of  loose  lascivious  mirth,  he  would  have  stirr'd  you 

To  holy  meditations  ;  and  so  far 

He  is  from  flattery,  that  lie  would  have  told  you, 

Your  pride  being  at  the  height,  how  miserable 

And  wretched  tilings  you  were,  that,  for  an  hour 

Of  pleasure  here,  have  made  a  desperate  sale 

Of  all  your  right  in  happiness  hereafter. 

lie  must  not  leave  me  ;  without  him  I  fall  : 

In  this  life  he's  my  servant,  in  the  other 

A  wish'd  companion. 

Ang.  'Tis  not  in  the  devil, 
Nor  all  his  wicked  arts,  to  shake  such  goodness. 

Dor.  But  you  were  speaking,  lady. 

Cat.  As  a  friend 

And  lover  of  your  safety,  and  I  pray  you 
So  to  receive  it ;  and,  if  you  remember 
How  near  in  love  our  parents  were,  that  we, 
Even  from  the  cradle,  were  brought  up  together, 
Our  amity  increasing  with  our  years, 
We  cannot  stand  suspected. 

Dor.  To  the  purpose. 

Cal.  We  come,  then,  as  good  angels,  Dorothea, 
To  make  you  happy  ;  and  the  means  so  easy, 
That,  be  not  you  an  enemy  to  yourself, 
Already  you  enjoy  it. 

Christ.  Look  on  us, 

Ruin'd  as  you  are,  once,  and  brought  unto  it  ' 

By  your  persuasion. 

Cal.  But  what  follow'd,  lady  ? 

Leaving  those  blessings  which  our  gods  gave  freely, 
And  shower'd  upon  us  with  a  prodigal  hand, 
As  to  be  noble  born,  youth,  beauty,  wealth, 
And  the  free  use  of  these  without  control, 
Check,  curb,  or  stop,  such  is  our  law's  indulgence  ! 
All  happiness  forsook  us  ;  bonds  and  fetters 
For  amorous  twines  ;  the  rack  and  hangman's  whips 
In  place  of  choice  delights  ;  our  parents'  curses 
Instead  of  blessings  ;  scorn,  neglect,  contempt, 
Fell  thick  upon  us. 

Christ.  This  consider'd  wisely, 
\\  e  made  a  fair  retreat ;  and  reconciled 
To  our  forsaken  gods,  we  live  again 
In  all  prosperity. 

Cal.  By  our  example, 
Bequeathing  misery  to  such  as  love  it, 
Learn  to  be  happy.     The  Christian  yoke's  too  heavy 
For  such  a  dainty  neck  ;  it  was  framed  rather 
To  be  the  shrine  of  A^enus,  or  a  pillar 
Wore  precious  than  crystal,  to  support 
Our  Cupid's  image  :  our  religion,  lady, 
Is  but  a  varied  pleasure  ;  yours  a  toil, 
Slaves  would  shrink  under.  [devils  1 

Dor.  Have  you   not   cloven   feet  ?    are  you   not 
Dare  any  say  so  much,  or  dare  I  hear  it 
Without  a  virtuous  or  religious  anger  ? 
Now  to  put  on  a  virgin  modesty, 
Or  maiden  silence,  when  His  power  is  question'd 
That  is  omnipotent,  were  a  greater  crime 
Than  in  a  bad  cause  to  be  impudent. 
Your  gods  !  your  temples  !  brothelhouses  rather, 
Or  wicked  actions  of  the  worst  of  men 
Pursued  and  practised.     Your  religious  rites  ! 
Oh  !  call  them  rather  juggling  mysteries, 
The  baits  and  nets  of  hell  :  your  souls  the  prey 
For  which  the  devil  angles  ;  your  false  pleasures 
A  steep  descent,  by  which  you  headlong  fall 
Into  eternal  torments. 


Cal.  Do  not  tempt 
Our  powerful  gods. 

Dor.  Which  of  your  powerful  gods  ? 
Your  gold,  your  silver,  brass,  or  wooden  ones, 
That  can  nor  do  me  hurt,  nor  protect  you  *  ? 
Most  pitied  women  !  will  you  sacrifice 
To  such, — or  call  them  gods  or  goddesses, 
Your  parents  would  disdain  to  be  the  same, 
Or  you  yourselves  ?   O  blinded  ignorance  ! 
Tell  me,  Calista,  by  the  truth,  I  charge  you, 
Or  any  thing  you  hold  more  dear,  would  you, 
To  have  him  d'eified  to  posterity, 
Desire  your  father  an  adulterer, 
A  ravisher,  almost  a  parricide, 
A  vile  incestuous  wretch? 

Cal.  That,  piety 
And  duty  answer  for  me. 

Dor.  Or  you,  Christeta, 
To  be  hereafter  register'd  a  goddess, 
Give  your  chaste  body  up  to  the  embraces 
Of  goatish  lust  ?  have  it  writ  on  your  forehead  : 
"  This  is  the  common  whore,  the  prostitute, 
The  mistress  in  the  art  of  wantonness. 
Knows  every  trick  and  labyrinth  of  desires 
That  are  immodest  V 

Christ.  You  judge  better  of  me, 
Or  my  affection  is  ill  placed  on  you  j 
Shall  I  turn  strumpet  1 

Dm:  No,  I  think  you  would  not ; 
Yet  Venus,  whom  you  worship,  was  a  whore  j 
Flora,  the  foundress  of  the  public  stews, 
And  has,  for  that,  her  sacrifice  ;  your  great  god, 
Your  Jupiter,  a  loose  adulterer, 
Incestuous  with  his  sister  :  read  but  those 
That  have  canonized  them,  you'll  find  them  worse 
Than,  in  chaste  language,  I  can  speak  them  to  you. 
Are  they  immortal  then,  that  did  partake 
Of  human  weakness,  and  had  ample  share 
In  men's  most  base  affections  ;  subject  to 
Unchaste  loves,  anger,  bondage,  wounds,  as  men  are? 
Here,  Jupiter,  to  serve  his  lust,  turn'd  bull, 
The  shape  f,  indeed,  in  which  he  stole  Europa  ; 
Neptune,  for  gain,  builds  up  the  walls  of  Troy, 
As  a  day-labourer  ;  Apollo  keeps 
Admetus'  sheep  for  bread  ;  the  Lemnian  smith 
Sweats  at  the  forge  for  hire  ;  Prometheus  here, 
With  his  still-growing  liver,  feeds  the  vulture  ; 
Saturn  bound  fast  in  hell  with  adamant  chains  ; 
And  thousands  more,  on  whom  abused  error 
Bestows  a  deity.     Will  you  then,  dear  sisters, 
For  I  would  have  you  such,  pay  your  devotions 
To  things  of  less  power  than  yourselves  1 

Cal.  We  worship 
Their  good  deeds  in  their  images. 

Dor.  By  whom  fashion 'd  ? 
By  sinful  men.     I'll  tell  you  a  short  talej, 
Nor  can  you  but  confess  it  is  a  true  one  : 


•  That  can   nor  do  me  hurt,  nor  protect  you  f[     More 
spirited,  and  more  in  the  author's  manner,  than  the  reading 
ot'  the  last  quarto,  which  the  modern  editors  follow : 
That  cannot  do  me  hurt,  nor  protect  you  ! 

+  The  shape,  indeed,  &c.]  The  old  copies  read,  The  ship, 
indeed,  &c.  Corrected  by  Coxeter.  [Omitted  in  edit,  of 
1813.] 

I'll  tell  you  a  short  tale,  &c.]     I  once  thought 

I  had  read   this  short  tale  in  Arnobiiis,  from  whom,   and 
from   Augusta,    much  of  the  preceding   speech   is   taken 
but,   upon  looking  him  over  again,  1   can  scarcely  find  a 
trace  of  it.     Herodotus   lias,   indeed,  a  story  of  a  king  o' 
Egypt  (Amasis,),  which  bears  a  distant  resemblance  to  it 
but  the  application  is  altogether  different :—  there  is  2  baton 


IT.] 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


1? 


A  king  of  Egypt,  being-  to  erect 

The  image  of  Osiris,  whom  they  honour, 

Took  from  the  matrons'  necks  the  richest  jewels, 

And  purest  gold,  as  the  materials, 

To  finish  up  his  work  ;  which  perfected, 

With  all  solemnity  he  set  it  up, 

To  be  adored,  and  served  himself  his  idol ; 

Desiring  it  to  give  him  victory 

Against  his  enemies  :  but,  being  overthrown, 

Enraged  against  his  god  (these  are  line  gods, 

Subject  to  human  fury  !),  he  took  down 

The  senseless  thing,  and  melting  it  again, 

He  made  a  bason,  in  which  eunuchs  wash'd 

His  concubine's  feet ;  and  for  this  sordid  use 

Some  months  it  served :  his  mistress  proving  false, 

As  most  indeed  do  so,  and  grace  concluded 

Between  him  and  the  priests,  of  the  same  bason 

He  made  his  god  again  ! — Think,  think  of  this 

And  then  consider,  if  all  worldly  honours, 

Or  pleasures  that  do  leave  sharp  stings  behind  them, 

Have  power  to  win  such  as  have  reasonable  souls, 

To  put  their  trust  in  dross. 

Cat.  Oh,  that  I  had  been  born 
Without  a  father  ! 

Christ.  Piety  to  him 
Ilath  ruin'd  us  for  ever. 

Dor.  Think  not  so  ; 
You  may  repair  all  yet :  the  attribute 
That  speaks  his  Godhead  most,  is  merciful  : 
Revenge  is  proper  to  the  fiends  you  worship, 
Yet  cvsmot  strike  wi'.hout  his  leave. — You  weep, — 
Oh,  'tis  a  heavenly  shower  !  celestial  balm 
To  cine  your  wounded  conscience  !  let  it  fall, 
Fall  ihick  upon  it ;  and,  when  that  is  spent, 
I'll  help  it  with  another  of  my  tears  : 
And  may  your  true  repentance  prove  the  child 
Of  my  true  sorrow,  never  mother  had 
A  birth  so  happy  ! 

Cal.  We  are  caught  ourselves, 
That  came  to  take  you  ;  and,  assured  of  conquest, 
\\  e  are  your  captives. 

Dor.  And  in  that  you  triumph  : 
\  our  victory  had  been  eternal  loss, 
And  this  your  loss  immortal  g'ain.     Fix  here, 
And  you  shall  feel  yourselves  inwardly  arm'd 
'Gainst  tortures,  death,  and  hell : — but,  take  heed, 
sisters,  [suasions, 

That,   or  through   weakness,   threats,   or  mild  per- 
'1  hough  of  a  father,  you  fall  not  into 
A  second  and  a  worse  apostacy. 

Cat.  Never,  oh  never  !   steel'd  by  your  example, 
We  dare  the  worst  of  tyranny. 

Christ.  Here's  our  warrant, 
You  shall  along  and  witness  it. 

Dor.  Be  confirm 'd  then  ; 
And  rest  assured,  the  more  you  suffer  here, 
The  more  your  glory,  you  to  heaven  more  dear. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE  II.— The  Governor's  Palace. 

Enter  AIITEJIIA,   SAPRITIUS,   THKOPHILUS,  and 

HARPAX. 

Artem.  Sapritius,  though  your  son  deserves  no  pity, 
We  grieve  his  sickness  :  his  contempt  of  us, 
We  cast  behind  us,  and  look  back  upon 
His  service  done  to  Ca?sar,  that  weighs  down 

ofynhl  in  which  lie  and  his  guests  were  accustomed  to  spit, 
wash  their  feet,  &c.  which  is  formed  into  a  yod  :  but  whether 
tiiis  furnished  tin:  pott  with  any  hints,  I  cannot  undertake 
!o  say. 


Our  just  displeasure.     If  his  malady 
Have  growth  from  his  restraint,  or  that  you  think 
His  liberty  can  cure  him,  let  him  have  it : 
Say,  we  forgive  him  freely. 

Sap.  Your  grace  binds  us 
Ever  your  humblest  vassals. 

Artem.   Use  all  means 
For  his  recovery  ;  though  yet  I  love  him, 
I  will  not  force  affection.     If  the  Christian, 
Whose  beauty  hath  out-rivall'd  me,  be  won 
To  be  of  our  belief,  let  him  enjoy  her  ; 
That  all  may  know,  when  the  cause  wills,  I  can 
Command  my  own  desires. 

Theoph.  Be  happy  then, 
My  lord  Sapritius  :  I  am  confident. 
Such  eloquence  and  sweet  persuasion  dwell 
Upon  my  daughters'  tongues,  that  they  will  work 
To  any  thing  they  please.  [her 

Sap.  I  wish  they  may  : 
Yet  'tis  no  easy  task  to  undertake, 
To  alter  a  perverse  and  obstinate  woman. 

[A  shout  within  :  loud  mutic, 

Artem.  What  means  this  shout'! 

Sap.  'Tis  seconded  with  music, 
Triumphant  music. — Ha  ! 

Enter  SEMPRONIUS. 

Semp.  My  lord,  your  daughters, 
The  pillars  of  our  faith*,  having  converted, 
For  so  report  gives  out,  the  Christian  lady, 
The  image  of  great  Jupiter  born  before  them, 
Sue  for  access. 

Theoph.  My  soul  divined  as  much. 
Blest  be  the  time  when  first  they  saw  this  light ! 
Their  mother,  when  she  bore  them  to  support 
My  feeble  age,  fill'd  not  my  longing  heart 
With  so  much  joy,  as  they  in  this  good  work 
Have  thrown  upon  me. 

Enter  Priest  with  the  Image  of  Jupiter,  incense  and 
censers ;  followed  by   CALISTA  and    CIIRISTETA 
leading  DOROTHEA. 
Welcome,  oh,  thrice  welcome, 
Daughters,  both  of  my  body  and  my  mind! 
Let  me  embrace  in  you  my  bliss,  my  comfort ; 
And,  Dorothea,  now  more  welcome  too, 
Than  if  you  never  had  fallen  off!  I  am  ravish 'd 
With  the  excess  of  joy  : — speak,  happy  daughters, 
The  blest  event. 

Cal.  We  never  gain'd  so  much 
By  any  undertaking. 

Theoph.  O  my  dear  girl, 
Our  gods  reward  thee  ! 

Dor.  Nor  was  ever  time 
On  my  part  better  spent. 

Christ.  We  are  all  now 
Of  one  opinion. 

Theaph.  My  best  Christeta  ! 
Madam,  if  ever  you  did  grace  to  worth, 
Vouchsafe  your  princely  hands. 

Artem.  Most  willingly 

Do  you  refuse  it ! 

Cat.  Let  us  first  deserve  it.  [prepare 

Theoph.  My  own  child  still !  here  set  our  god ; 
The  incense  quickly  :   Come,  fair  Dorothea, 
I  will  myself  support  you  ; — now  kneel  down 
And  pay  your  vows  to  Jupiter. 

*  The  pillars  o/ourfaiUi,  &c  I  Here  as  in  many  other 
places,  the  language  of  Christianity  and  paganism  is  con- 
founded  ;  faith  w%s  always  the  distinctive  term  for  the 
former,  iu  oi>D«sition  to  heathenism. 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr.  III. 


Dor.  I  shall  do  it 
Better  by  their  example. 

Theoph.  They  shall  guide  you, 
They  are  familiar  with  the  sacrifice. 
Forward,  my  twins  of  comfort,  and,  to  teach  her, 
Make  a  joint  offering. 

Christ.  Thus [they  both  spit  at  the  image, 

Cal.  And  thus throw  it  down,  and  spurn  it. 

Harp^  Profane, 

And  impious  !  stand  you  now  like  a  statue  ? 
Are  you  the  champion  of  the  gods  ?  where  is 
Your  holy  zeal,  your  anger? 

Theoph.  I  am  blasted  ; 
And,  as  my  feet  were  rooted  here,  I  find 
T  have  no  motion  ;  I  would  I  hud  no  sight  too ! 
Or  if  my  eyes  can  serve  to  any  use*, 
Give  me,  thou  injured  Power!  a  sea  of  tears, 
To  expiate  this  madness  in  my  daughters  ; 
For,  being  themselves,  they  would  have  trembled  at 

So  blasphemous  a  deed  in  any  other  : 

For  my  sake,  hold  awhile  thy  dreadful  thunder, 
And  give  me  patience  to  demand  a  reason 
Fur  this  accursed  act. 

Dor.  '  I'was  bravely  done.       [should  look  on  you 

Theo  h.  Peace,  damn'd   enchantress,   peace! — I 
With  eyes  made  red  with  fury,  and  my  hand, 
That  shakes  with  rage,   should  much  outstrip  my 

tongue, 

And  seal  my  vengeance  on  your  hearts ; — but  nature, 
To  you  that  have  fallen  once,  bids  me  again 
To  be  a  father.     Oh  !  how  durst  you  tempt 
The  anger  of  great  Jove  ? 

Dor.  Alack,  poor  Jove  ! 
He  is  no  swaggerer ;  how  smug  he  stands  ' 
He'll  take  a  kick,  or  any  thing. 

Sap.  Stop  her  mouth. 

Dor.  It  is  the  patient'st  godlingf;  do  not  fear  him ; 
He  would  not  hurt  the  thief  that  stole  away 
Two  of  his  golden  locks  ;  indeed  he  could  not  • 
And  still  'tis  the  same  quiet  thing 

Tlieop.  Blasphemer ! 
Ingenious  cruelty  shall  punish  this  ; 
Thou  art  past  hope  :  but  for  you  ytjt$,  dear  daughters, 
Again  bewitch'd,  the  dew  of  mild  forgiveness 
May  gently  fall,  provided  you  deserve  it 
With  true  contrition  :  be  yourselves  again  ; 
Sue  to  the  offended  deity. 

Christ.  Not  to  be 
The  mistress  of  the  earth. 

Cal.  1  will  (iot  offer 

A  grain  of  incense  to  it,  much  less  kneel, 
Nor  look  on  it  but  with  contempt  and  scorn, 
To  have  a  thousand  years  conferr'd  upon  me 
Of  worldly  blessings.-    We  profess  ourselves 
To  be,  like  Dorothea,  Christians, 
And  owe  her  for  that  happiness. 

Theop.  My  ears 

Receive,  in  hearing  this,  all  deadly  charms, 
Powerful  to  make  man  wretched. 

Artem.  Are  these  they 
You  bragg'd  could  convert  others ! 

•Or  if  my  eyes  can  serve  to  any  use,}    The  modern 
editors  roHti  ; 

Or  if  my  ei/es  can  serve  to  any  other  use. 
Other,  which  desiroys  ;,t  once  Hit  n,  ire  and  ihe  jenje   is 
an  absurd  interpolation  ,,f  i|le  quartos  1631  and  16C1 

Dor.  Jt  is  the  patient'si  yodling  ;  I  have  inserted  this 
word  at  the  recommendation  ol  Mr.  M.  Mason.  The  old 
copies  concur  in  reading  ancirnt'gt. 

bxtforyou  yet,]   Yet.  which  completes  the  verse, 

I  now  restored  from  the  tirst  edil'on. 


Sap.  That  want  strength 
To  stand  themselves ! 

Harp.  Your  honour  is  engaged, 
The  credit  of  your  cause  depends  upon  it ; 
Something  you  must  do  suddenly. 

Theoph.  And  1  will. 

Harp.  They  merit  death  ;  but,  falling  by  your  hand, 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  just  revenge, 
And  holy  fury  in  vou. 

Theoph.  Do  not  blow 

The  furnace  of  a  wrath  thrice  hot  already  ; 
^Ctna  is  in  mv  breast,  wildfire  burns  here, 
Which  only  blood  must  quench.      Incensed  Power ! 
Which  from  my  infancy  I  have  adored, 
Look  down  with  favourable  beams  upon 
The  sacrifice,  though  not  allow 'd  thy  priest, 
Which  I  will  offer  to  thee ,  and  be  pleased 
(My  fiery  zeal  inciting  me  to  act) 
To  call  that  justice  others  may  style  murder. 
Come,  you  accurs'd,  thus  by  the  hair  I  drag  you 
Before  this  holy  altar  ;  thus  look  on  you, 
Less  pitiful  than  tigers  to  their  prey  : 
And  thus  with  mine  own  hand  1  take  that  life 
Which  I  gave  to  you.  [Kills  them. 

Dor.  O  most  cruel  butcher  ! 

Theoph.  My  anger  ends  not  here :  hell's  dreadful 
Receive  into  thy  ever-open  gates,  [porter. 

Their  damned  souls,  and  let  the  Furies'  whips 
On  them  alone  be  wasted  ;  and,  when  death 
Closes  these  eyes,  'twill  be  Elysium  to  me 
To  hear  their  shrieks  and  bowlings.  Make  me,  Pluto, 
Thy  instrument  to  furnish  thee  with  souls 
Of  that  accursed  sect ;  nor  let  me  fall, 
Till  my  fell  vengeance  hath  consumed  them  all. 

[Exit,  Harpax  hugging  him. 

Artem.  'Tis  a  brave  zeal*. 

[Enter  Angela  smiling. 

Dor.  Oh,  call  him  back  again, 
Call  back  your  hangman  !  here's  one  prisoner  left 
To  be  the  subject  of  his  knife. 

Art.  Not  so  ; 

We  are  not  so  near  reconciled  unto  thee  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  perish  such  an  easy  way. 
Be  she  your  charge,  Sapritius,  now  ;  and  suffer 
None  to  come  near  her,  till  we  have  found  out 
Some  torments  worthy  of  her. 

Ang.  Courage,  mistress, 

These  martyrs  but  prepare  your  glorious  fate ; 
You  shall  exceed  them,  and  not  imitate.        [Exeunt, 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  DOROTHEA'S  House. 
Enter  SPUNGIUS  and  Hincius,  ragged,  at  apposite  doors- 

Hir.  Spungius  !  [tattered  world*  ? 

Spun.  My  line  rogue,  how  is  it?  how   goes  this 

Hir.  Hast  any  money  ? 

Spun.  Money  !  No,  The  tavern  ivy  clings  about 
my  money,  and  kills  it.  Hast  thou  any  mone\M  ? 

Hir.  No.  My  money  is  a  mad  bull ;  and  finding 
any  gap  opened,  away  it  runs. 

*  Artem  "J'it  a  brave  zeal.]  The  first  two  quartos  have 
a  stage  direction  here,  which  Coxeter  and  M.  Mason  lol- 
low  :  Enter  Artemia  lauyhiny.  But  Anemia  continues  on 
the  stage  :  the  error  was  i-ten  and  removed  by  ihe  quarto 
1051,  which  roads  as  1  have  tiven  it. 

+   how  goes   this  tattered   world?      These   odion 

wretches—  hut  tliey  are  not  woith  a  line.  Mr.  Malone  ob- 
serves that  tattered  is  spelt  with  an  o  in  the  old  editions  ol 
Sliak.'peare:  this  is  the  first  opportunity  I  have  ha:i  fc 
mentioning,  that  Massingrr  conforms  to  the  s^me  practice 
The  modem  editors  sometimes  adopl  one  mode  of  spelling 
it,  and  sometime*  another,  as  if  the  woids  were  ditierentl 
It  is  bust  to  be  uniform. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


19 


Spiin.  I  see  then  a  tavern  and  a  bawdy-house  have 
faces  much  alike  ;  the  one  hath  red  grates  next  the 
door,  the  other  hath  peeping-  holes  within-  doors  : 
the  tavern  hath  evermore  a  bush,  the  bawdy-house 
sometimes  neither  hedge  nor  bush.  From  a  tavern 

man  comes  reeling ;  from  a  bawdy-house,  not  able 
to  btand  In  the  tavern  you  are  cozen'd  with  paltry 
wine  ;  in  a  bawdv-house,  by  a  painted  whore  :  money 
may  have  wine,  and  a  whore  will  have  money  ;  but 
to  neither  can  you  cry,  Drawer,  you  rogue  !  or, 
Keep  door,  rotten  bawd !  without  a  silver  whistle  : — 
We  are  justly  plagued,  therefore,  for  running  from 
our  mistress. 

Hir.  Thou  didst ;  I  did  not :  Yet  I  had  run  too, 
but  that  one  gave  me  turpentine  pills,  and  that  staid 
my  running, 

Spun.  Well !  the  thread  of  my  life  is  drawn  through 
the  needle  of  necessity,  whose  eye,  looking  upon  my 
lousy  breeches,  cries  out  it  cannot  mend  them  ;  which 
so  pricks  the  linings  of  my  body  (and  those  are, 
heirt,  lights,  lungs,  guts,  and  midriff),  that  I  beg 
on  my  knees,  to  have  Afropos,  the  tailor  to  the  Des- 
tinies, to  take  her  sheers,  and  cut  my  thread  in  two, 
or  to  heat  the  iron  goose  of  mortality,  and  so  press 
me  to  death. 

Hir.  Sure  thy  father  was  some  botcher,  and  thy 
hungry  tongue  bit  off  these  shreds  of  complaints,  to 
patch  up  the  elbows  of  thy  nitty  eloquence. 

Spun.  And  what  was  thy  father  ? 

Hir.  A  low-minded  cobler,  a  cobler  whose  zeal  set 
many  a  woman  upright ;  the  remembrance  of  whose 
awl  (I  now  having  nofning)thrusts  such  scurvyatitcb.es 
into  my  soul,  that  the  heel  of  my  happiness  is  gone 
awry. 

Spun.  Pity  that  e'er  thou  trod'st  thy  shoe  awry. 

Hir.  Long  I  cannot  last ;  for  all  sovvterly  wax  of 
comfort  melting  away,  and  misery  taking-  the  length 
of  my  foot,  it  boots  not  me  to  sue  for  life,  when  all 
my  hopes  are  seam-rent,  and  go  wet-shod. 

Spun.  This  shews  thou  art  a  cobler's  son,  by  going 
through  stitch  :  O  Hircius,  would  thou  and  I  were 
so  happy  to  be  coblers  ! 

Hir.  So  would  I  ;  for  both  of  us  being  weary  of 
our  lives,  should  then  be  sure  of  shoemakers'  ends. 

Spun.  I  see  the  beginning  of  my  end,  for  I  am 
almost  starved. 

Hir.  So  am  not  I ;  but  I  am  more  than  famish'd. 

Spun.  All  the  members  in  my  body  are  in  a  re- 
bellion one  against  another. 

///)•.  So  are  mine  ;  and  nothing  but  a  cook,  being 
a  constable,  can  appease  them,  presenting  to  my  nose 
instead  of  his  painted  staff,  a  spit  full  of  roast  meat. 

Spun.  But  in  this  rebellion,  what  uproars  do  they 
make  !  my  belly  cries  to  my  mouth,  \Vhy  dost  not 
g-ape  and  feed  me  1 

Hir.  And  my  mouth  sets  out  a  throat  to  my  hand, 
A\  hy  dost  not  thou  lift  up  meat,  and  cram  mv  chops 
with  it  ? 

Spun.  Then  my  hand  hath  a  fling  at  mine  eyes 
because  they  look  not  out,  and  shark  for  victuals. 

Hir.  Which  mine  eyes  seeing,  full  of  tears,  cry 
aloud,  and  curse  my  feet,  for  not  ambling  up  and 
down  to  feed  colon,  sithence  if  good  meat  be  in  any 
place,  'tis  known  my  feet  can  smell. 

Spun.  But  then  my  feet,  like  lazy  rogues,  lie  still, 
and  had  rather^do  nothing,  than  run  to  and  fro  to 
purchase  any  thing. 

Hir.  Why,  among  so  many  millions  of  people, 
should  thou  and  I  only  be  miserable  tatterdema^ons, 
ragamuffins,  and  lousy  desperates  1 


Spun.  Thou  art  a  mere  I-am-an-o,  I-am-an-as  : 
consider  the  whole  world,  and  'tis  as  we  are. 

Hir.  Lousy,  beggarly  !  thou  whoreson  assa  foetidal 

Spun.  Worse;  all  tottering,  all  out  of  frame,  thou 
fooliamini ! 

Hir.  As  how,  arsenic  ?  c^rtm,  make  the  world 
smart . 

Spun.  Old  honour  goes  on  crutches,  beggary  rides 
caroched ;  honest  men  make  feasts,  knaves  sit  at 
tables,  cowards  are  lapp'd  in  velvet,  soldiers  (as  we) 
in  rags  ;  beauty  turns  whore,  whore,  bawd,  and  both 
die  of  the  pox  :  why  then,  when  all  the  world 
stumbles,  should  thou  and  I  walk  upright  1 

Hir.  Stop,  look!  who's  yonder'' 

Enter  ANGELO. 

Spun.  Fellow  Angelo!  how  does  my  little  man, 

Ang.  Yes  ;  [well '! 

And  would  you  did  so,  too.  Where  are  your  clothes? 

Hir.  Clothes  !  You  see  every  woman  almost  go 
in  her  loose  gown,  and  why  should  not  we  have  our 
clothes  loose  '! 

Spun.  Would  they  were  loose  ! 

Ang.  Why,  where  are  they  ? 

Spun.  Where  many  a  velvet  cloak,  I  warrant,  at 
this  hour,  keeps  them  company  ;  they  are  pawned 
to  a  broker. 

Ang.  Why  pawn'd  ?  where's  all  the  gold  I  left 
with  you  ? 

Hir.  The  gold  !  we  put  that  into  a  scrivener's 
hands,  and  he  hath  cozened  us. 

Spun.  And  therefore,  I  prithee,  Angelo,  if 'thou 
hast  another  purse,  let  it  be  confiscate,  and  brought 
to  devastation.  [way 

Ang.  Are  you  made  all  of  lies  ?     I  know  which 
Your  guilt-wing'd  pieces  flew.     I  will  no  more 
Be  mockt  by  you  :  be  sorry  for  your  riots, 
Tame  your  wild  flesh  by  labour  ;  eat  the  bread 
Got  with  hard  hands  ;  let  sorrow  be  your  whip, 
To  draw  drops  of  repentance  from  your  heart : 
When  I  read  this  amendment  in  your  eyes, 
You  shall  not  want ;  till  then,  my  pity  dies.     [Exit. 

Spun.  Is  it  not  a  shame,  that  this  scurvy  puerilis 
should  give  us  lessons. 

Hir.  I  have  dwelt,  thou  tnow'st,  a  long  time  in 
the  suburbs  of  conscience,  and  they  are  ever  bawdy ; 
but  now  my  heart  shall  take  a  house  within  the 
walls  of  honesty. 

Enter  HARPAX  behind. 

Spun.  O  you  drawers  of  wine,  draw  me  nd  more 
to  the  bar  of  beggary  ;  the  sound  of  score  a  pottle  oj 
sack,  is  worse  than  the  noise  of  a  scolding  oyster- 
wench,  or  two  cats  incorporating. 

Harp.  This  must  not  be — 1  do  not  like  when 
conscience  [tei  ~ . 

Thaws  ;  keep  her  frozen  still.     How  now,  my  mas- 
Dejected  1    drooping?    drown'd   in  tears?    clothes 
torn  ?  [wind 

Lean,  and  iU  colour'd  ?  sighing  ?  where's  the  whirl- 
Which  raises  all  these  mischiefs  ?  I  have  seen  you 
Drawn  better  on't.     O !  but  a  spirit  told  me 
You  both  would  come  to  this,  when  in  you  thrust* 
Yourselves  into  the  service  of  that  lady,     [praying  1 
Wrho    shortly  now  must  die.       Where's  now   Ler 

»  when  in  you   thrust.  I     In,  which   completes  the 

verse,  was  omitted  by  Mr.  M.  Mason,  from  an  opinion 
perhaps,  that  it  was  superfluous  to  the  S(.'U~e.  But  this  \va» 
the  language  of  the  times  :  for  the  rest,  this  whole  act  ii 
most  carel-ssly  priatel  by  the  Ivt  editors. 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr.  Ill 


What  good  got  you  by  wearing  out  your  feet, 
To  run  on  scurvy  errands  to  the  poor, 
And  to  bear  money  to  a  sort*  of  rogue 
And  lousy  prisoners  ? 

Hir.  Pox  on  them  !  I  never  prospered  since  I  did 
it. 

Spun.  Had  I  been  a  pagan  still,  I  should  not 
have  spit  white  for  want  of  drink  ;  but  come  to  any 
vintner  now,  and  bid  him  trust  me,  because  1  turned 
Christian,  and  he  cries,  Poh  ! 

Harp.  You're  rightly  served ;  before  that  peevishf 

lady 

Had  to  do  with  you,  women,  wine  and  money 
Flow'd  in  abundance  with  you,  did  it  not  1 

Hir.  Oh,  those  days  !  those  days!  f 

Harp.  Beat  not  your  breasts,  tear  not  your  hair 

in  madness ; 

Those  days  shall  come  again,  be  ruled  by  me, 
And  better,  mark  me,  better. 

Spun.  I  have  seen  you,  sir,  as  I  take  it,  an  attendant 
on  the  lord  Theophilus. 

Harp.  Yes,  yes  ;  in  shew  his  servant ;  but  hark, 
Take  heed  no  body  listens.  [hither  ! — 

Spun.  Not  a  mouse  stirs. 

Harp.  I  am  a  prince  disguised. 

Hir.  Disguised  !  how  }  drunk  ? 

Harp  Yes,  my  fine  boy  !  I'll  drink  too,  and  be 
I  am  a  prince,  and  any  man  by  me,  [drunk  ; 

Let  him  but  keep  my  rules,  shall  soon  grow  rich, 
Exceeding  rich,  most  infinitely  rich  : 
lie  that  shall  serve  me,  is  not  starved  from  pleasures 
As  other  poor  knaves  are  ;  no,  take  their  nil. 

Spun,  But  that,  sir,  we're  so  ragged — — 

Harp.  You'll  say,  you'd  serve  me  ? 

Hir.  Before  any  master  under  the  zodiac. 

Harp.  For  clothes  no  matter  ;  I've  a  mind  to  both. 
And  one  thing  I  like  in  you  ;  now  that  you  see 
The  bonfire  of  your  lady's  state  burnt  out, 
You  give  it  over,  do  you  not  ? 

Hir.  Let  her  be  liang'd  ! 

Spun.  And  pox'd  ! 

Harp.  Why,  now  you're  mine; 
Come,  let  my  bosom  touch  you. 

Spuu.  We  have  bugs,  sir. 

Harp.  There's  money,  fetch  your  clothes  home  ; 
there's  for  you. 


*  And  to  bear  money  to  a  sort  of  rogues, -&c.]     Or,  as  we 
fhoiil'l  now  say—  to  a  set,  or   parcel  of  rogues.      The  word 
recur:  so  frequently  in  this  sense,  in  our  old  writers,  that  it 
seems  almost  miiici-i:>-;ny  to  give  any  examples  of  it : 
"  Here  are  a  tort  of  poor  petitioners, 
That  are  importunate."  Spanish  Tragedy. 

Again  : 

"  And,  like  a  tort  of  true  born  scavenger?, 
Scour  me  this  famous  realm  of  enemies." 

Anight  of  tJte  Burning  Pestle. 

(This  word,  will)  asimilHr.nieaning  to  that  here  intended, 
frequently  occurs  in  Sliakspeare,  as  "  But  tl.ty  can  see  a 
sort  of  Traitors  here." — Richard,  II. 

Again  in  Richard  III.  "a  sort  of  vagabonds,  rascaU,  and 
runaways." — ED). 

+  before  that  peevish  !  ;dy 

Had  to  do  with  you,]  Peevish  is  foolish ;  thus,  in  the 
Merry  W'lves  of  H  indsor,  Mrs.  Quickly  sa^s  of  her  felbw- 
ciTvaiit,  "  His  worst  fault  is,  that  lie  is  given  to  prayer  ;  he 
is  something  peevish  that  way."  Mr  Malone  thinks  this  to 
he  one  of  dame  Quickly'*  blunders,  and  that  she  means  to 
say  precise:  but  1  believe  he  is  mistaken.  In  Jlycke 
ticorner,  the  word  is  used  in  the  very  sense  here  given  : 
•  For  an  1  shulcle  do  alter  your  scole 

To  loarn  to  pater  to  make  me  pcvysse." 
Again,    in    God't  liecenge  ayainst  Adultery  ;  "  Albemare 
kept  a  man-fool  of,  some   lorty  yeais  old    in  his  house,  who 
indeed  was  so  naturally  peevish,  as  not  Milan,  haidly  Italy, 
could  match  him  lor  simplicity." 


Hir.  Avoid,  vermin  !    give  over  our  mistress  ! 
man  cannot  prosper  worse,  if  he  serve  the  devil. 

Harp.  How  !  the  devil  ?  I'll  tell  you  what  now  of 
the  devil. 

He's  no  such  horrid  creature  ;  cloven-footed 
Black,  saucer-eyed,  his  nostrils  breathing  fire, 
As  these  lying  Christians  make  him. 

Both.  No! 

Harp.  He's  more  loving 
To  man,  than  man  to  man  is*. 

Hir.  Is  he  so  ?  Would  we  two  might  come 
acquainted  with  him ! 

Harp.  You  shall:  he's  a  wondrous  good  fellow, 
loves  a  cup  of  wine,  a  whore,  any  thing ;    if  you 
have  money,  it's  ten  to  one  but  I'll  bring  him  to 
him. 
some  tavern  to  you  or  other. 

Spun.  I'll  bespeak  the  best  room  in  the  house  foi 

Harp.  Some  people  he  cannot  endure. 

Hir.  We'll  give  him  no  such  cause. 

Harp.  He  hates  a  civil  lawyer,  as  a  soldier  does 
peace. 

Spun.  How  a  commoner  f? 

Harp.  Loves  him  from  the  teeth  outward. 

Spun.  Pray,  my  lord  at.d  prince,  let  me  encounter 
you  with  one  foolish  question  :  does  the  devil  eat 
any  mace  in  his  broth  ? 

Harp.  Exceeding  much,  when  his  burning  fever 
takes  him  ;  and  then  he  has  the  knuckles  of  ;•.  bailiff 
boiled  to  his  breakfast. 

Hir.  Then,  my  lord,  he  loves  a  catchpole,  does  he 
not? 

Harp.  As  a  bearward  doth  a  dog.  A  catchpole ' 
he  hath  sworn,  if  ever  he  dies,  to  make  a  Serjeant  his 
heir,  and  a  yeoman  his  overseer. 

Spun.  How  if  lie  come  to  any  great  man's  gate, 
will  the  porter  let  him  come  in,  sir! 

Harp.  Oh  !  he  loves  porters  of  great  men's  gates 
because  they  are  ever  so  near  the  wicket. 

Hir.  Do  not  they  whom  he  makes  much  on,  for 
all  his  streaking  their  cheeks,  lead  hellish  lives 
under  him  ?  * 

Harp.  No,  no,  no,  no ;  he  will  be  damn'd  before 
he  hurts  any  man :  do  but  you  (when  you  are 
throughly  acquainted  with  him)  ask  for  any  thing, 
see  if  it  does  not  come. 

^l^iin.  Any  thing ! 

Harp.  Call  for  a  delicate  rare  whore,  she  is  brought 
you. 

Hir.  Oh!  my  elbow  itches.  Will  the  devil  keep 
the  door? 

Harp.  Be  drunk  as  a  beggar,  he  helps  you  home. 

Spun.  O  my  fine  devil !  some  watchman,  I  war- 
rant ;  I  wonder  who  is  his  constable. 

Harp.  Will  you  swear,  roar,  swagger?  he  claps 
you 

Hir.  How  ?  on  the  chaps  ? 

Harp.  No,  on  the  shoulder  ;  and  cries,  O,  my 
brave  boys !  Will  any  of  you  kill  a  man  ? 

Spun.  Yes,  yes;  1,  I. 

Harp.  What  is  his  word?  Hang!  hang!  t's 
nothing. — Or  stab  a  woman? 

•   Harp.  lie's  more  lot  ing 

To  man,  than  man  to  man  is.]  Thongli  this  horrid  pros- 
titution of  that  line  sentiment  in  Juvenal,  Carior  eat  Hits 
homo  quum  sibi,  may  not  be  altogether  out  of  character  lor 
the  speaker  ;  it  were  to  be  wished  it  had  not  been  employed. 
To  say  the  truth,  the  whole  of  this  scene,  more  especially 
what  jet  remains  ol  it,  is  as  foolish  as  it  is  profligate. 

t  Spun.  How  a  commoner?]  That  is  a  common  lawyer. 
M.  Mason. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


Hir.  Yes,  yes ;  I,  I. 

Harp.  Here  is  the  worst  word  he  gives  you :  A 
pox  on't,  go  on ! 

Hir.  O  inveigling  rascal ! — I  am  ravish'd. 

Harp.  Go,  get  your  clothes  ;  turn  up  your  glass 

of  youth, 

And  let  the  sands  run  merrily ;  nor  do  I  care 
From  what  a  lavish  hand  your  money  flies, 
So  you  give  none  away  to  beggars 

Hie.  Hang  them ! 

Harp.  And  to  the  scrubbing  poor. 

Hir.  I'll  see  them  hang'd  first. 

Hurp.  One  service  you  must  do  me. 

Both.  Any  thing. 

Harp.  Your  mistress,  Dorothea,  ere  she  suffers, 
Is  to  be  put  to  tortures  :  have  you  hearts 


To  tear  her  into  shrieks,  to  fetch  her  soul 
Up  in  the  pangs  of  death,  yet  not  to  die  1 

Hir.  Suppose  this  she,  and  that  1  had  no  hands, 
here's  my  teeth. 

Spun.  Suppose  this  she,  and  that  I  had  no  teeth, 
here's  my  nails. 

Hir.  But  will  not  you  be  there,  sir?  [master 

Harp.  No,  not  for  hills  of  diamonds;  the  grand 
Who  schools  her  in  the  Christian  discipline. 
Abhors  my  company  :  should  I  be  there,     [quarrel 
You'd  think   all   hell   broke   loose,   we    should  so 
Ply  you  this  business  ;  he,  her  flesh  who  spares, 
Is  lost,  and  in  my  love  never  more  shares.        [Exit. 

Spun.  Here's  a  master,  you  rogue  ! 

Hir.t  Sure  he  cannot  choose  but  have  a  horrible 
number  of  servants.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV 


SCENE  I. — The  Governor's  Palace. 

ANTONINUS  sick,  u-itJi  Doctors  about  him  ; 
SAPRITIUS  and  MACRIXVS. 

Sap.  O  you,  (hat  are  half  gods,  lengthen  that  life 
Their  deities  lend  us  ;  turn  o'er  all  the  volumes 
Of  your  mysterious  JEsculapian  science, 
T'  increase  the  number  of  this  young  man's  days  ; 
And,  for  each  minute  of  his  time  prolong'd, 
Your  fee  shall  be  a  piece  of  Roman  gold 
With  Caesar's  stamp,  such  as  he  sends  his  captains 
When  in  the  wars  they  earn  well  :  do  but  save  him, 
And,  as  he's  half  myself,  be  you  all  mine.        [hand 

Doct.  What    art  can  do,  we    promise  ;   physic's 
As  apt  is  to  destroy  as  to  preserve, 
If  heaven  make  not  the  med'cine  :  all  this  while, 
Our  skill  hath  combat  held  with  his  disease  ; 
But  'tis' so  arm'd,  and  a  deep  melancholy, 
To  be  such  in  part  with  death*,  we  are  in  fear 
The  grave  must  mock  our  labours. 

Mac.  I  have  been 

His  keeper  in  this  sickness,  with  such  eyes 
As  I  have  seen  my  mother  watch  o'er  me ; 
And,  from  that  observation,  sure  I  find 
It  is  a  midwife  must  deliver  him. 

Sap.  Is  he  with  child  1  a  midwife  t  ! 

Mac.  Yes,  with  child  ; 
And  will,  I  fear,  lose  life,  if  by  a  woman 
He  is  not  brought  to  bed.     Stand  by  his  pillow 
Some  little  while,  and  in  his  broken  slumbers, 
Him  shall  you  hear  cry  out  on  Dorothea  ; 
And,  when  his  arms  fly  open  to  catch  her, 
Closing  together,  he  falls  fast  asleep, 
Pleased  with  embracings  of  her  airy  form. 
Physicians  but  torment  him,  his  disease 
Laughs  at  their  gibberish  language  ;  let  him  hear 
The  voice  of  Dorothea,  nay,  but  the  name, 
He  starts  up  with  high  colour  in  his  face : 


*  To  be  tuch  in  part  with  death,]  Mr.  M.  Mason  reads, 
after  Coxeter,  To  tuch  in  part  with  death,  and  explains  it 
to  mean  "  To  sucli  a  degree. "  I  doubt  whether  he  under- 
stood his  own  explanation  or  not.  The  genuine  reading, 
which  1  have  restored,  takes  away  all  difficulty  I'ro.n  tlie 
passage. 

t  Sap.  /*  hf  with  ch'-ld?  a  midwife ! !  The  modern 
editon  read,  4  inidirij'e '  i*  he  with  child  ?  Had  they  no 


She,  or  none,  cures  him ;  and  how  that  can  be, 
The  princess*  strict  command,  barring  that  happiness, 
To  me  impossible  seems. 

Sap.  To  me  it  shall  not : 
I'll  be  no  subject  to  the  greatest  Ca;sar 
Was  ever  crown'd  with  laurel,  rather  than  cease 
To  be  a  father.  [Erit 

Mac.  Silence,  sir,  l.e  wakes. 

Anton.  Thou  kill'st  me,  Dorothea ;  oh,  Dorothea! 

Mac.  She's  here  : — enjoy  her. 

Anton.  Where?  Why  do  vou  mock  me  1 
Age  on  my  head  hath  stuck  no  white  hairs  yet, 
Yet  I  am  an  old  man,  a  fond  dealing  fool 
Upon  a  woman.     I,  to  buy  her  beauty, 
(In  truth  I  am  be  witch 'd,')  offer  my  life, 
And  she,  for  my  acquaintance,  hazards  hers  ; 
Yet,  for  our  equal  sufferings  none  holds  out 
A  hand  of  pity. 

Doct.  Let  him  have  some  music. 

Anton.  Hell  on  your  fiddling! 

Doct.  Take  again  your  bed,  sir , 
Sleep  is  a  sovereign  physic. 

Anton.  Take  an  ass's  head,  sir  : 
Confusion  on  your  fooleries,  your  charms  ! — 
Thou  stinking  clyster-pipe,  where's  the  god  of  rest, 
Thy  pills  and  base  apothecary  drugs 
Threaten'd  to  bring  unto  me  ?    Out,  you  impostors! 
Quacksalving,  cheating  mountebanks  !  your  skill 
Is  to  make  sound  men  sick,  and  sick  men  kill. 

Mac.  Oh,  be  yourself,  dear  friend. 

Anton.  Myself,  Macrinus ! 
How  can  I  be  myself  when  I  am  mangled 
Into  a  thousand  pieces  ?  here  moves  my  head, 
But  where's  my  heart?  wherever — that  lies  dead. 

Ee-enter   SAFIUTIUS,  dragging  in   DOROTHEA  by  the 
hair,  ANGF.IO  attending. 

Sap.  Follow  me,  thou  damn'd  sorceress  !  call  up 

thy  spirits, 

And,  if  they  can,  now  let  them  from  my  hard 
Untwine  these  witching  hairs. 

Anton.  I  am  that  spirit  : 
Or,  if  I  be  not,  were  you  not  my  father, 
One  made  of  iron  should  hew  that  hand  in  pieces, 
That  so  defaces  this  sweet  monument 
Of  my  love's  beauty. 

Sap.  Art  thou  sick  ? 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  IV 


Anton.  To  death. 

Sap.  Wouldst  them  recover  ? 

Anton.  Would  I  live  in  bliss  ! 

Sap.  And  <lo  thine  eyes  shoot  daggers  at  that  man 
That  brings  thee  health  ? 

Anton.  It  is  not  in  the  world. 

Sap.  It's  here. 

Anton.  To  treasure*,  by  enchantment  lock'd 
In  caves  as  deep  as  hell,  am  1  as  near. 

Sap.   Break  that  enchanted  cave  ;  enter,  and  rifle 
The  spoils  thy  lust  hunts  after  ;  I  descend 
To  a  base  office,  and  become  thy  pander, 
In  bringing  thee  this  proud  thing :  make  her  thy 

whore, 

Thy  health  lies  here  ;  if  she  deny  to  give  it, 
Force  it:  imagine  thou  assault's!  a  town's 
Weak  wall ;  to't  'tis  thine  own,  but  beat  this  down. 
Come,  and,  unseen,  be  witness  to  this  battery 
How  the  coy  strumpet  yields  f- 

Doct.  Shall  the  boy  stay,  sir  1 

Sap    No  matter  for  the  boy  : — pages  are  used 
To  these  odd  bauwdy  shufflings  ;  and,  indeed,  are 
Those  little  young  snakes  in  a  fury's  head, 
Will  sting  worse  than  the  great  ones. 
Let  the  pimp  stay.         [Exeunt  Sap.  Mac.  and  Doct. 

Dor.  O.  guard  me,  angels  ! 
What  tragedy  must  begin  now? 

Anton.  When  a  tiger 

Leaps  into  a  timorous  herd,  with  ravenous  jaws, 
Being  hunger-starved,  what  tragedy  then  begins  ? 

Dor.  Death  :  I  am  happy  so ;  you,  hitherto, 
Have  still  had  goodness  sphered  within  your  eyes, 
Let  not  that  orb  be  b  oken  $. 

Ang.   Fear  not,  mistress  ; 
If  he  dare  offer  violence,  we  two 
Are  strong  enough  for  such  a  sickly  man. 

Dor.  What  is  your  horrid  purpose,  sir  ?  your  eye 
Bears  danger  in  it. 

Anton.  I  must 

Dor.   What? 

Sap.  [within.]  Speak  it  out. 

Anton.  Climb  that  sweet  virgin  tree. 

Sap.  [within.]  Plague  o'  your  trees. 

Anton.  And  piuck  that  fruit  which  none,  I  think, 

e'er  tasted. 
Sap.  [icirtm.]  A  soldier,  and  stand  fumbling  so ! 

Dor.  Oh,  kill  me,  [kneels. 

And  heaven  will  take  it  as  a  sacrifice ; 
But,  if  you  play  the  ravisher,  there  is 
A  hell  to  swallow  you. 

Sap.  [within.]  Let  her  swallow  thee  ! 

Anton.  Rise  : — for  the  Roman  empire,  Dorothea, 
I  would  not  wound  thine  honour.    Pleasures  forced 
Are  unripe  apples  ;   sour,  not  worth  the  plucking  : 
Yet,  let  me  tell  you,  'tis  my  father's  will, 
That  I  should  seize  upon  you,  as  my  prey  ; 


•  Ant.  To  treasure,  &c.]  Thia  i>  the  emendation  of  Mr. 
M.  Mason.  It  appear*  a  happy  substitution  for  the  old 
reading,  which  w:is,  O  treasure,  &c. 

t  Come,  and,  unseen,  be  witness  to  this  battery 

How  the  coy  strumpet  yields.}  These  two  lines  are  ad- 
dressed to  Macrinus  and  the  doctors.  'M.  Mason. 

t  you,  hitherto, 

Have  still  had  yoodnen  jp.ir'd  within  your  eyes, 

Let  not  that  orb  be  broken. ,  The  word  urb  in  this  last 
line  proves  that  we  should  read  sphered  instead  of  spar'd  ; 
the  latter,  indeed,  made  the  passage  nonsense,  which  is  now 
very  poetical.  M.  Mason. 

Mr.  M.  Mason  if  somewhat  rash  in  his  assertion  :  sparred, 
Is  shvtup,  ittclofed,  it  is  not  therefore  nonsense.  1  have, 
however,  adopted  his  emendation,  which,  if  not  just,  is  at 
least  ingenious. 


Wliich  I  abhor,  as  much  as  the  blackest  sin 
The  villainy  of  man  did  ever  act. 

[Sapritms  breaks  in  with  Macrinus. 
Ang.  Die  happy  for  this  language. 
Sap.   Die  a  slave 
A  blockish  idiot ! 

Mac.  Dear  sir,  vex  him  not.  [geldings  : 

Sap.  Yes,  and  vex  thee  too  ;  both,  I  think,  are 
Cold,  phlegmatic  bastard,  thou'rt  no  brat  of  mine; 
One  spark  of  me,  when  I  had  heat  like  thine, 
By  this  had  made  a  bonfire :  a  tempting  whore, 
For  whom  thou'rt  mad,  thrust  e'en  into  thine  arms, 
And  stand'st  thou  puling!  had  a  tailor  seen  her 
At  this  advantage,  he,  with  his  cross  capers 
Had  ruffled  her  by  this :  but  thou  shall  curse 
Thy  dalliance*,  and  here,  before  her  eyes, 
Tear  thy  own  flesh  in  pieces,  when  a  slave 
In  hot  lust  bathes  himself,  and  gluts  those  pleasures 
Thy  niceness  durst  not  touch.     Call  out  a  slave; 
You,  captain  of  our  guard,  fetch  a  slave  hither. 
Anton.  What  will  you  do,  dear  sir?  [learn 

Sap.  Teach  her  a  trade,  which  many  a  one  would 
In  less  than  half  an  hour, — to  play  the  whore. 

Enter  A  SLAVE. 

Mac.  A  slave  is  come ;  what  now  ? 

Sap.  Thou  hast  bones  and  flesh 
Enough  to  ply  thy  labour :  from  what  country 
Wert  thou  ta'en  prisoner,  here  to  be  our  slave; 

Slave.  From  Britain. 

Sap.  In  the  west  ocean? 

Slave,  Yes. 

Sap.  An  island  ? 

Slave.  Yes. 

Sap.  I'm  fitted:  of  all  nations 
Our  Roman  swords  e'er  conquered,  none  comes  near 
The  Briton  for  true  whoring.     Sirrah  fellow, 
What  wouldst  thou  do  to  gain  thy  liberty? 

Slave.  Do !  liberty  !  fight  naked  wth  a  lion, 
Venture  to  pluck  a  standard  from  the  heart 
Of  an  arm'd  legion.    Liberty!  I'd  thus 
Bestride  a  rampire,  and  defiance  spit 
I'  the  face  of  death,  then,  when  the  battering-ram 
Was  fetching  his  career  backward,  to  pash 
Me  with  his  horns  in  pieces.     To  shake  my  chains  ofi, 
And  that  1  could  not  do't  but  by  thy  death, 
Stood'st  thou  on  this  dry  shore,  I  on  a  rock 
Ten  pyramids  high,  down  would  I  leap  to  kill  thee, 
Or  die  myself:  what  is  for  man  to  do 
I'll  venture  on,  to  be  no  more  a  slave.  [thee 

Sap.  Thou  shalt,  then,  be  no  slave,  for  I  will  set 
Upon  a  piece  of  work  is  fit  for  man, 
Brave  for  a  Briton : — drag  that  thing  aside, 
And  ravish  her, 

Slave.  And  ravish  her !  is  this  your  manly  service  ? 
A  devil  scorns  to  do  it ;  'tis  for  a  beast, 
A  villain,  not  a  man :  I  am  as  yet, 
But  half  a  slave;  but  when  that  work  is  past, 
A  damned  whole  one,  a  black  ugly  slave, 
The  slave  of  all  base  slaves : — do't  thyself,  Roman, 
'Tis  drudgery  fit  for  thee. 

Sap.  He's  bewitch'd  too : 
Bind  him,  and  with  a  bastinado  give  him, 
Upon  his  naked  belly,  two  hundred  blows. 

Slave.  Thou  art  more  slave  than  I. 

[He  is  carried  in. 


-but  thou  shalt  curse 


Thy  dalliance,]  i.  e.  thy  hesitation,  thy  delay  : 

"  Coo  I  lord  !  you  use  this  dalliance  to  excnse 
Your  breach  of  promise."  Comedy  <j/"  Errort 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  VIRGIN  MARTYR. 


93 


Dor.  That  power  supernal,  on  whom  waits  my 
Is  captain  o'er  my  chastity.  [soul, 

Anton.  Good  sir,  give  o'er  : 
The  more  you  wronsf  her,  yourself  s  vex'd,  the  more. 

Sap.  Plagues  light  on  her  and  thee  ! — thus  down 

1  throw 

Thy  harlot,  thus  by  the  hair  nail  her  to  earth. 
Call  in  ten  sluves,  let  every  one  discover 
What  lust  desires,  and  surfeit  here  his  fill. 
Call  in  ten  slaves. 

Mac*.  They  are  come  sir,  st  vour  call. 

Sap.  Oh,  oh  !  [Falls  down. 

Enter  THEOPIIILUS. 

Theoph.  Where  is  the  governor? 

Anton.  There's  my  wretched  father. 

Theoph.  My  lord  Sapritius — he's  not  dead! — my 
That  witch  there [lord  : 

Anton.  'Tis  no  Roman  gods  can  strike 
These  fearful  terrors.     O,  thou  happy  maid, 
Forgive  this  wicked  purpose  of  my  father. 

Dor.  I  do. 

Theoph.  Gone,  gone  ;  he's  peppered.     It  is  thou 
Hast  done  this  act  infernal. 

Dor.  Heaven  pardon  you ! 

And  if  my  wrongs  from  thence  pull  vengeance  down, 
(I  can  no  miracles  work)  yet,  from  my  soul, 
Pray  to  those  powers  I  serve,  he  may  recover. 

Theoph.  He  stirs — help,  raise  him  up, — my  lord ! 

Sap.   Where  am  I  ? 

Theoph.  One  cheek  is  blasted. 

Sap.   Blasted  !  where's  the  lamia  f 
That  tears  my  entrails?  I'm  bewitch'd  ;  seize  on  her. 

Dor.  I'm  here ;  do  what  you  please. 

Theoph.  Spurn  her  to  the  bar.  [we  are. 

DC-.  Come,  boy,  being  there,  more  near  to  heaven 

Sap.  Kick  harder;  go  out  witch!  [Exeunt. 

Anton.  O  bloody  hangmen  !  Thine  own  gods  give 

thee  breath ! 
Each  of  thy  tortures  in  my  several  death.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.— ,4  Public  Square. 
Enter  HAKPAX,  Hindus,  and  SPUNGIUS. 

Harp.  Do  you  like  my  service  now?  say,  am  not  I 
A  master  worth  attendance  ? 

Spun.  Attendance!  I  bad  rather  lick  clean  the 
soles  of  your  dirty  boots,  than  wear  the  richest  suit 
of  any  infected  lord,  whose  rotten  life  hangs  between 
xthe  two  poles, 

Hir.  A  lord's  suit!  I  would  not  give  up  the  cloak 
of  your  service,  to  meet  the  splayfoot  estate  of  any 
left-eyed  knight  above  the  antipodes ;  because  they 
are  unlucky  to  meet. 

Harp.  This  day  I'll  try  your  loves  to  me  ;  'tis  only 
But  well  to  use  die  agility  of  your  arms 

Spun.  Or  legs,  1  am  lusty  at  them.  ^ 

Hir.  Or  any  other  member  that  has  no  legs. 

Spun.  Thou'lt  run  into  some  hole. 

Hir.  If  I  meet  one  that's  more  than  my  match, 
and  that  I  cannot  stand  in  their  hands,  I  must  and 
will  creep  on  my  knees.  [me, 

Harp.  Hear  me,  my  little  team  of  villians,  hear 
I  cannot  teach  you  fencing  with  these  cudgels, 


•  Mac.  They  are  come,  Sec. '  The  old  copies  give  this 
ipcvch  to  Angclu :  ii  is;  however,  -o  palpable  an  error,  that 
the  emendation  \\hich  I  have  introduced  requires  no 
apology. 

t  Lamia,  LAT.  Aoge.  hag. 


Yet  you  must  use  them  ;  lay  them  on  but  soundly  ; 
That's  all. 

Hir.  Nay,  if  we  come  to  mauling  once,  pah  ! 

Spun.  But  what  walnut-tree  is  it  we  must  beat  ? 

Harp.  Your  mistress. 

Hir.  How  !  my  mistress  ?  I  begin  to  have  a 
Christian's  heart  made  of  sweet  butter,  I  melt  ;  I 
cannot  strike  a  woman. 

Spun.  Nor  I,  unless  she  scratch  ;  bum  my  mis- 
tress ! 

Harp.  You're  coxcombs,  silly  animals. 

Hir.  What's  that  ?  [thrust 

7/orp.  Drones,  asses,  blinded  moles,  that  dare  not 
Your  arms  out  to  catch  fortune  ;  say,  you  fall  off, 
It  must  be  done.     You  are  converted  rascals, 
And,  that  once  spread  abroad,  why  every  slave 
Will  kick  you,  call  you  motley  Christians, 
And  half-faced  Christians. 

Spun.  The  guts  of  my  conscience  begin  to  be  of 
whitleather. 

Hir.  I  doubt  me,  I  shall  have  no  sweet  butter  in 
me.  [meet, 

Harp.  Deny  this,  and  each  pagan*  whom  you 
Shall  forked  fingers  thrust  into  your  eyes • 

Hir.  If  we  be  cuckolds.  [to, 

Harp.  Do  this,  and  every  god  the  Gentiles  bow 
Shall  add  a  fathom  to  your  line  of  years. 

Spun..  A  hundred  fathom,  I  desire  no  more. 

Hir.  I  desire  but  one  inch  longer. 

Harp.  The  senators  will,  as  you  pass  along, 
Clap  you  upon  your  shoulders  with  this  hand, 
And  with  this  give  you  gold  :  when  you  are  dead, 
Happy  that  man  shall  be,  can  get  a  nail, 
The  paring, — nay,  the  dirt  under  the  nail, 
Of  any  of  you  both,  to  say,  this  dirt 
Belong'd  to  Spungius  or  Hircius. 

Spun.  They  shall  not  want  dirt  under  my  nails,  I 
will  keep  them  long  of  purpose,  for  now  my  ringers 
itch  to  be  at  her. 

Hir.  The  first  thing  I  do,  I'll  take  her  over  the 
lips. 

Spun.  And  1  the  hips, — we  may  strike  any  where 

Harp.  Yes,  any  where. 

Hir.  Then  I  know  where  I'll  hit  her. 

Harp.  Prosper,  and  be  mine  own  ;  stand  by,  I 

must  not 

To  see  this  done,  great  business  calls  me  hence  : 
He's  made  can  make  her  curse  his  violence.      [Exit. 

Spun,  Fear  it  not,  sir  ;  her  ribs  shall  be  basted. 

Hir.  I'll  come  upon  her  with  rounce,  robble-hob- 
ble,  and  thwick-thwack  thirlery  bouncing. 

Enter  DOROTHEA,  led  prisoner;  SAPRITIUS,  THEOPHI- 
LUS,  AXOELO,  and  a  Hangman,  who  sets  up  a  Pillar; 
SAPRITIUS  and  TIIEOPHILUS  sit;  ANGEI.O  stands  by 
DOROTHEA.  A  Guard  attending. 

Sap.  According  to  our  Roman  customs,  bind  that 
Christian  to  a  pillar. 

Theojih.  Infernal  Furies, 

Could  they  into  my  hand  thrust  all  their  whips 
To  tear  thy  flesh,  thy  soul,  'tis  not  a  torture 
Fit  to  the  vengeance  I  should  heap  on  thee, 
For  wrongs  done  me  ;  me  !  for  flagitious  facts 
By  thee  done  to  our  gods  :  yet,  so  it  stand 
To  great  Caesarea's  governor's  high  pleasure. 
Bow  but  thy  knee  to  Jupiter,  and  offer 


•  and  each  pagan.']    So  the  Orjl  two  qnsitcs, 

latt  reads  roery :  which,  as  it  mars  tlie  verse,  is  followed 
the  modern  editors.     [  Omitted  in  Edit.  1813.]— En. 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  IV 


Any  slight  sacrifice,  or  do  but  swear 

By  Caesar's  fortune,  and be  free. 

•Sap.  Thou  shalt. 

Dor.  Not  for  all  Caesar's  fortune,  were  it  chain'd 
To  more  worlds  than  are  kingdoms  in  the  world, 
And  all  those  worlds  drawn  after  him.     I  defy 
Your  hangmen  ;  you  now  show  me  whither  to  fly. 
Sap.  Are  her  tormentors  ready  ? 
Ang.  Shrink  not,  dear  mistress. 
Spun  and  Hir.   My  lord,   we   are   ready  for  the 
business. 

Dor.  You  two  !  whom  I  like  foster'd  children  fed 
And  lengthen'd  out  your  starved  life  with  bread  : 
You  be  my  hangmen  !  whom,  when  up  the  ladder 
Death  haled  you  to  he  strangled,  I  fetch'd  down, 
Clothed  you,  and  warm'd  you,  you  two  my  tormen- 
Both.  Yes,  we.  [tors  ,r 

Dor.  Divine  Powers  pardon  you*  ! 
Sap.  Strike. 

[They  strike  at  lier.  ANGELO  kneeling  holdt  her  fast 
Theoph.  Beat  out  her  brains. 
Dor.  Receive  me,  you  bright  angels  ! 
Sop.  Faster,  slaves. 

Spun.  Faster  !  I  am  out  of  breath,  I  am  sure  ;  if] 
were  to  beat  a  buck  f,  I  can  strike  no  harder. 

Hir.  O  mine  arms  !  I  cannot  lift  them  to  my  head. 
Dor.  Joy  above  joys  !  are  my  tormentors  weary 
In  torturing  me,  and,  in  my  sufferings, 
I  fainting  in  no  limb  !  tyrants,  strike  home, 
And  feast  your  fury  full. 

Theoph.  These  dogs  are  curs, 

[Comes  from  his  seat, 

Which  snarl,  yet  bite  not.     See.  my  lord,  her  face 
Has  more  bewitching  beauty  than  before  : 
Proud  whore,  it  smiles  |  !  cannot  an  eye  start  out 
With  these? 

Hir.  No,  sir.  nor  the  bridge  of  her  nose  fall ;  'tis 

fiill  of  iron  work,  [feit 

Sap.  Let's  view  the  cudgels,  are  they  not  counter- 

Ang.  There    fix    thine    eye   still; — thy   glorious 

crown  must  come 

Not  from  soft  pleasure,  but  by  martyrdom. 
There  fix  thine  eye  still ; — when  we  next  do  meet, 
Not  thorns,  but  roses,  shall  bear  up  thy  feet : 
There  fix  thine  eye  still.  [Exit. 

Enter  HARPAX  sneaking. 
Dor.  Ever,  ever,  ever ! 
Theoph.  We're  mock'd ;  these  bats  have  power  to 

fell  down  giants, 
Yet  her  skin  is  not  scarr'd. 
Sap.  What  rogues  are  these  ? 
Theoph.  Cannot  these  force  a  shriek  ? 

[Bents  Spungiits. 

Spun.  Oh !  a  woman  has  one  of  my  ribs,  and  now 
five  more  are  broken. 

Theoph.  Cannot  this  make  her  roar  ] 

[Beats  Hirciits  ;  he  roars. 
Sap.  Who  hired  these  slaves  ?  what  are  they  ? 

•  Dor.  Divine  Power*  pardon  you]  I  know  not  whether 
by  inadverlance  or  design  ;  but  M.  Mason,  in  opposition  to 
*ll  the  editions,  reads,  Divine  Powers,  pardon  me  ! 

t  If  I  were  to  beat  a.  buck,  /  can  strike  no  harder.}  To 
Ouck,  Johnson  say*,  "  is  to  wash  cloilies."  This  is  but  a 
tame  explanation  of  the  term  :  to  buck  is  to  wash  clothes  by 
laying  them  on  a  smooth  stone,  and  beating  them  wiih  a 
p«>le  flattened  at  the  end, 

}  Proud  whore,  it  milet .']  So  the  old  copies  ;  the  modern 
editors  read,  sh*  smile*.  lu  every  page,  and  almost  in  every 
speech,  I  have  had  to  remove  these  imaginary  improvements 
of  the  author's  phraseology. 


Spun.  We  serve  that  noble  gentleman*,  there ;  he 
enticed  us  to  this  dry  beating:  oh!  for  one  half  pot. 

Harp.  My  servants  !  two  base  rogues,  and  some- 
time servants 
To  her,  and  for  that  cause  forbear  to  hurt  her. 

Sop.  Unbind  her,  hang  up  these. 

Theoph.  Hang  the  two  hounds  on  the  next  tree. 

Hir.  Hang  us !    master   Harpax,   what   a   devil, 
shall  we  be  thus  used  ?  [a  woman. 

Harp.  What  bandogs  but  you  two  would  worry 
Your  mistress  ?  I  but  clapt  you,  you  flew  on. 
Say  I  should  get  your  lives,  each  rascal  beggar 
Would,  when  he  met  you,  cry  out  Hell-hounds ! 

traitors ! 

Spit  at  you,  fling  dirt  at  you ;  and  no  woman 
Ever  endure  your  sight :  'tis  your  best  course 
Now,  had  you  secret  knives,  to  stab  yourselves  ; 
But,  since  you  have  not,  go  and  be  hang'd. 

Hir.  I  thank  you. 

Harp.  'Tis  your  best  course. 

Theoph.  Why  stay  they  trifling  here  ? 
To  th'  gallows  drag  them  by  the  heels  ; — away. 

Spun.  By  the  heels  !  no,  sir,  we  have  legs  to  do 
us  that  service. 

Hir.  Ay,  ay,  if  no  woman  can  endure  my  sight, 
away  with  me. 

Harp.  Dispatch  them. 

Spun.  The  devil  dispatch  thee ! 

[Exeunt  Guard  with  Spungius  and  Hirciut, 

Sap.  Death  this  day  rides  in  triumph,  Theophilus. 
See  this  witch  made  away  too. 

Theoph.  My  soul  thirsts  for  it. 
Come,  I  myself  the  hangman's  part  could  play. 

Dor.  0  haste  me  to  my  coronation  day! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  Illf.— The  Place  of  Execution.    A  sea/old, 
block,  Jfc. 

Enter  ANTONINUS,  MACRINUS,  and  Servants 

Anton.  Is  this  the  place  where  virtue  is  to  suffer, 
And  heavenly  beauty  leaving  this  base  earth, 
To  make  a  glad  return  from  whence  it  came  ? 
Is  it,  Macrinus  ? 

Mac.  By  this  preparation, 
You  well  may  rest  assured  that  Dorothea 
This  hour  is  to  die  here. 

Anton.  Then  with  her  dies 
The  abstract  of  all  sweetness  that's  in  woman  ! 
Set  me  down,  friend,  that,  ere  the  iron  hand 
Of  death  close  up  mine  eyes,  they  may  at  once 
Take  my  last  leave  both  of  this  light  and  her : 
For,  she  being  gone,  the  glorious  sun  himself 
To  me's  Cimmerian  darkness. 

Mac.  Strange  affection! ! 


*  Spun,  ffg  serve  that  noble  gentleman,  fee.]  Thi»  is  the 
lectfen  of  the  first  quarto.  The  modern  editors  follow  the 
others,  which  incorrectly  read,  We  sere'd,  &c. 

+  From  hence,  to  the  conclusion  of  the  act,  I  recognise 
the  hand  of  Massinger.  There  may  be  (and  probably  are) 
finer  passages  in  our  dramatic  poets,  but  I  am  not  acquainted 
with  them. 

J  Mac.    fitrange  affrctitm  T 

Cupid  once  more  hath  changed  his  fhafts  with  Death, 

And  kilt*,  instead  of  giving  life.]  This  is  a  most  beauti- 
ful allusion  to  a  littie  poem  among  the  Eleyies  of  fiteundu*. 
Jupiil  and  Death  unite  in  the  destruction  of  a  lover,  and  in 
udeavouring  to  recover  their  weapons  from  the  body  ot 
he  victim, commit  a  mutual  mistake,  each  plucking  out  the 
'  thal'ts"  of  the  other.  The  consequences  of  this  are  pret 
ily  described : 

Missa  peregrinis  sparcunter  vnlnera  nervis, 
Et  man  us  ignoto  ssevit  utrinque  malo 


SCENE  11I.J 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


Cupid  once  more  hath  changed  his  shafts  with  Death, 
And  kills,  instead  of  giving  life. 

Anton.  Nay,  weep  not ; 

Though  tears  of  friendship  be  a  sovereign  balm, 
On  me  they're  cast  away.     It  is  decreed 
That  I  must  die  with  her  j  our  clue  of  life 
Was  spun  together. 

Mac.  Yet,  sir,  'tis  my  wonder, 
That  you,  who,  hearing  only  what  she  suffers, 
Partake  of  all  her  tortures,  yet  will  be, 
To  add  to  your  calamity,  an  eyewitness 
Of  her  last  tragic  scene,  which  must  pierce  deeper*, 
And  make  the  wound  more  desperate. 

Anton.  Oh,  Macrinus ! 

'Twould  linger  out  my  torments  else,  not  kill  me, 
Which  is  the  end  I  aim  at :  being  to  die  too, 
What  instrument  more  glorious  can  I  wish  for, 
Than  what  is  made  sharp  by  my  constant  love 
And  true  affection?  It  may  be,' the  duty 
And  loyal  service,  with  which  I  pursued  her, 
And  seal'd  it  with  my  death,  will  be  remember'd 
Among  her  blessed  actions  ;  and  what  honour 
Can  I  desire  beyond  it  ? 

Enter  a  Guard,  bringing  in  DOROTHEA,  a  Headsman 

before  her;  followed   by   THEOPHILUS,   SAPRITIUS, 

and  HARPAX. 

See,  she  comes  ; 

How  sweet  her  innocence  appears !  more  like 
To  heaven  itself,  than  any  sacrifice 
Than  can  be  offer 'd  to  it.     By  my  hopes 
Of  joys  hereafter,  the  sight  makes  me  doubtful 
In  my  belief;  nor  can  1  think  our  gods 
Are  good,  or  to  be  served,  that  take  delight 
In  offerings  of  this  kind :  that,  to  maintain 
Their  power,  deface  the  master-piece  of  nature, 
Which  they  themselves  come  short  of.    She  ascends, 
And  every  step  raises  her  nearer  heaven. 
What  god  soe'er  thou  art,  that  must  enjoy  her, 
Receive  in  her  a  boundless  happiness  ! 

Sap.  You  are  to  blame 
To  let  him  come  abroad. 

Mac.  It  was  his  will ; 
And  we  were  left  to  serve  him,  not  command  him. 

Anton.  Good  sir,  be  not  offended ;  nor  deny 
My  last  of  pleasures  in  this  happy  object, 
That  I  shall  e'er  be  blest  with. 

Theoph.  Now,  proud  contemner 
Of  us,  and  of  our  gods,  tremble  to  tbink 
It  is  not  in  the  Power  thou  serv'st  to  save  thee. 
Not  all  the  riches  of  the  sea,  increased 
By  violent  shipwrecks,  nor  the  unsearch'd  mines 
(Mammon's  unknown  exchequer),  shall  redeem  thee. 
And,  therefore,  having  first  with  horror  weigh'd 
What  'tis  to  die,  and  to  die  young ;  to  part  with 
All  pleasures  and  delights;  lastly,  to  go 
Where  all  antipathies  to  comfort  dwell, 
Furies  behind,  about  thee,  and  before  thee; 
And,  to  add  to  affliction,  the  remembrance 


Irrita  More  arcus  valid!  molimina  damn.il, 

Plorat  Amor  teneras  tain  valuisse  m.inus; 
F.vcl.ibant  juvt'nes  piinias  in  polvere  malas 

Oscula  quas,  heu,  ad  blanda  vocabat  Amor. 
Canicies  verms  florebat  mnlta  corollis 

Persephone  crinem  vnlserat  undc  sibi 
Quiil  t'acerent  !  '.lisas  prucul  abjecere  sagittas, 

Uv  pharetra  jaculum  prompsit  uterque  oovnm. 
Res  b.nia !  >cd  virus  pueri  penetravit  in  arcum ; 

K\  illo  ini-tros  tot  dedit  ille  neci.        Lib.  ii.  Eleg.  0. 

•  —  —  •  which  must  pierce  deeper,]  So  the  first  editions. 

Flie  q-iarto    Hitil,  reads,  in  defiance  of  melre, — which  most 

III'    <lrr;,er   pierce,  and   is  followed   by   Coxcter  and    M. 

M.UJOII  ! 


Of  the  Elysian  joys  thou  might'st  have  tasted, 
Hadst  thou  not  turn'd  apostata*  to  those  gods 
That  so  reward  their  servants ;  let  despair 
Prevent  the  hangman's  sword  and  on  this  scaffold 
Make  thy  first  entrance  into  hell. 

Anton.  She  smiles 

Unmoved,  by  Mars !  as  if  she  were  assured 
Death,  looking  on  her  constancy,  would  forget 
The  use  of  his  inevitable  hand. 

Theoph.  Derided  too  !  dispatch,  I  say. 

Dor.  Thou  fool ! 

That  gloriest  in  having  power  to  ravish 
A  trifle  from  me  I  am  weary  of: 
What  is  this  life  to  me?  not  worth  a  thought; 
Or,  if  it  be  esteem'd,  'tis  that  I  lose  it 
To  win  a  better :  even  thy  malice  serves 
To  me  but  as  a  ladder  to  mount  up 
To  such  a  height  of  happiness,  where  I  shall 
Look  down  with  scorn  on  thee,  and  on  the  world ; 
Where,  circled  with  true  pleasures,  placed  above 
The  reach  of  death  or  time,  'twill  be  my  glory 
To  think  at  what  an  easy  price  I  bought  it. 
There's  a  perpetual  spring,  perpetual  youth  . 
No  joint-benumbing  cold,  or  scorching  heat, 
Famine,  nor  age,  havef  any  being  there. 
Forget,  for  shame,  your  Tempe ;  bury  in 
Oblivion  your  feign'd  Hesperian  orchards : — 
The  golden  fruit,  kept  by  the  watchful  dragon, 
Which  did  require  a  Hercules  to  getf  it, 
Compared  with  what  grows  in  all  plenty  therj, 
Deserves  not  to  be  named.     The  Power  I  serve, 
Laughs  at  your  happy  Araby,  or  the 
Elysian  shades,  for  he  hath  made  his  bowers 
Better  in  deed,  than  you  can  fancy  yours. 

Anton.  O,  take  me  thither  with  you! 

Dor.  Trace  my  steps, 
And  be  assured  you  shall. 

Sap.  With  my  own  hands 
I'll  rather  stop  that  little  breath  is  left  thee, 
And  rob  thy  killing  fever. 

Theoph.  liy  no  means; 

Let  him  go  with  her :  do,  seduced  young  man 
And  wait  upon  thy  saint  in  death ;  do,  do  : 
And,  when  you  come  to  that  imagined  place, 
That  place  of  all  delights — pray  you,  observe  me, 
And  meet  those  cursed  things  1  once  called  Daughters, 
Whom  I  have  sent  as  harbingers  before  you ; 

•  Hadst  thou  not  turn'd  apostata  to  those  god*.}  Our  old 
writers  usually  said,  apostata,  statua.  Sic.  where  we  now 
say,  apostate,  statue.  Massinger's  editors,  however,  who 
were  ignorant  alike  of  his  language  and  that  of  his  contem- 
poraries, resolutely  persist  in  modernizing  him  upon  all  oc- 
casions :  they  read,  apostate  ! 

t  have  any  being  there.}     Here  again,  the  modem 

editors  follow  the   miserable    quarto  of  1C6I,  and  tamely 
read— having  any  being  there.— [Omitted  in  edit.  1813.] 

J  Which  did  require  a  Hercules  to  get  it.]  The  modern 
editors  read,  to  guard  it.  This  deviation  from  the  old  copies 
is  at  the  expense  of  sense.  It  was  the  dragon  which  guarded 
it :  the  object  of  Hercules  was  to  yet  it.  In  almost  every 
speech  Massinger  is  thus  injured  by  carelessness  or  igno- 
rance. It  is  the  more  inexcusable  here,  as  the  very  same 
expression  is  to  be  found  in  the  Emperor  of  the  East. 

This  beautiful  description  of  Elysium,  as  Mr.  Gilchrist 
observes  to  me,  has  been  imitated  by  N»bbes,  in  that  very- 
poetic  rhapsody,  Microcosmus :  some  of  the  lines  may  bt 
given  : 

"  Cold  there  compels  no  use  of  rugged  furs. 
Nor  makes  the  mountains  barren  ;  there's  no  dog 
To  rage,  and  scorch  the  land.     Spring's  always  there 
And  paints  the  valleys;  whilst  a  temperafeair 
Sweeps  their  embroider'd  fare  with  his  :url  d  ?"<*•*. 
And  breathes  perfumes :  -there  night  doth  Clever  tpread 
Her  ebon  wings  ;  but  day-light's  always  ™****m 
Aiid  one  blest  season  crowns  the  eternal  year. 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  IV 


If  there  be  any  truth  in  your  religion, 
In  thankfulness  to  me,  that  with  care  hasten 
Your  journey  thither,  pray  you  send  me  some 
Small  pittance  of  that  curious  fruit  you  boast  of. 

Anton.  Grant  that  I  may  go  with  her,  and  1  will. 

Sap.  Wilt  thou  in  thy  hist  minute  damn  thyself? 

Theoph.  The  gates  to  hell  are  open. 

Dor.  Know,  thou  tyrant, 
Thou  agent  for  the  devil,  thy  great  master, 
Though  thou  art  most  unworthy  to  taste  of  it, 
I  can.  and  will. 

Enter  ANGELO,  in  the  Angel's  habit.* 

Harp.  Oh !  mountains  fall  upon   me, 
Or  hide  me  in  the  bottom  of  the  deep. 
Where  light  may  never  find  me ! 

Theoph.  What's  the  matter? 

fiap.  This  is  prodigious,  and  confirms  her  witch- 

Theoph.  Harpax,  my  Harpax,  speak !  [craft. 

Harp.  I  dare  not  stay : 

Should  I  but  hear  her  once  more,  T  were  lost. 
Some  whirlwind  snatch  me  from  this  cursed  place, 
To  which  compared  (and  with  what  I  now  suffer), 
Hell's  torments  are  sweet  slumbers!  [Exit. 

Sap.  Follow  him. 

Theoph.  He  is  distracted,  and  I  must  not  lose  him. 
Thy  charms  upon  my  servant,  cursed  witch, 
Give  thee  a  short  reprieve.     Let  her  not  die 
Till  my  return.  [Exeunt  Sap.  and  Theoph. 

Anton,  She  minds  him  not:  what  object 
Is  her  eye  fix'd  on? 

Mac.  I  see  nothing. 

Anton.  Mark  her. 

Dor.  Thou  glorious  minister  of  the  Power  I  serve 
(For  thou  art  more  than  mortal),  is't  for  me, 
Poor  sinner,  thou  art  pleased  awhile  to  leave 
Thy  heavenly  habitation,  and  vouchsafest. 
Though  glorified,  to  take  my  servant's  habit? — 
For,  put  off  thy  divinity,  so  look'd 
My  lovely  Angelo. 

Aug.  Know,  I  am  the  same ; 
And  still  the  servant  to  your  piety. 
Your  zealous  prayers,  and  pious  deeds  first  won  me 
(But  'twas  by   His    command  to  whom  you  sent 
To  guide  your  steps.     I  tried  your  charity,     [them, 
When  in  a  beggar's  shape  you  took  me  up. 
And  clothed  my  naked  limbs,  and  after  fed, 
As  you  believed,  my  famish 'd  mouth.     Learn  all, 
By  your  example,  to  look  on  the  poor 
With  gentle  eyes !  for  in  such  habits,  often, 
Angels  desire  an  alms  f.     I  never  left  you, 
Nor  will  I  now  ;  for  I  am  sent  to  carry 
Your  pure  and  innocent  soul  to  joys  eternal, 
Your  martyrdom  once  suffer'd  ;  and  before  it, 
Ask  any  thing  from  me,  and  rest  assured, 
You  shall  obtain  it. 


•  Enter  \KCKLO  inthe  Angel's  habit,  &c.]  It  appears  that 


not  to  see  the  character  invested  with  it. 

* Learn  all, 

By  your  example  to  look  on  the  poor 
With  gentle  eyes  !  for  in  such  habits,  often, 
Anyels  desire  an  alms.}    "  Be   not  forgetful  to  entertain 
»tran»er«;  for  thereby   some    have  entertained   angels    un- 
awares."   Heb.  c.  xiii.  v.  2.  Hero  is  also  a  beautiful  allusion 
to  thfe  parting  speech  of  the  "  »ocuble  archangel  "  lo  Tobit 
ami  his  son. 


Dor.  I  am  largely  paid 

For  all  my  torments :  since  I  find  such  grace, 
Grant  that  the  love  of  this  young  man  to  me, 
In  which  he  languisheth  to  death,  may  be 
Changed  to  the  love  of  heaven. 

Ang.    I  will  perform  it ; 
And  in  that  instant  when  the  sword  sets  free 
Your  happy  soul,  his  shall  have  liberty. 
Is  there  aught  else  ? 

Dor.  For  proof  that  I  forgive 
My  persecutor,  who  in  scorn  desired 
To  taste  of  that  most  sacred  fruit  1  go  to  ; 
After  my  death,  as  sent  from  me,  be  pleased 
To  give  him  of  it. 
.     Ang.  Willingly,  dear  mistress. 
.    Mac.  I  am  amazed. 

Anton.  I  feel  a  holy  fire, 
That  yields  a  comfortable  heat  within  me  ; 
J  am  quite  alter'd  from  the  thing  I  was. 
See  !  I  can  stand,  and  go  alone ;  thus  kneel 
To  heavenly  Dorothea,  touch  her  hand 
With  a  religious  kiss.  [Kneeling 

Re-enter  SAPRITIUS  and  THEOPHILUS. 
Sap.  He  is  well  now, 
But  will  not  be  drawn  back. 

Theoph.  It  matters  not, 

We  can  discharge  this  work  without  his  help. 
But  see  your  son. 
Sap.  Villain! 

Anton.  Sir,  I  beseech  you, 
Being  so  near  our  ends,  divorce  us  not. 

Theoph.  I'll  quickly  make  a  separation  of  them : 
Hast  thou  aught  else  to  say  ? 

Dor.  Nothing,  but  to  blame 
Thy  tardiness  in  sending  me  to  rest; 
My  peace  is  made  with  heaven,  to  which  my  soul 
Begins  to  take  her  flight :  strike,  0  !  strike  quickly ; 
And,  though  you  are  unmoved  to  see  my  death, 
Hereafter,  when  my  story  shall  be  read, 
As  they  were  present  now,  the  hearers  shall 
Say  this  of  Dorothea,  with  wet  eyes, 
She  lived  a  virgin,  and  a  virgin  dies. 

[Her  head  struck  off, 

Anton.  O,  take  my  soul  along,  to  wait  on  thine  ! 
Mac.  Your  son  sinks  too  [Antoninus  sinki. 

Sap.  A  Iready  dead  ! 
Theoph.  Die  all 

That  are,  or  favour  this  accursed  *  sect : 
I  triumph  in  their  ends,  and  will  raise  up 
A  hill  of  their  dead  carcasses,  to  o'erlook 
The  Pyrenean  hills,  but  I'll  root  out 
These  superstitious  fools,  and  leave  the  world 
No  name  of  Christian. 

[Loud  music :     Exit  Angela,  having  frst  laid  hit 
hand  upon  the  mouths  tf  Anton,  and  Dor, 
Sap.  Ha !  heavenly  music  ! 
Mac.  'Tis  in  the  air. 
Theoph.  Illusions  of  the  devil, 
Wrought  by  some  witch  of  her  religion, 
That  fain  would  make  her  death  a  miracle: 
It  frights  not  me.     Because  he  is  your  son, 
Let  him  have  burial,  but  let  her  body 
Be  cast  forth  with  contempt  in  some  highway, 
And  be  to  vultures  and  to  dogs  a  prey.         [Einmt. 


m,-,r*.a!i  are>  T  faVOur   this  ™™r,<-d  sect :}    So  the  old 
?dT     V  °     r"  t':li"'r!S  lo  a(ii'l"  ""-•  <«"  to  their  own 

e^ifnT'T^'T''1'.™"'   are   '"''  Or  •*"*""•   *C'    bu« 
» in.  need  ot  aturailon  ;  tins  mode  of  expression  recur» 

mem;  =  '00>   "Ut   thu  iut«Twlai>«u  destroys   the 


Sen**  I.] 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — THEOPHILUS  discovered  in  his  Study:  books 
about  him. 

Theoph.  I'st  holiday,  O  Caesar,  that  thy  servant, 
Thy  provost,  to  see  execution  done 
On  these  base  Christians  in  Cajsarea, 
Should  now  want  work  ?  Sleep  these  idolaters, 
That  none  are  stirring  ? — As  a  curious  painter, 
When  he  has  made  some  honourable  piece, 
Stands  off,  and  with  a  searching  eye  examines 
Each  colour  how  'tis  sweeten 'd:  and  then  hugs 
Himself  for  his  rare  workmanship — so  here 
Will  I  my  drolleries,  and  bloody  landscapes, 
Long  past  wrapt  up,  unfold,  to  make  me  merry 
With  shadows,  now  I  want  the  substances. 
My  muster-book  of  hell-hounds.  Were  the  Christians, 
Whose  names  stand  here,  alive  and  arm'd,  not  Rome 
Could  move  upon  her  hinges.     What  I've  done, 
Or  shall  hereafter,  is  not  out  of  hate 
To  poor  tormented  wretches*; no,  I'm  carried 
With  violence  of  zeal,  and  streams  of  service 
I  owe  our  Roman  gods.     Great  Britain, — whatf  ? 

[reads. 

A  thousand  wives,  with  brats  sucking  their  breasts, 
Had  hot  irons  pinch  them  off,  and  thrown  to  swine : 
And  then  their  fleshy  back-parts,  hew'd  with  hatchets, 
Were   minced,  and   baked   in    pies,    to  feed    starved 

Christians. 
Ha !— ha ! 

Again,  again, — East  Angles, — oh,  East  Angles  : 
Bandogs,  kept  three  days  hungry,  worried 
A  thousand  British  rascals,  stied  up  fat 
Of  purpose,  stripped  naked,  and  disarmed. 
I  could  outstare  a  year  of  suns  and  moons, 
To  sit  at  these  sweet  bull-baitings,  so  I 
Could  thereby  but  one  Christian  win  to  fall 
In  adoration  to  my  Jupiter. — Twelve  hundred 
Eyes  bored  with  augres  out — Oh!  eleven  thousand 
Torn  by  wild  beasts  :  two  hundred  ramm'd  in  the  earth 
To  the  armpits,  and  full  platters  round  about  them, 
But  far  enough  for  reaching^  :    Eat,  dogs,  ha  !    ha  ! 
ha  !  [He  rises. 

Tush,  all  these  tortures  are  but  fillipings, 
Fleabitings;  I,  before  the  Destinies 

Enter  ANGELO  with  a  basket  filled  with  fruit  and 

flowers. 

My  bottom  did  wind  up,  would  flesh  myself 
Once  more  upon  some  one  remarkable 


-is  not  out  of  hate 


To  poor  tormented  wretches,  &c.  j  This  is  said  to  dietinjmsh 
his  character  from  that  of  Sapritius,  whose  zeal  is  influenced 
by  motives  of  interest,  and  by  many  other  considerations, 
which  appear  u>  weigh  nothing  with  Thtophilus. 

t  Great  Britain, — what  ?\  Great  Britain,  is  a  curious 
anachronism  ;  but  this  our  old  dramatic  writers  were  little 
solicitous  to  avoid.  The  reader  wants  not  my  assistance  to 
din-cover  that  this  rugged  narative  is  by  Decker  :  the  horrible 
numeration  of  facts,  is  taken  from  the  histories  of  those 
times. 

I  Hut  far  enough  (or  reaching  :]  For  occurs  perpetually  in 
these  plays,  in  the  sense  of  prevention,  yet  the  modern  edi- 
tors have  here  altered  itto_/rom!  indeed,  the  word   it  thus 
used  by  every  writer  of  Massinger's  age;  thus  Fletcher: 
"  Walk  ort,  sirrah, 
And  stir  my  horse  for  taking  cold." 

Love't  Pilyriinage. 


Again ; 


" he'll  not  tell  me, 

For  breaking  of  my  heart." 


Maid  in 


Above  all  these.     This  Christian  slut  was  well, 
A  pretty  one  ;  but  let  such  horror  follow 
The  next  I  feed  with  torments,  that  when  Rome 
Shall  hear  it,  her  foundation  at  the  sound  ' 

May  feel  an  earthquake.     How  now  ?  [Mtufe. 

Ang.     Are  you  amazed,  sir? 
So  great  a  Roman  spirit — and  doth  it  tremble ! 

Theoph.  How  cam'st  thou  in  ?  to  whom  thy  busi- 
ness. 

Ang.  To  you : 

1  had  a  mistress,  late  sent  hence  by  you 
Upon  a  bloody  errand  ;  you  entreated, 
That,  when  she  came  into  that  blessed  garden 
Whither  she  knew  she  went,  and  where,  now  happy, 
She  feeds  upon  all  joy,  she  would  send  to  you 
Some  of  that  garden  fruit  and  flowers  ;  which  here, 
To  have  her  promise  saved,  are  brought  by  me. 

Theoph.  Cannot  I  see  this  garden  1 

Ang.  Yes,  if  the  master 
Will  give  you  entrance  1  [He  i:unishcth. 

Theoph.  Tis  a  tempting  fruit, 
And  the  most  bright-cheek'd  child  I  ever  view'd  ; 
Sweet  smelling,  goodly  fruit.       What  flowers   are 

these  ? 

In  Dioclesian's  gardens  ;  the  most  beauteous, 
Compared  with  these,  are  weeds:  is  knot  February 
The  second  day  she  died  ?  frost,  ice,  and  snow, 
Hang  on  the  beard  of  winter :  where's  the  sun 
That  gilds  this  summer?  pretty,  sweet  boy,  say, 
In  what  country  shall  a  man  find  this  garden  1 — 
My  delicate  boy, — gone  !  vanished  !  within  there, 
Juliauus  !  Geta! — 

Enter  JULIANUS  and  GETA. 

Both.  My  lord. 

Theoph.  Are  my  gates  shut ! 

Geta.  And  guarded. 

Theoph.  Saw  you  not 
A  boy? 

Jul.  Where? 

Theoph.  Here  he  enter'd  ;  a  young  lad  ; 
A  thousand  blessings  danced  upon  his  eyes, 
A   smoothfaced,  glorious  thing,  that   brought  this 
basket*. 

Geta.  No,  sir  ! 

Theoph.  Away — but  be  in  reach,  if  my  voice  calls 
you.  [Exetmt. 

No  ! — vanish 'd,  and  not  seen  ! — Be  thou  a  spirit 
Sent  from  that  witch  to  mock  me,  I  am  sure 
This  is  essential,  and,  howe'er  it  grows, 
Will  taste  it.  [Eott. 

Harp,  [within."]  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Theoph.  So  good  !  I'll  have  some  more,  sure. 

Now  I  am  on  the  subject,  let  me  observe,  that  a  similar  al- 
teration has  been  unnecessarily  made  in  Periclet.  The  old 
reading  is, 

"  And  with  dead  cheeks  advise  thee  to  desist, 
For  going  on  death's  net,  which  none  resist." 
"  This  is  corrupt,"  says  the    editor,  "  I  think  it  should  be 
from  going;"  and  so  he  has  primed  it  ;  place  a  comma  after 
desist,  and  all  will  be  right:    "for  going,"  i.  e.  for  fear  of 
going,  &c. 

*  Thpoph.  Here  he  enter'd  :  &c.]  It  may  give  the  readei 
some  idea  of  the  metrical  skill  with  which  Massinger  ha* 
been  hitherto  treated,  to  print  these  lines  as  they  stand  in 
Coxeter  and  M.  Mason  : 

Theoph.  Here  he  enter'd,  a  young  lad  ;  a.  fhoutand 

Blessings  danc'd  upon  hit  eyes  ;  a  smoothfaC'dglorvHtt 

Thing,  that  brought  this  basket. 


28 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  V 


Harp.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !  great  liquorish  fool. 

Theoph.  What  art  thou  ? 

Harp.  A  fisherman. 

Theoph.  What  dost  thou  catch  ? 

Harp.  Souls,  souls  ;  a  fish  call'd  souls. 

Theoph.  Geta  ! 

Enter  GETA. 

Geta.  My  lord. 

Harp.  [ivithin.]  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Theoph.  What  insolent  slave  is  this,  dares  laugh 
Or  what  is't  the  dog  grins  at  so  ?  [at  me '! 

Geta.  I  neither  know,  my  lord,  at  what,  nor  whom  ? 
for  there  is  none  without,  hut  my  fellow  Julianus, 
and  he  is  making  a  garland  for  Jupiter. 

Theoph.  Jupiter  !  all  within  me  is  not  well ; 
An;l  yet  not  sick. 

Harp.     Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Theofih.  What's  thy  name,  slave? 

Harp,  [at  one  end.]  Go  look. 

Geta. Tis  I  Inrpax'  voice. 

Theoph.  Harpax  !  go,  drag  the  caitiff  to  my  foot, 
That  I  may  stamp  upon  him. 

Harp,  [at  the  other  end.]  Fool,  thou  liest ! 

Geta.  He's  yonder,  now,  my  lord. 

Theoph.  Watch  thou  that  end, 
Whilst  I  make  good  this. 

Harp,    [at  the  middle.]  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Theoph.  He  is  at  barley-break,  and  the  last  couple 
Are  now  in  hell.*  [is  bloody, 

Search  for  him.  [E.i  it  Geta.]  All  this  ground,  methinks, 
And  paved  with  thousands  of  those  Christians'  eyes 
Whom  I  have  tortured,  and  they  stare  upon  me. 
What  was  this  apparition  ?  sure  it  had 

•  Theoph.  fie  it  at  barley-break,  and  the  last  couple 
Are  now  in  hell.]  i.  e.  in  the  middle;  alluding  to  the 
situation  of  Harpax.  This  wretched  copy  of  a  wretched 
original,  the  Ate  et  ubique  of  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet,  is  much 
loo  puerile  for  the  occasion,  and  the  character: — decipit ex- 
emplar vitiit  imitabile.  With  respect  to  the  amusement  of 
barley-break,  allusions  to  it  occur  repeatedly  in  our  old 
writers;  and  their  commentators  have  piled  one  parallel 
passage  upon  another,  without  advancing  a  single  step 
towards  explaining  what  this  celebrated  pastime  really  was 
It  was  played  by  six  people  (three  of  each  sex),  who  were 
coupled  by  lot.  A  piece  of  ground  was  then  chosen,  and 
divided  into  three  compartments,  of  which  the  middle  one 
was  called  HelL  It  was  the  object  of  the  couple  condemned 
to  this  division,  to  catch  the  other*,  who  advanced  from  the 
two  extremities ;  in  which  case  a  chmge  of  situation  took 
plaoe,  and  hell  was  filled  by  the  couple  who  were  excluded 
by  preoccupation,  from  the  other  places:  in  this"  catching," 
however,  there  was  some  difficulty,  as,  by  the  regulations  of 
the  game,  the  middle  couple  were  not  to  separate  before 
they  had  succeeded,  while  the  others  might  break  hands 
whenever  they  found  themselves  hard  pressed.  When  all 
had  been  taken  in  turn,  the  last  couple  was  said  to  be  in 
hell,  and  the  game  ended.  In  tenni  labor.'— Mr.  M.  Mason 
has  given  the  following  description  of  this  pastime  with 
allegorical  personages,  from  Sir  John  Suckling: 

"  Love,  Reason,  Hate,  did  once  bespeak 

Three  mates  to  play  at  barley-break  ; 

Love  Folly  took  ;  and  Reason  Fancy  ; 

And  Hate  consorts  with  Pride  ;  sodance  they  : 

Love  coupled  last,  and  so  it  fell 

That  Love  and  Folly  were  in  hell. 

They  break  ;  and  Love  would  Reason  meet, 
But  Hate  was  nimbler  on  her  feet; 
Fancy  looks  for  Pride,  and  thither 
Hies,  and  they  two  hug  together : 
Yet  this  new  coupling  still  doth  tell 
That  Love  and  Folly  were  in  hell. 

The  rest  do  breaV  again,  and  Pride 
Hath  now  got  Reason  on  her  side ; 
Hate  and  Fancy  meet,  and  stand 
Untouch'd  by  Love  in  Folly's  hand  ; 
Folly  was  dull,  but  Love  ran  well, 
So  Love  and  Folly  were  in  hell." 


A  shape  angelical.     Mine  eyes,  though  dazzled 

And  daunted  at  first  sight,  tell  me,  it  wore 

A  pair  of  glorious  wings  ;  yes,  they  were  wings, 

A  nd  hence  he  flew  : 'tis  vanish  d     Jupiter, 

For  all  my  sacrifices  done  to  him, 
Never  once  gave  me  smile. — How  can  stone  smile, 
Or  wooden  image  laugh?  [music.]  Ha!  I  remember 
Such  music  gave  a  welcome  to  mine  ear, 
When  the  fair  youth  came  to  me  : — 'tis  in  the  air, 
Or  from  some  better  place*  ;  a  power  divine, 
Through  my  dark  ignorance  on  my  soul  does  shine, 
And  makes  me  see  a  conscience  all  stain'd  o'er, 
Nay,  drown'd  and  damn'd  for  ever  in  Christian  gore. 
Harp,  [within.]  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  [tongue 

Theoph.  Again ! — What    dainty     relish     on    my 
This  fruit  hath  left !  some  angel  hath  me  fed ; 
If  so  toothfull  t    I  will  be  banqueted.  [Eats. 

Enter  HARPAX  in  a  fearful  shape,  fire  fashing  out  of 
the  Study. 

Harp.  Hold! 

Theoph.  Not  for  Caesar. 

Harp.  But  for  me  thou  shalt.  [here. 

Theoph.  Thou  art  no  twin  to  him  that  last  was 
Ye  Powers,  whom  my  soul  bids  me  reverence, 
What  art  thou  ?  [guard  me  ! 

Harp.  I  am  thy  master. 

Theoph.  Mine ! 

Harp.  And  thou  my  everlasting  slave  ;that  Harpax, 
Who  hand  in  hand  hath  led  thee  to  thy  hell, 
Ami. 

Theoph.  Avaunt? 

Harp.  1  will  not ;  cast  thou  down 
That  basket  with  the  things  in't,  and  fetch  up 
What  thou  hast  swallow'd,  and  then  take  a  drink, 
Which  I  shall  give  thee,  and  I'm  gone. 

Theoph,  My  fruit  ? 
Does  this  offend  thee  ?  see  !  [Eats  again. 

Harp.  Spit  it  to  the  earthf, 
And  tread  upon  it,  or  I'll  piecemeal  tear  thee. 

Theoph.  Art  thou  with  this  affrighted  ?  see,  here's 
more.  [Pulls  out  a  handful  of  flowers. 

Harp.  Fling  them  away,  I'll   take  thee  else,  and 

hang  thee 

In  a  contorted  chain  of  isicles 
In  the  frigid  zone  :  down  with  them  ! 

Theoph.  At  the  bottom 
One  tiling  I  found  not  yet.     See ! 

[Holds  up  a  cross  of  flowers. 

Harp.  Oh  !  I  am  tortured.  (hence  ! 

Theoph.  Can  this  do't  ?  hence,  thou  fiend  infernal, 

Harp.  Clasp  Jupiter's  image,  and  away  with  that. 

Theoph.  At  thee  I'll  fling  that  Jupiter ;  for,  ine- 

thinks, 

I  serve  a  better  master  :  he  now  checks  me 
For  murdering  my  two  daughters,  put  on$  by  thee — 

•  Or  from  some  better  place;]  In  Coxeter's  edition,  placf 
was  dropt  at  the  press,  I  suppose  :  and  M.  Mason,  who 
srems  to  have  no  conception  of  any  older  or  other  copy, 
blindly  followed  him;  though  the  line  has  neither  measur 
nor  sense  without  the  word,  inserted  from  the  old  quartos  : — 
but  indeed  the  whole  of  this  scene,  as  it  stands  in  the  two 
former  editious,  especially  the  last,  is  full  of  the  most  shame- 
ful tlonders. 

T  Jf  to  toothfull,  &c.]  So  the  old  copies,  the  modern  edi 
tions  have  toothsome :  it  may  perhaps  be  a  better  word,  but 
should  not  have  been  silently  foisted  upon  the  author. 

t  Harp.  Spit  it  to  the  earth,]  The  first  and  second  quartos 
read  spet,  which  was  now  beginning  to  grow  obsolete;  in  the 
succeeding  one  it  is  spit. 

§ put  on  by  thee—]  i.  e.  encouraged,  instigated. 

So  in  Shakspeare  : 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


By  thy  damn'd  rhetoric  did  I  hunt  the  life 

Of  Dorothea,  the  holy  virgin-martyr. 

She  is  not  angry  with  the  axe,  nor  me, 

But  sends  these  presents  to  me  ;  and  I'll  travel 

O'er  worlds  to  find  her,  and  from  her  white  hand 

Beg  a  forgiveness. 

Harp.  No;  I'll  bind  thee  here.  [weapon*, 

Theoph.  I  serve  a  strength  above  thine  ;  this  small 
Methinks  is  armour  hard  enough. 

Harp.  Keep  from  me  [Sinks  a  little. 

Thtoph.  Art  posting  to   thy  centre?  down,  hell- 
hound !  down  ; 

Me   thou   hast  lost :    that   arm,  which   hurls   thee 
hence,  [Harpax  disappears. 

Save  me,  and  set  me  1,1,  the  strong  defence 
In  the  fair  Christian's  quarrel ! 

Enter  ANGELO. 

Ang.  Fix  thy  foot  there, 
Nor  be  thou  shaken  with  a  Cresar's  voice, 
Though  thousand  deaths  were  in  it ;  and  I  then 
Will  bring  thee  to  a  river,  that  shall  wash 
Thy  bloody  hands  clean  and  more  white  than  snow ; 
And  to  that  garden  where  these  blest  tilings  grow, 
And  to  that  martyr'd  virgin,  who  hath  sent 
That  heavenly  token  to  thee  :  spread  this  brave  wing, 
And  serve,  than  Caesar,  a  far  greater  king.         [Eaif. 

Theop.  It  is,  it  is  some  angel.     Vanish'd  again  ! 
Oh,  come  back,  ravishing  boy  !  bright  messenger ! 
Thou  hast,  by  these  mine  eyes  fix'd  on  thy  beauty, 
Illumined  all  my  soul.     Now  look  1  back 
On  my  black  tyrannies,  which,  as  they  did          [me, 
Outdare  the  bloodiest,  thou,  blest  spirit,  that  lead'st 
Teach  me  what  I  must  to  do,  and,  to  do  well, 
That  my  last  act  the  best  may  parallelf.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II. — DIOCLESIAN'S  Palace. 

Enter  DIOCLESIAN,  MAXIMINUS,  the  Kings  of  Epire. 
Pontus,  and  Macedon,  meeting  AHTEMIA  ;  Atten- 
dants. 

Ariem.  Glory  and  conquest  still  attend  upon  tri- 
umphant Caesar  I 

Diocle.  Let  thy  wish,  fair  daughter, 
Be  equally  divided  ;  and  hweafter 
Learn  thou  to  know  and  reverence  Maximinus, 
Whose  power,  with  mine  united:  makes  one  Caesar. 

Mai.  But  that  I  fear  'twould  be  held  flattery, 
The  bonds  consider'd  in  which  we  stand  tied, 
As  love  and  empire,  I  should  say,  till  now 
I  ne'er  had  seen  a  lady  I  thought  worthy 
To  be  my  mistress. 

Artem.  Sir,  you  show  yourself 
Both  courtier  and  soldier  ;  but  take  heed, 
Take  heed,  my  lord,  though  my  dull-pointed  beauty, 
Stain 'd  by  a  harsh  refusal  in  my  servant, 
Cannot  dart  forth  such  beams  as  may  inflame  you, 
You  may  encounter  such  a  powerful  one, 
That  with  a  pleasing  heat  will  thaw  your  heart, 
Though  bound  in  ribs  of  ice.     Love  still  is  love, 


Macbeth 


Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  Powers  above 
Put  on  their  instruments." 

•  thii  frnall  weapon,]    Meaning,   I   believe, 


the    "  cross   of   flowers,"  which  he    ha'l    just    found.     The 
language  and  ideas  of  this  play  are  purely  catholic. 

t  That  my  last  act  the  bett  may  parallel  J  Thus  far 
Decker  ;  what  follows  I  apprehend  was  written  by  Massiu- 
jer;  (and  is  unsurpassed  in  me  English  language.) 


His  bow  and  arrows  are  the  same  :  great  Julius, 
That  to  his  successors  left  the  name  of  Caesar, 
Whom  war  could  never  tame,  that  with  dry  eyes 
Beheld  the  large  plains  of  Pharsalia  cover'd 
With  the  dead  carcases  of  senators 
And  citizens  of  Rorp       fhen  the  world  knew 
No  other  lord  but  Inr. ,  struck  deep  in  years  too, 
(And  men  gray-bai~'d  forget  the  lusts  of  youth) 
After  all  th's,  meeting  fair  Cleopatra, 
A  suppliant  too,  the  magic  of  her  eye, 
Even  in  his  pride  of  conquest,  took  him  captive  ; 
Nor  are  you  more  secure. 

Max.   Were  you  deform'd 
(But,  by  the  gods,  you  are  most  excellent), 
Your  gravity  and  discretion  would  o'ercome  me  ; 
And  I  should  be  more  proud  in  being  prisoner 
To  your  fair  virtues,  than  of  all  the  honours, 
Wealth,  title,  empire,  that  my  sword  hath  purchased. 

Diocle.    This   meets    my   wishes.      Welcome    % 

Artemia, 

With  outstretch'd  arms,  and  study  to  forget 
That  Antoninus  ever  was  ;  thy  fate 
Reserved  thee  for  this  better  choice,  embrace  it. 

Max.*  This  happy  match  brings  new  nerves  to 

give  strength 
To  our  continued  league. 

Diocle  Hymen  himself 

Will  bless  this  marriage,  which  we'll  solemnize 
In  the  presence  of  these  kings. 

K.  of  Pontus.  Who  rest  most  happy, 
To  be  eyewitnesses  of  a  match  that  brings 
Peace  to  the  empire. 

Diocle.  We  much  thank  your  loves ; 
But  where's  Sapritius,  our  governor, 
And  our  most  zealous  provost,  good  Theophilus  1 
If  ever  prince  were  blest  in  a  true  servant, 
Or  could  the  gods  be  debtors  to  a  man, 
Both  they  and  we  stand  far  engaged  to  cherish 
His  piety  and  service. 

Artem.  Sir,  the  governor 

Brooks  sadly  his  son's  loss,  although  he  turn'd 
Apostata  in  death  f  ;  but  bold  Theophilus, 
Who,  for  the  same  cause,  in  my  presence,  seal'd 
His  holy  anger  on  his  daughters'  hearts  ; 
Having  with  tortures  first  tried  to  convert  her, 
Dragg'd  the  bewitching  Christian  to  the  scaffold, 
And  saw  her  lose  her  head. 

Diocle.  He  is  all  worthy  : 
And  from  his  own  mouth  I  would  gladly  hear 
The  manner  how  she  suffer'd. 

Artem.  'Twill  be  deliver'd 

With  such  contempt  and  scorn  (I  know  his  nature) 
That  rather  'twill  beget  your  highness'  laughter, 
Than  the  least  pity. 

Diocle.  To  that  end  I  would  hear  it. 

Enter  THEOPHILUS,  SAPRITII-S,  and  MACRIXUS. 

Artem.  He  comes  ;  with  him  the  governor. 

Diocle.  O,  Sapritius, 
I  am  to  chide  you  for  your  tenderness  ; 
But  yet,  remembering  that  you  are  a  father, 


*  Max.  This  happy  match,  &c.]  The  old  copies  give  this 
to  the  K.  of  Epire  ;  it  is  evident,  however,  that  he  cannot 
be  the  speaker ;  I  make  no  apology  for  restoring  it  to  Max- 
/miiins. 

t  Apostata  in  death  ;i  Here  again  the  modern  editors, 
rcail,  Apostate  in  death,  though  it  absolutely  destroys  the 
iiHMMire.  It  is  very  strange  that  the  frequent  recurrence  of 
this  word  should  not  teach  them  to  hesitate  on  the  propriety 
of  corrupting  it  upon  all  occasions. 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr  V 


I  will  forget  it.     Good  Theophilus, 

I'll  speak  with  you  anon  — Nearer,  your  ear. 

[To  Sapritius. 

Theoph.  [aside  to  Macrinus.']  By  Antoninus'  soul, 

I  do  conjure  you, 

And  though  not  for  religion,  for  his  friendship, 
Without  demanding  what's  the  cause  that  moves  me, 
Receive  my  signet ; — by  the  power  of  this, 
Go  to  my  prisons,  and  release  all  Christians 
That  are  in  fetters  there  by  my  command. 

Mac.  But  what  shall  follow  ? 

Theoph.  Haste  then  to  the  port ; 
You  there  shall  find  two  tall  ships  ready  rigg'd*, 
In  which  embark  the  poor  distressed  souls, 
And  bear  them  from  the  reach  of  tyranny. 
Enquire  not  whither  you  are  bound  ;  the  Deity 
That  they  adore  will  give  you  prosperous  winds, 
And  make  your  voyage  such,  and  largely  pay  for 
Your  hazard,  and  your  travail.     Leave  me  here  ; 
There  is  a  scene  that  I  must  act  alone.  [you  ' 

Haste,  good  Macrinus  ;  and  the  great  God   guide 

Mac.  I'll  undertake'!,  there's  something  prompts 

me  to  it ; 

'Tis  to  save  innocent  blood,  a  saint-like  act ; 
And  to  be  merciful  has  never  been 
By  moral  men  themselves  f  esteem'd  a  sin.       [Erit. 

Diocle.  You  know  your  charge  ? 

Sap.  And  will  with  care  observe  it. 

Diocle.  For  I  profess  he  is  not  Cresar's  friend, 
That  sheds  a  tear  for  any  torture  that 
A  Christian  suffers.     Welcome,  my  best  servant, 
My  careful  zealous  provost !  thou  hast  toil'd 
To  satisfy  my  will,  though  in  extremes  : 
I  love  thee  for't  ;  thou  art  firm  rock,  no  changeling. 
Prithee  deliver,  and  for  my  sake  do  it, 
Without  excess  of  bitterness,  or  scoffs, 
Before  my  brother  and  these  kings,  how  took 
The  Christian  her  death  ? 

Theoph.  And  such  a  presence, 
Though  every  private  head  in  this  large  room 
Were  circled  round  with  an  imperial  crown, 
Her  story  will  deserve,  it  is  so  full 
Of  excellence  and  wonder. 

Diocle.  Ha!  how  is  this? 

Theoph.  O !    mark   it,   therefore,   and   with   that 

attention, 

As  you  would  hear  an  embassy  from  heaven 
By  a  wing'd  legate  ;  for  the  truth  deliver'd 
Both  how,  and  what,  this  blessed  virgin  suffer'd, 
And  Dorothea  hut  hereafter  named, 
You  will  rise  up  with  reverence,  and  no  more, 
As  things  unworthy  of  your  thoughts,  remember 
What  the  canonized  Spartan  ladies  were,    [matrons, 
Which    lying   Greece    so   boasts   of.      Your   own 
Y'our  Roman  dames,  whose  figures  you  yet  keep 
As  holy  relics,  in  her  history 
Will  find  a  second  urn  :  Gracchus'  Cornelia  J, 


•  You  there  shall  find  two  tall  ships  ready  riffy'd,]  We 
should  now  say,  two  stout  t>hi}>s;  but  sec  the  Unnatural 
Combat. 

f  By  moral  men  themselves,  &c,]  This  is  the  reading  of 
the  first  copy  :  all  the  the  others  have,  mortal  men. 

%  Gracchus'  Cornelia,  This  passage,  as  punted  in  the  olil 
edition,  is  nonsense.  M.  MASON. 

Thi«  is  somewhat  bold  in  one  who  never  saw  the  old  edi- 
tions. In  Coxcter,  indeed,  it  is  printed,  or  rather  pointed, 
as  nonsense :  but  to  call  his  the  old  edition  is  scarcely  cor- 
rect. The  first  quarto  reads  as  in  P  e  text  with  the  exception 
of  an  apostrophe  accidentally  misplaced ;  the  second  follows 
it,  and  both  are  more  correct  than  Mr.  M.  Mason,  either  in 
his  text  or  note. 


Paulina,  that,  in  death  desired  to  follow 
Her  husband  Seneca,  nor  Brutus'  Portia, 
That  swallow'd  burning  coals  to  overtake  him, 
Though  all  their  several  worths  were  given  to  one, 
With  this  is  to  be  mention'd. 

Max.  Is  he  mad  1 

Diocle.  Why,  they  did  die,  Theophilus,  and  boldly; 
This  did  no  more. 

Theoph.  They,  out  of  desperation, 
Or  for  vain  glory  of  an  after-name. 
Parted  with  life:  this  had  not  mutinous  sons, 
As  the  rash  Gracchi  were  ;  nor  was  this  saint 
A  doating  mother,  as  Cornelia  was: 
This  lost  no  husband,  in  whose  overthrow 
Her  wealth  and  honour  sunk  ;  no  fear  of  want 
Did  make  her  being  tedious  ;  but,  aiming 
At  an  immortal  crown,  and  in  his  cause 
Who  only  can  bestow  it,  who  sent  down 
Legions  of  ministering  angels  to  bear  up 
Her  spotless  soul  to  heaven  ;  who  entertain'd  it 
With  choice  celestial  music,  equal  to 
The  motion  of  the  spheres,  she,  uncompell'd, 
Changed  this  life  for  a  better.     My  lord  Sapritius 
You  were  present  at  her  death  ;  did  you  e'er  hear 
Such  ravishing  sounds  ? 

Sap.  Yet  you  said  then  'twas  witchcraft, 
And  devilish  illusions. 

Theoph.  I  then  heard  it 

With  sinful  ears,  and  belch'd  out  blasphemous  words 
Against  his  Deity,  which  then  I  knew  not 
Nor  did  believe  in  him. 

Diocle.  Why,  dost  thou  now* 
Or  dar'st  thou,  in  our  hearing — 

Theoph.  Were  my  voice 
As  loud  as  is  his  thunder,  to  be  heard 
Through  all  the  world,  all  potentates  on  earth 
Ready  to  burst  with  rage,  should  they  but  hear  it ; 
Though  hell,  to  aid  their  malice,  lent  her  furies, 
Yet  I  would  speak,  and  speak  again,  and  boldly, 
I  am  a  Christian,  and  the  Powers  you  worship 
But  dreams  of  fools  and  madmen. 

Max.  Lay  hands  on  him. 

Diocle.  Thou  twice  a  child!   for  doating  age  so 

makes  thee, 

Thou  couldst  not  else,  thy  pilgrimage  of  life 
Being  almost  past  through,  in  this  last  moment 
Destroy  whate'er  thou  hast  done  good  or  great — 
Thy  youth  did  promise  much  ;  and,  grown  a  man, 
Thou  mad'st  it  good,  and,  with  increase  of  years, 
Thy  actions  still  better'd  :  as  the  sun, 
Thou  did'st  rise  gloriously,  kept'st  a  constant  course 
In  all  thy  journey  ;  and  now,  in  the  evening, 
When  thou  should'st  pass  with  honour  to  thy  rest, 
Wilt  thou  fall  like  a  meteor  ? 

Sap.  Yet  confess 

That  thou  art  mad,  and  that  thy  tongue  and  heart 
Had  no  agreement.  « 

Mai.  Do  ;  no  way  is  left,  else, 
To  save  thy  life,  Theophilus. 

Diocle.  But,  refuse  it, 
Destruction  as  horrid,  and  as  sudden, 
Shall  fall  upon  thee,  as  if  hell  stood  open, 
And  thou  wert  sinking  thither. 

Theoph.  Hear  me,  yet ; 
Hear  for  my  service  past. 

Artem.  What  will  he  say  ? 

Theoph.  As  ever  I  deserved  your  favour,  hear  me, 
And  grant  one  boon :   'tis  not  for  life  I  sue  for  *, 


•  Tit  not  for  life  I  sue  for  '  The   modern  editors  omil 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


31 


Nor  is  it  fit  that  I,  that  ne'er  knew  pity 

To  any  Christian,  being  one  myself, 

Should  look  for  any  ;  no,  I  rather  beg 

The  utmost  of  your  cruelty ;  I  stand 

Accomptuble  for  thousand  Christians'  deaths  ; 

And,  were  it  possible  that  I  could  die 

A  day  for  every  one,  then  live  again 

To  be  again  tormented,  'twere  to  me 

An  easy  penance,  and  I  should  pass  through 

A  gentle  cleansing  fire  ;  but,  that  denied  me, 

It  being  beyond  the  strength  of  feeble  nature, 

My  suit  is,  you  would  have  no  pity  on  me. 

In  mine  own  house  there  are  thousand  engines 

Of  studied  cruelty,  which  I  did  prepare 

For  miserable  Christians  ;   let  me  feel, 

As  the  Sicilian  did  his  brazen  bull, 

The  horrid'styou  can  find,  and  I  will  say, 

In  death  that  you  are  merciful. 

Diocle.  Despair  not, 
In  this  thou  shall  prevail.     Go  fetch  them  hither  : 

[Exit.  Guard. 

Death  shall  put  on  a  thousand  shapes  at  once, 
And  so  appear  before  thee  ;  racks,  and  whips! — 
Thy  flesh,  with  burning  pincers  torn,  shall  feed 
The  fire  that  heats    them  ;  and  what's  wanting  to 
The  torture  of  thy  body,  I'll  supply 
In  punishing  thy  mind.     Fetch  all  the  Christians 
That  are  in  hold  ;  and  here,  before  his  face, 
Cut  them  in  pieces. 

Theopk.  'Tis  not  in  thy  power  : 
It  was  the  first  good  deed  I  ever  did. 
They  are  removed  out  of  thy  reach  ;  howe'er 
I  was  determined  for  my  sins  to  die, 

I  first  took  order  for  their  liberty, 
And  still  I  dare  thy  worst. 

Re-enter  Guard  with  the  instruments  of  torture. 
Diocle.  Bind  him  I  say  ; 
Make  every  artery  and  sinew  crack  : 
The  slave  that  makes  him  give  the  loudest  shriek,* 
Shall  have  ten  thousand  drachmas  :    wretch  !    I'll 
To  curse  the  Power  thou  worship's! :       [force  thee 

Theoph.  Never,  never; 
No  breath  of  mine  shall  e'er  be  spent  on  him, 

[They  torment  him. 

But  what  shall  speak  his  majesty  or  mercy. 
I'm  honour'd  in  my  sufferings.     Weak  tormentors, 
More  tortures,  more  : — alas  !  you  are  unskilful — 
For  neaven's  sake  more  ;  my  breast  is  yet  untorn : 

I 1  ere  purchase  the  reward  that  was  propounded. 
The  irons  cool, — here  are  arms  yet,  and  thighs; 
Spare  no  part  of  me. 

Max.  He  endures  beyond 
The  sufferance  of  a  man. 

Sap,  No  sigh  nor  groan, 
To  witness  he  hath  feeling. 

Diocle.  Harder,  villains ! 

Enter  HARPAX. 

Harp.  Unless  that  he  blaspheme  he's  lost  for  ever. 
2f  torments  ever  could  bring  forth  despair, 

the  last  for:  but  they  are  too  squeamish.     This  reduplica- 
tion was  practised  by  all  the  writers  of  our  author's  lime ; 
of  which  I  could,  if  it  were  necessary,  give  a  thousand  c\-    ,' 
amples ;    Massinger  himself   would   furnish  a    considerable 
lumber. 

•  The  slave  that  makes  him  give  the  loudest  shriek,]  So  [ 
read  all  the  editions  before  the  last;  when  Mr.  M.  Mason,  to  j 
suit  the  line  to  his  own  ideas  of  harmony,  discarded  The  tlave  \ 
for  He  I 


Let  these  compel  him  to  it  :   Oh  me, 

My  ancient  enemies  again  !  [_FaUs  down. 

Enter  DOROTHEA   in  a   white  ~obe,  a  crown    upon  her 
head,  led  in  by  ANGELO  ;   ANTONINUS,  CALISTA,  and 
CIIRISTETA  J  allowing,  all  in  white,  but   less  glorious 
ANGELO  holds  out  a  crown  to  THEOPHILUS. 

Theoph.  Most  glorious  vision  ! 

Did  e'er  so  hard  abed  yield  man  a  dream 
So  heavenly  as  this?     I  am  confirm 'd, 
Confirm'd,  you  blessed  spirits,  and  make  haste 
To  take  that  crown  of  immortality 
You  offer  to  me.     Death,  till  tins  blest  minute, 
1  never  thought  thee  slow-paced ;  nor  would  I 
Hasten  thee  now,  for  any  pain  I  suffer, 
But  that  thou  keep'st  me  from  a  glorious  wreath, 
Which  through  this  stormy  way  I  would  creep  to, 
And,  humbly  kneeling,  with  humility  wear  it. 
Oh  !  now  I  feel  thee  : — blessed  spirits  !  I  come  ; 
And,  witness  for  me  all  these  wounds  and  scars, 
I  die  a  soldier  in  the  Christian  wars.  [Diet 

Sap.  I  have  seen  thousands  tortured,  but  ne'er  yet 
A  constancy  like  this. 

Harp.  I  am  twice  damn'd. 

Aug.  Haste  to  thy  place  appointed,  cursed  fiend ' 
In  spite  of  hell,  this  soldier's  not  thy  prey  ; 
'Tis  I  have  \von,  thou  that  hast  lost  the  day.      [Exii 
[Harpax  sinks  with  thunder  and  lightning. 
Diocle.  I  think  the  centre  of  the  earth  be  crack'd, 
Yet  I  stand  still  unmoved,  and  will  go  on  : 
The  persecution  that  is  here  begun, 
Through  all  the  world  with  violence  shall  run. 

[Flourish.  Exeunt* 


•  Mr.  M.  Mason  capriciously  deranged  the  order  in  which 
Coxeter  printed  these  plays,  and  began  with  The  Picture,  a 
piece  which  bears  the  strongest  internal  marks  of  being  a 
late  production.  With  resptct  to  the  t'iryhi-Martyr,  he 
considerably  under-rate«  it,  and  indeed  displays  no  portion 
of  judgment  in  appreciating  either  its  beauties  or  flefecti. 
He  adopts  Coxeter's  idea  tliat  it  was  indebted  for  its  succest 
to  the  abominable  scenes  between  Hirciuj  and  Spungius, 
pronounces  the  subject  of  the  tragedy  to  be  unpleasant,  the 
incidents'  unnatural,  and  the  supernatural  agents  employed 
to  bring  them  about,  destitute  of  the  singularity  and  wildnesa 
which  distinguish  the  fictitious  beings  of  Shaksj>eare.  With 
re»pect  to  the  subject,  it  is  undoubtedly  ill  chosen.  Scour^- 
ing,  racking,  and  beheading,  are  circumstances  of  no  veiy 
agreeable  kind;  and  wilh  the  poor  aids  of  which  the  stage 
was  then  possessed,  must  have  been  somewhat  worse  than 
ridictilouf .  Allowing,  however,  for  the  agency  ot  supernatural 
beings,  I  icarcely  see  how  the  incident!  they  produce  can, 
as  Mr.  M.  Mason  represents  them,  be  unnatural.  1'he  ci.in- 
pari»on  drawn  between  them  and  the  fictitioui  being*  of 
Shaksp  are  is  injudicious.  Shakspeare  has  no  angels  nor 
devils;  his  womteriul  ju'lgment,  perhaps,  instructed  him  to 
avoid  sue  It  untractable  m,,^. !;-.;•:;•.  With  fairies  and  spirits 
he  might  wanton  in  the  regions  of  fancy,  i»..  '.'.'"  «-ha>-.-irter 
of  a  heavenly  messenger  wa»  of  too  sacred  a  nature  for  wiiit- 
ness  and  singularity,  and  that  of  a  fiend  too  horrible  for  the 
-•{.oitivi'iiess  of  imagination.  It  appears  to  me  that  Massin- 
ger  and  his  associate  had  conceived  the  idea  of  combining 
the  prominent  parts  of  the  old  Mystery,  with  the  Morality, 
which  was  not  yet  obliterated  from  the  memories,  nor  perhaps 
from  the  affections  of  many  of  the  spectators ;  to  this,  I  am 
willing  to  hope,  and  no)  to  the  ribaldry,  which  Mr.  M.  Ma 
son  so  properly  rcpiobates,  the  great  success  of  this  singular 
medley  might  be  in  some  measure  owing.  I  have  taken 
notice  of  many  beautiful  passages;  but  it  would  be  unjust  to 
the  authors  to  conclude,  without  remarking  on  the  good 
sense  and  dexterity  with  which  they  have  avoided  the  con- 
currence of  Angelo  and  Harpax,  till  the  concluding  scene; 
an  error  into  which  Tasso,  and  others  of  greater  name  than 
Massinger,  have  inadvertently  fallen. 

H'ith  a  neglect  of  precision  which  pervades  all  the  argc- 
ments  of  Mr.  M.  Mason,  he  declares  it  is  easy  to  distinguish 
the  hand  of  Decker  from  that  of  Massinger,  yet  finds  a  dif- 
ficulty in  apppropriating  their  most  characteristic  language' 
If  I  have  spoken  with  more  confidence,  it  U  not  dona 
lightly,  but  from  a  long  and  careful  study  of  Massiage:- 


THE  VIRGIN-MARTYR. 


[Acr 


manner,  and  from  that  species  of  internal  evidence  which, 
though  it  ini^tit  not  perhaps  sufficiently  strike  the  common 
reader,  is  with  me  decisive.  With  respect  to  the  scenes  be- 
tween the  two  buttoons,  it  would  be  an  injury  to  the  name 
of  Massinger  to  waste  a  single  argument  iu  proving  them 
hot  to  bf  his.  In  saying  this  1  am  actuated  irv  no  hostility  to 
Decker,  wiio  in  this  Play  has  many  passages  which  evince 
that  he  wanted  not  talents  to  rival,  if  he  had  pleated,  his 
friend  and  associate.  GIFFOKU. 

Notwithstanding  the  blemishes  which  have  been  justly 
objected  to  this  play,  it  possesses  beauties  of  an  extraordi- 
nary kind.— Indeed",  nothing  more  base  and  filthy  can  be 
conceived  than  the  dialogues  between  Hirciiitaud  Spungius! 
but  the  genuine  and  dignified  piety  of  Dorothea,  her  unsul- 
lied innocence,  her  unshaken  constancy,  the  lolly  pity  she 
expresses  for  her  persecutors,  her  calm  contempt  of  tortures, 
and  her  heroic  death,  exalt  the  mind  in  no  common  degree, 
and  make  the  reader  almost  insensible  of  the  surrounding 
imparity,  through  the  holy  contempt  of  it  which  they  in- 
spire. 

How  .sentiments  and  images  thus  opposite  should  be  con- 
tai.ied  in  the  same  piece,  it  is  somewhat  difficult  to  conceive, 
ll  Deoker  had  furnished  none  but  the  comic  parts,  the  doubt 
would  be  soon  at  an  end.  But  there  is  good  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  he  wrote  the  \\  hole  of  the  second  act ;  and  the  very 
first  scene  of  it  has  the  same  mixture  of  loathsome  beastliness 
and  angelic  purity,  which  are  ob-erved  iu  those  passages 
that  are  more  distant  from  each  other. — It  is  the  strange  and 
forced  conjunction  of  Mczentius: 

Mortua jungebat  corpora  vivit, 

7'ormenti  genut — — — — 

The  subject  in  general  is  certainly  extravagant ;  and  the 
introduction  of  a  good  and  evil  spirit,  disguised  in  human 
shapes,  was  not  to  be  expected  iu  what  aspired  to  the  credit 
of  a  regular  tragedy.  Yet  it  should  be  remembered,  that 
poetic  licence  calls  in  "a  thousand  liveried  angels"  to  "  lac- 
key saintly  chastity;" — that  whatever  be  their  departure  from 
propriety,  such  representations  had  a  most  solemn  origin ; 
and  that,  with  this  allowance,  the  business  in  which  the 
spirits  are  engaged  has  a  substantial  conformity  with  the 
opinions  of  the  early  ages  in  which  the  plot  is  laid.  The 
permitted  but  vain  opposition  of  the  demons  to  the  progress 
of  the  <aith,  and  the  reasoning  and  raillery  which  Dorothea 
expresses,  under  the  influence  of  Angelo,  against  the  pagan 
gods,  are  to  be  found  in  Justin,  Tatian,  Arnobius,  and  others.* 

•  (Augustine  and  Gregory  the  Great,  wholived  so  late  as 
he  fi'iir'.b  century,  mention  the  visits  of  the  angels  to  this 
urlh  even  io  their  days.  ED.) 


— The  separate  agency  of  the  spirits,  and  the  consequence 
of  their  personal  encounter,  are  also  described  in  a  charac- 
teristic manner. 

Apart  from  Angelo,  Harpax  seems  to  advance  in  his 
maliyn.int  work.  When  the  daughters  of  Theophiliis  express 
their  zeal  for  paganism,  he  "  grows  fat  to  see  his  labours 
prosper."  Vet  he  cannot  look  forward  to  the  defeat  of 
those  labours  in  their  approaching  conversion,  though,  on 
some  occasions,  we  find  he  could  "  see  a  thousand  leagues" 
in  his  master's  service.  And  this  agrees  with  the  doctrine, 
that  when  some  signal  triumph  of  the  faith  was  at  hand, 
the  evil  spirits  were  abridged  of  their  usual  powers.  Again, 
when  Harpax  expects  to  meet  Angelo,  he  thus  expresses 
the  dread  of  his  presence,  and  the  effect  which  it  afterwards 
produced  on  him : 

I  do  so  hate  his  sight, 

That,  should  I  look  on  him,  I  should  sink  down." 

Act  II.  sc.  ii. 

And  this  too,  perfectly  agrees  with  the  power  attributed  to 
the  superior  spirits  of  quelling  the  demons  by  those  indica- 
tions of  heir  quality  which  were  not  to  be  perceived  by 
mortals  :  per  occuitissimte  tigna  prti'tentiie,  qua;  anyelicis, 
tensibus  etiam  maliynorum  tpirituum,  potius  quam  infirmi- 
tati  hominum,  pnvnmt  etse  perspicua.  ftp.  Dei.  lib.  ix. 

The  tith  r  paits  of  the  Play  do  not  require  much  observa- 
tion. Indeed,  the  characters  of  Calista  and  Christeta  are 
well  sustained.  Hasty,  self-conlident,  readily  promising  for 
their  steadiness,  soon  forgetting  their  resolutions,  and  equally 
secure  in  every  change  of  opinion,  they  are  well  contrasted 
with  Dorothea,  whose  rixed  principles  always  guard  her 
against  rashness,  and  therefore  preserve  her  I'rom  contradic- 
tion. As  to  Dioclesian  and  his  captive  kings,  they  come  in 
and  go  out  with  little  of  our  admiration  or  our  pity.  Artemia's 
love  for  Antoninus  would  be  wholly  without  interest,  if  we 
were  not  moved  for  a  moment  by  her  indignation  at  the 
rejection  of  her  otter  ;  and  we  see  her  at  length  consigned 
to  Maximinus  with  as  little  emotion  as  is  shewn  by  them- 
selves. This,  however,  is  somewhat  relieved  by  Antoninus's 
passion,  a  genuine  one,  for  Dorothea. 

Certainly  there  is  too  much  horror  in  this  tragedy.  The 
daughters  of  Theophilus  are  killed  on  the  stage.  Theophilus 
himself  is  racked,  and  Dorothea  is  dragged  by  the  hair, 
kicked,  tortured,  and  beheaded.  Its  popularity  mii>i  there- 
fore in  a  considerable  degree  be  attributed  to  the  interest 
occasioned  by  the  contrary  agencies  of  the  two  spirits,  to 
the  glorious  vision  of  the  beatified  Dorothea  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  piece,  and  th«  reappeatance  of  Angelo,  in  his 
proper  character,  with  the  sacred  fruit  and  flowers,  from  (he 
"  heavenly  garden,"  and  the  "  crown  of  immortality,''  fcr 
Tiiuoohiius,  DR.  IRELAND. 


THE 

UNNATURAL  COMBAT, 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT.]  Of  this  Tragedy  there  is  but  one  edition,  which  was  printed  for  John  Water- 
son,  in  1659.  It  does  not  occur  in  Sir  Henry  Herbert's  Office-book  ;  so  that  it  is  probably  of  a  very  early 
date  :  and  indeed  Massinger  himself  calls  it  "  an  old  tragedy."  Like  the  Virgin-Marttfr,  it  has  neither 
Prologue  nor  Epilogue,  for  which  the  author  accounts  in  his  Dedication,  by  observing  that  the  play  was 
composed  at  a  time  "  when  such  by-ornaments  were  not  advanced  above  the  fabric  of  the  whole  work." 

The  editors  of  the  Biographia  Dramatica  speak  in  rapturous  terms  of  the  various  excellencies  of  this  piece, 
and  think,  "  that  with  very  little  alteration,  it  might  be  rendered  a  valuable  acquisition  to  the  present  stage." 
This  I  doubt :  it  is  indeed  a  most  noble  performance  ;  grand  in  conception,  and  powerful  in  execution  ;  but 
the  passion  on  which  the  main  part  of  the  storv  hinges,  is  of  too  revolting  a  nature  for  public  representation  • 
we  may  admire  in  the  closet  what  we  should  turn  from  on  the  stage. 

It  is  said,  in  the  title-page,  to  have  been  "  presented  by  the  King's  Majesty's  Servants,  at  the  Globe. 


TO 
MY  MUCH  HONOURED  FRIEND, 

ANTHONY    SENTLEGEK, 

OF  OAKHAM,  IN  KENT,  ESQ. 

SIR, 

That  the  patronage  of  trifles,  in  this  kind,  hath  long  since  rendered  dedications,  and  inscriptions  obsolete 
and  out  of  fashion,  I  perfectly  understand,  and  cannot  but  ingenuously  confess,  that  I  walking  in  the  same 
path,  may  be  truly  argued  by  you  of  weakness,  or  wilful  error  :  but  the  reasons  and  defences,  for  the 
tender  of  my  service  this  way  to  you,  are  so  just,  that  I  cannot  (in  my  thankfulness  for  so  many  favours 
received)  but  be  ambitious  to  publish  them.  Your  noble  father,  Sir  Warham  Sentleger  (whose  remarkable 
virtues  must  be  ever  remembered),  being,  while  he  lived,  a  master,  for  his  pleasure,  in  poetry,  feared  not  tc 
hold  converse  with  divers,  whose  necessitous  fortunes  made  it  their  profession,  among  which,  by  the 
clemency  of  his  judgment,  I  was  not  in  the  last  place  admitted.  You  (the  heir  of  his  honour  and 
estate)  inherited  his  good  inclinations  to  men  of  my  poor  quality,  of  which  I  cannot  give  any  ampler 
testimony,  than  by  my  free  and  glad  profession  of  it  to  the  world.  Besides  (and  it  was  not  the  least 
encouragement  tome)  many  of  eminence,  and  the  best  of  such,  who  disdained  not  to  take  notice  of  me, 
have  not  thought  themselves  disparaged,  I  dare  not  say  honoured,  to  be  celebrated  the  patrons  of  my 
humble  studies :  in  the  first  file  of  which,  I  am  confident,  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  blush,  to  find 
your  name  written.  I  present  you  with  this  old  tragedy,  without  prologue  or  epilogue,  it  being  composed 
in  a  time  (and  that  too,  peradventure,  as  knowing  as  this)  when  such  by-ornaments  were  not  advanced 
above  the  fabric  of  the  whole  work.  Accept  it,  I  beseech  you,  as  it  is,  and  continue  your  favour  to  the 
author 

Your  servant, 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

A  Steward. 
An  Usher. 
A  Pasie. 


BEAUFORT  senior,  governor  of  Marseilles. 

BEAUFORTjunior,  his  son 

MALEFORT  senior,  admiral  of  Marseilles. 

MALEFOKT  junior,  his  son 

CIIAMOXT,        ) 

MONTAIGNE,    >  assist  an  ts  to  ihe  governor. 

LA.VOUR,          J 

MONTREVILI.E,  a  pretended  friend  to  MALEFORT  senior. 

BELG.AHDE,  a  poor  captain. 

Three  Sea  Captains,  of  the  navy  of  MALEFORT  junior 

SCENE.— MARSEILLES. 


TIIEOCRINE,  daughter  to  MALEFORT  senior 
Two  Waiting  Women. 
Two  Courtezans. 
A  Bawd. 

Servants  and  Soldiers. 


54 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


ACT  I. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— A  Hall  in  the  Court  of  Justice. 


Enter  MONTREVII.LF.,  THEOCRINE,  Usher,  Page,  and 
Waiting  Women. 

Montr.  Now  to  be  modest,  madam,  when  you  are 
A  suitor  for  your  father,  would  appear 
Coarser  than  boldness  ;  you  awhile  must  part  with 
Soft  silence,  and  the  blushings  of  a  virgin  : 
Though  I  must  grant,  did  not  this  cause  command  it, 
They  are  rich  jewels  you  have  ever  worn 
To  all  men's  admiration.     In  this  age, 
If,  by  our  own  forced  importunity, 
Or  others  purchased  intercession,  or 
Corrupting  bribes,  we  can  make  our  approaches 
To  justice,  guarded  from  us  by  stern  power, 
We  bless  the  means  and  industry. 

Ush.  Here's  music  [opium, 

In  this  bag  shall  wake  her,  though  she  had  drunk 
Or  eaten  mandrakes*.    Let  commanders  talk 
Of  cannons  to  make  breaches,  give  but  fire 
To  this  petard,  it  shall  blow  open,  madam, 
The  iron  doors  of  a  judge,  and  make  you  entrance  ; 
When  they  (let  them  do  what  they  can)  with  all 
Their  mines,  their  culverins,  and  basiliscos,      [lock 
Shall  cool   their  feet  without;  this  being  the  pick- 
That  never  fails. 

Montr.  'Tis  true,  gold  can  do  much, 
But  beauty  more.     Were  I  the  governor, 
Though  the  admiral,  your  father,  stood  convicted 
Of  what  he's  only  doubted,  half  a  dozen 
Of  sweet  close  kisses  from  these  cherry  lips, 
With  some  short  active  conference  ia  private, 
Should  sign  his  general  pardon. 
Theoc.  These  light  words,  sir, 
Do  ill  become  the  weight  of  my  sad  fortune  ; 
And  I  much  wonder,  you,  that  do  profess 
Yourself  to  be  my  father's  bosorn  friend, 
Can  raise  mirth  from  his  misery. 

Montr.  You  mistake  me  ; 
I  share  in  his  calamity,  and  only 
Deliver  my  thoughts  freely,  what  I  should  do 
For  such  a  rare  petitioner  :  and  if 
You'll  follow  the  directions  I  prescribe, 
With  my  best  judgment  I'll  mark  out  the  way 
For  his  enlargement. 

Theoc.  With  all  real  joy 
I  shall  put  what  you  counsel  into  act, 
Provided  it  be  honest. 

Montr.  Honesty 

In  a  fair  she  client  (trust  to  my  experience) 
Seldom  or  never  p   >spers  ;  the  world's  wicked  : 
We  are  men,   nol  saints,  sweet  lady  ;    you  must 

practice 

The  manners  of  the   ime,  if  you  intend 
To  have  favour  from  it :  do  not  deceive  yourself 
By  building  too  much  on  the  false  foundations 
Of  chastity  and  virtue.     Bid  your  waiters 
Stand  further  off,  and  I'll  come  nearer  tp  you 
1    Worn.  Some  wicked  counsel,  on  my  life. 


ers 
er 


*  Or  eaten  mandrakes.]  Hill  observes,  that  "  the  man- 
drake IMS  a  soporific  quality,  and  that  it  was  used  by  die 
ancients  when  they  wanted  a  narcotic  of  a  most  powerful 
kind."  To  this  there  are  perpetual  allusions  in  our  old 
writers. 


2   Worn.  Ne'er  doubt  it*, 
If  it  proceed  from  him. 

Page  I  wonder  that 
My  lord  so  much  aiFects  him. 

Ush.  Thou'rt  a  child f, 

And  dost  not  understand  on  what  strong  basis 
This  friendship's  raised  between  this  Montreville 
Andourlord,  Monsieur  Malefort;  but  I'll  teach  thee- 
From  thy  years  they  have  been  joint  purchas- 
In  fire  and  water  works,  and  truck'd  together 

Page.  In  fire  and  water  works  ! 

Ush.  Commodities,  boy, 
Which  you  may  know  hereafter. 

Page.  And  deal  in  them, 

When  the  trade  has  given  you  over,  as  appears  bj 
The  increase  of  your  high  forehead^. 

Ush.  Here's  a  crack$  ! 
I  think  they  suck  this  knowledge  in  their  milk. 

Page.  I  had  an  ignorant  nurse  else.     I  have  tied, 
My  lady's  garter,  and  can  guess —  [sir, 

Ush.  Peace,  infant  ; 

Tales  out  o'school !  take  heed,  you  will  be  breech'd 
else.  \Theocrlne  retires. 

1  Worn.  My  lady's  colour  changes. 

2  Worn.  She  falls  oft'  too. 

Theoc.  You  .are  a  naughty  man,  indeed  you  are  } 
And  I  will  sooner  perish  with  my  father, 
Than  at  this  price  redeem  him. 

Montr.  Take  your  own  way, 
Your  modest,  legal  way  :  'tis  not  your  veil, 
Nor  mourning  habit,  nor  these  creatures  taught 
To  howl,  and  cry,  when  you  begin  to  whimper: 
Nor  following  my  loni's  coach  in  the  dirt, 
i\or  that  which  you  rely  upon,  a  bribe, 
Will  do  it,  when  there's  something  he  likes  better. 
These  courses  in  an  old  crone  of  threescore!), 
That  had  seven  years  together  tired  the  court 
With  tedious  petitions,  and  clamours, 


•  2  Worn.  Ne'ei  doubt  it 

Jf  it  proceed  from  him.]  The  character  of  Montrcville  is 
opened  with  great  beauty  and  propriety.  The  freedom  of 
his  language,  and  the  advice  he  gives  Theocrinc,  fully  pre- 
pare us  for  any  a>:t  of  treachery  or  cruelty  he  may  hereafter 
perpetrate. 

+  t'sh.   Thou'rt  a  child, 

And  dost  not  understand,  &c.]  This  speech,  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  say  why,  h,is  been  h'nh.Tlo  printed  as  prose,  though 
nothing  is  clearer  than  that  the  author  meant  it  for  verse, 
into  which,  indued,  it  runs  as  readily  as  any  other  part  of 
the  play.  (Omitted  unintentionally  in  Edit.  1813.) 

| as  appears  by 

The  increase  of  your  high  forehead]  Alluding,  per- 
haps, to  the  preiii.iiuie  baldness  occasioned  by  dealing  iu 
the  commodities  just  mentioned  ;  or,  it  may  be,  to  the  fall- 
ing off  of  his  hair  from  age  :  go  the  women  to  Anacreon, 
ipiXov  ft  aiv  fjitrwov. 

§  Ush.  Here's  a  crack  !]  A  crack  is  an  arch,  sprightly  boy. 
Thus,  in  the  Devil's  an  Ass  : 

"  If  we  could  get  a  witty  boy  now,  Engine, 
That  svere  an  excellent  crack,  1  could  instruct  him 
To  the  greai  height." 

The  word  occurs  again  in  the  Bashful  Lover,  and,  indeed 
in  most  of  our  old  plays. 

||  These  courxes  in  an  old,  crone  of  threescore,}  This  ex 
pression,  which,  as  Johnson  says,  means  an  old  toothless 
ewe,  ii  contemptuously  used  for  an  old  woman,  by  all  the 
writer*  of  Messenger's  time.  Thus  Jonson  : 

"  let  him  alone 

With  temper  d  poison  to  remove  the  crone."  Poetattef 
And  Shakspeaic: 

"  take  up  the  bastmrd  ;  f 

Tak't  it  up.  1  say  ;  giv't  to  thy  crone."         Wtntertlalt. 


SCEXE  I. 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


35 


For  the  recovery  of  a  straggling*  husband, 

To  pay,  forsooth,  the  duties  of  one  to  her  ; — 

But  for  a  lady  of  your  tempting;  beauties, 

Your  youth,  and  ravishing  features,  to  hope  only 

In  such  a  suit  as  this  is,  to  gain  favour, 

Without  exchage  of  courtesy, — you  conceive  me — 

Enter  BEAUFORT  junior,  and  BELGARDE. 

Were  madness  at  the  height.     Here's  brave  young 

Beaufort, 

The  meteor  of  Marseillesf,  one  that  holds 
The  governor  his  father's  will  and  power 
In  more  awe  than  his  own  !     Come,  come,  advance, 
Present  your  bag,  cramm'd  with  crowns  of  the  sun}  ; 
Do  you  think  he  cares  for  money  ?  he  loves  pleasure. 
Burn  your  petition,  burn  it ;  he  doats  on  you, 
Upon  my  knowledge:  to  his  cabinet,  do, 
And  he  will  point  you  out  a  certain  course, 
He  the  cause  right  or  wrong,  to  have  your  father 
Released  with  much  facility.  [Exit.    | 

Theoc.  Do  you  hear  ? 
Take  a  pandar  with  you. 

Beauf.jun.  I  tell  thee  there  is  neither 
Employment  yet,  nor  money. 

Belg.  I  have  commanded, 

And  spent  my  own  means  in  my  country's  service 
In  hope  to  raise  a  fortune. 

Beahf.jun.  Many  have  hoped  so  ; 
But  hopes  prove  seldom  certainties  with  soldiers. 

Belg.  If  no  preferment,  let  me  but  receive 
My  pay  that  is  behind,  to  set  me  up 
A  tavern,  or  a  vaulting  house ;  while  men  love 
Or  drunkenness,  or  lechery,  they'll  ne'er  fail  me  : 
Shall  I  have  that? 

Beauf.jun.  As  our  prizes  are  brought  in  ; 
Till  then  you  must  be  patient. 

Belg.  In  the  mean  time, 
How  shall  I  do  for  clothes  ? 

Beauf.jun.  As  most  captains  do  : 
Philosopher-like,  carry  all  you  have  about  youj. 

Belg.  But  how  shall  I  do,  to  satisfy  colon||,  mon- 
There  lies  the  doubt.  [sieur  ? 

Beauf.jun.  That's  easily  decided  : 
My  father's  table's  free  for  any  man 
That  hath  born  arms. 

Belg.  And  there's  good  store  of  meat? 

Beauf.jun.  Never  fear  that. 

Belg.  I'll  seek  no  other  ordinary  then, 
But  be  his  daily  guest  without  invitement ; 
And  if  my  stomach  hold,  I'll  feed  so  heartily, 
As  he  shall  pay  me  suddenly,  to  be  quit  of  me. 

Beauf.jun.  'Tis  she.  . 

Belg    And  further 


*  For  the  recovery  of  a  straggling  husband.}  The  old  copy 
re  i<l*  strangling. 

f  'Hie  meteor  of  Marseilles,!  It  may  be  proper  to  observe 
nerp,  once  for  all,  that  Marseilles,  or  as  Massinger  spells  it, 
M  n -tllis,  is  constantly  u»e<l  by  him  as  a  trisyllable,  wliicli, 
in  fact,  it  is. 

J crowns  of  the.  sun  ;]    Esciu  de  soleil,  the  best 

kind  of  crowns,  says  Cotgrave.  tliat  are  now  m»de;  they 
have  a  kind  of  liltle  star  (sun)  on  one  side.  This  coin  is  fre- 
quently mentioned  by  our  old  writers. 

j  Phi'osopher-lilu>,  car  y  all  you  bar*  abo  t  you.]  Allu- 
ding to  the  well  known  sa.,i.ig  of  Simonides.  "  Umnia  mea 
niecum  porto." 

II to  tat'ttfy  colon,  monsintr  ?]  \.  e.  the  cravings  of 

hunger:  the  colon  is  tin:  largest  of  the  human  intestines:  jt 
frri|iiontly  occurs  in  the  same  sense  as  here,  in  our  old  poets. 
So  in  the  H'its. 

"  Abstain  from  flesh — whilst  cnlnn  keeps  more  noise 
Than  mariners  at  plays,  or  apple-wives, 
That  wrangle  for  a  sieve." 


Beanf.jun.  Away,  you  are  troublesome  ; 
Designs  of  more  weight • 

Belg.  Ha  !  fair  Theocrine. 
Nay,  if  a  velvet  petticoat,  move  in  the  front, 
Buff  jerkins  must  to  the  rear;  1  know  my  manner? 
This  is,  indeed,  great  business,  mine  a  gewgaw. 
I  may  dance  attendance,  this  must  be  dispatch'd, 
And  suddenly,  or  all  will  go  to  wreck  ; 
Charge  her  home  in  tlie  flank,  my  lord:  nay,  I  am 
gone  sir.  [Exif. 

Beauf.  jun.Xay,  pray  you,  madam,  rise,  or  I'll  kne*l 
with  you. 

Page.  I  would  bring  you  on  your  kneas,  were  I  a 
woman. 

Beauf.jun.  What  is  it  can  deserve  so  poor  a  name 
As  a  suit  to  me?     This  more  than  mortal  form 
Was  fashion'd  to  command,  and  not  entreat : 
Your  will  but  known  is  served 

Theoc.  Great  sir,  my  father, 
My  brave,  deserving  father ; — 'but  that  sorrow 
Forbids  the  use  of  speech 

Beauf.jun.  I  understand  you, 
Without  the  aids  of  those  interpreters 
That  fall  from  your  fair  eyes  ;  I  know  you  labour 
The  liberty  of  your  father  ;  at  the  least, 
An  equal*  hearing  to  acquit  himself: 
And  'tis  not  to  endear  my  service  to  you, 
Though   I  must  add,  and   pray  you  with   patience 

hear  it, 

'Tis  hard  to  be  effected,  in  respect 
The  state's  incensed  against  him :  all  presuming, 
The  world  of  outrages  his  impious  son, 
Turn'd  worse  than  pirate  in  his  cruelties, 
Express'd  to  this  poor  country,  could  not  be 
With  such  ease  put  in  execution,  if 
Your  father,  of  late  our  great  admiral, 
Held  not  or  correspondence,  or  connived 
At  his  proceedings. 

Theoc.  And  must  he  then  suffer, 
His  cause  unheard  ? 

Beanf.jun.  As  yet  it  is  resolved  so, 
In  their  determination.     But  suppose 
(For  I  would  nourish  hope,  not  kill  it,  in  you) 
I  should  divert  the  torrent  of  their  purpose, 
And  render  them,  that  are  implacable, 
Impartial  judges,  and  not  swayM  with  spleen  ; 
Will  you,  I  dare  not  say  in  recompense, 
For  that  includes  a  debt  you  cannot  owe  me, 
But  in  your  liberal  bounty,  in  my  suit 
To  you,  be  gracious  ? 

Theoc.  You  entreat  of  me,  sir. 
What  I  should  offer  to  you,  with  confession 
That  you  much  undervalue  your  owu  worth, 
Should  you  receive  me,  since  there  come  with  you 
Not  lustful  fires,  but  fair  and  lawful  flames. 
But  I  must  be  excused,  'tis  now  no  time 
For  me  to  think  of  Hymeneal  joys. 
Can  he,  (and  pray  you,  sir,  consider  it) 
That  gave  me  life,  and  faculties  to  love, 
Be,  as  he's  now,  readv  to  be  devour'd 
By  ravenous  woU*es,  and  at  that  instant,  1 
But  entertain  a  thought  of  those  delights, 
In  which  perhaps,  my  arJou;  meets  with  yours  ! 
Duty  and  piety  forbid  it,  sir, 


*  An  equal  hearinf/1  A  just  impartial  hearing;  »o  rqual  i« 
constantly  nsed  by  Massinger  and  lii»  contemporaries:   thiu 
Fletcher : 
"  What  could  this  thief  have  done,  I  »d  his  cause  been  fqval 

He  made  my  heartstrings  tremble."        Knlyht  of  Malta. 


THE  UNNA'IURAL  COMBAT. 


ACT 


Beauf.  jun.  Butthis  effected,  and  your  father  free, 
What  is  your  answer  ? 

Theoc,  Every  minute  to  me 
Will  be  a  tedious  age,  till  our  embraces 
Are  warrantable  to  the  world. 

Beaiif.  fun.  I  urge  no  more  ; 
Confirm  it  with  a  kiss. 

Theoc.  I  doubly  seal  it. 

Ush.  This  would  do  better  abed,   the    business 

ended : — 

They  are  the  loving'st  couple  ! 

Knter  BEAUFORT  unior,  MONTAIGNE,  CHAMONT,  and 
LANOUR. 

Beatif.jun.  Here  comes  my  father, 
With  the  Council  of  War  :  deliver  your  petition, 
And  leave  the  rest  to  me.  [Theoc.  offers  a  paper. 

Beauf.  $en.  I  am  sorry,  lady, 
Your  father's  guilt  compels  your  innocence 
To  ask  what  I  in  justice  must  deny. 

Beauf.  jun.    For  my  sake,  sir,  pray  you  receive 
and  read  it.  [nothing. 

Beauf.  sen.  Thou  foolish  boy  !    I  can  deny  thee 

Beauf.  jun.  Thus  far  we  are  happy,  madam  :  quit 
You  shall  hear  how  we  succeed.  [the  place  ; 

Theoc.  Goodness  reward  you  ! 

[Exeunt  Theocrine,  Usher,  Page,  and  Women, 

Mont.  It  is  apparent ;  and  we  stay  too  long 
To  censure  Malefort*  as  he  deserves. 

[They  take  their  seats. 

Cham.  There  is  no  colour  of  reason  that  makes  foi 

him  : 

Had  he  discharged  the  trust  committed  to  him, 
With  that  experience  and  fidelity 
He  practised  heretofore,  it  could  not  be 
Our  navy  should  be  block'd        wid,  in  our  sight, 
O  ur  goods  made  prize,  our  sailors  sold  for  slaves, 
y  his  prodigious  issue  + 

Lan.  1  much  grieve, 

After  so  many  brave  and  hit*n  achievements 
He  should  in  one  ill  forfeit  all  the  good 
He  ever  did  his  country. 

Beauf.  sen.  Well,  'tis  granted  \. 

Beaiif.  jun.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir. 

Beauf.  sen.  He  shall  have  hearing, 
His  irons  too  struck  off;  bring  him  before  us, 
But  seek  no  further  favour. 

Beauf.  jun.  Sir,  I  dare  not.  [Exit. 

Beauf.  sen.   Monsieur  Chamont,  Montaigne,   La- 

nour,  assistants, 

By  a  commission  from  the  most  Christian  king, 
n  punishing  or  freeing  Malefort,  [not 

Our  late  great  admiral :  though  I  know  you  need 
Instructions  from  me,  how  to  dispose  of 
Yourselves  in  this  man's  trial,  that  exacts 
Your  clearest  judgments,  give  me  leave,  with  favour, 


*  To  censure  Malefort  &c.]  Malefort  is  here,  and  through- 
out the  piny,  properly  n.«ed  as  a  trisyllable. 

\  By  hit   prodigious  issue.  \   i.  e.  unnatural    horrible  por- 
tentous of  evil;  in  this  sense  it  is  often  applied   to  comets, 
and  other  extraordinary  appearances  in  the  sky 
"  Behold  yon  comet  shews  his  head  again  ! 
Twicf  hath  he  thus  at  cross  turns  thrown  on  no 
Prodigious  looks."  The  Honest  Whort. 

Again  : 

"  This  woman's  threats,  her  eyes  e'en  red  with  fury 
Which  like  jtrodiyiovs  meteors,  foretold 
Assured  destruction  are  still  before  me." 

The  Captain. 

t  Beanf.   sen.   Well,  'tis  granted.]  It   appears,   from    the 
ubsequent  speeches,  that  young  Beaufort  had  lie-  n  soliciting 
father  to  allow  Malefort  to  plead  without  his  chains 


To  offer  my  opinion.     We  are  to  hear  him, 

A  little  looking  back  on  his  fair  actions, 

Loyal,  and  true  demeanour  ;  not  as  now 

By  the  general  voice  already  he's  condemn'd. 

But  if  we  find,  as  most  believe,  he  hath  held 

lutelligence  with  his  accursed  son, 

Fallen  off  from  all  allegiance,  and  turn'd 

(But  for  what  cause  we  know  not)  the  most  bloody 

And  fatal  enemy  this  country  ever 

Repented  to  have  brought  forth  ;  all  compassion* 

****** 

Of  what  he  was,  or  may  be,  if  now  pardon'd  j 
We  sit  engaged  to  censure  him  with  all 
Extremity  and  rigour. 

Cham.  Your  lordship  shows  us 
A  path  which  we  will  tread  in. 

Lan.  He  that  leaves 
To  follow,  as  you  lead,  will  lose  himself. 

Mont.  I'll  not  be  singular. 

Re-enter   BEAUFORT  junior,  with   MONTREVILLE, 
MALEFORT  senior,  BELGARDE,  and  Officers. 

Beauf.  sen.  He  comes,  but  with 
A  strange  distracted  look. 

Malff.  sen.  I  .ive  I  once  moref 

To  see  these  hands  and  arms  free  !  these,  that  often, 
In  the  most  dreadful  horror  of  a  fight, 
Have  been  as  seamarks  to  teach  such  as  were 
Seconds  in  my  attempts,  to  steer  between 
The  rocks  of  too  much  daring,  and  pale  fear, 
To  reach  the  port  of  victory  !  when  my  sword, 
Advanced  thus,  to  my  enemies  nppear'd 
A  hairy  comet,  threatening  death  and  ruin  $ 
To  such  as  durst  behold  it !     These  the  legs, 
That,  when  our  ships  were  grappled,  carried  me 


•  all  compassion 


Of  what  &c.}  The  quarto  reads, 

all  compassion 

Of  what  he  was,  or  may  be,  if  now  pardon'd  ; 
Opon  which  Mr.  M.  Mason  observes,  "This  sentence  as  L* 
stands  is  not  fense  ;  if  ihe  words  all  compassion  are  right, 
we  must  necessarily  suppose  that  bring  laid  aside,  or  word: 
of  a  similar  import,  have  been  omitted  in  the  printing :  but 
the  most  natural  manner  of  amending  the  passage,  is  by 
reading  no  compassion  ,  the  word  having  being  understood  " 
1  can  neither  reconcile  myself  to  no  compassion  of  what  lie 
may  be,  nor  to  all.  He  might,  if  acquitted,  be  a  successful 
commander  as  before,  and  to  such  a  circumstance  Beaufort 
evidently  alludes.  I  believe  that  a  line  is  lo.-t,  and  with  due 
hesitation  would  propose  to  supply  the  chasm  somewhat  in 
this  way : 

all  companion 

Of  hit  years  pass'd  over,  all  consideration 
Of  wh:\t  he  was,  or  may  be,  if  now  pardon'd 
li'e  tit,  &c. 

t  Malef.  sen.   Live  7  once  more  &c. '  There  is  something 
very  striking   in   the   indignant  burst  of  savage  ostentation 
with  which  this  old  warrior  introduces  himself  on  the  icezc. 
J  A  hairy  comet,  &C.1  So  in  Fuimus  Trees: 

" comets  shook  their  flaming  hair; 

Thus  all  our  wars  were  acted  first  on  high, 
And  we  taught  what  to  look  for." 

From  this,  and  the  passage  in  the  text,  Milton,  who  appears, 
by  various  marks  of  imitation,  to  have  been  a  careful  reader 
of  Massingcr,  probably  formed  the  magnificent  and  awful 
picture  which  foHows : 

"  On  the  other  tide, 

Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  like  a  comet  bnrn'd, 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuciis  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
fihakes  pe:-tilence  and  war." — — -j- 

CA  more  explicit  illustration  may  be  qnoved  from  Philcaiel 
Holland's  transition  of  Pliny,  b.  ii.  c.  25. 

"These  blazing  starre*  the  Greckcs  call  cometat  onr  Ro- 
manes crinilos :  dreadful  to  be  scene  with  bloudie  fiairet, 
and  all  over  rough  and  shagged  in  the  top,  like  the  bush  of 
of  haire  upon  the  bead.)  Ki>. 


CENE  I.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


37 


With  such  swift  motion  Trom  deck  to  deck, 
As  they  that  saw  it,  with  amazement  cried, 
He  does  not  run,  but  flies  ! 

Mont.  He  still  retains 
The  greatness  of  his  spirit. 

Malef.  sen.  Now  crampt  with  irons, 
Hunger,  and  cold,  they  hardly  do  support  me  — 
But  I  forget  myself.     O,  my  good  lords, 
That  sit  there  as  my  judges,  to  determine* 
The  life  and  death  of  Malefort,  where  are  now 
Those  shouts,  those  cheerful  looks,  those  loud  ap- 

plauses, 

With  which,  when  I  return'd  loaden  with  spoil, 
You  entertain'd  your  admiral  ?  all's  forgotten  : 
And  I  stand  here  to  give  account  of  that 
Of  which  I  am  as  free  and  innocent 
As  he  that  never  saw  the  eyes  of  him  t, 
For  whom  I  stand  suspected. 

Beauf.  sen.  .Monsieur  Malefort, 
Let  not  your  passion  so  far  transport  you, 
As  to  believe  from  any  private  malice, 
Or  envy  to  your  person,  you  are  question'd  : 
Nor  do  the  suppositions  want  weight, 
That  do  invite  us  to  a  strong  assurance, 
Your  son  - 

Nalef.  sen.  My  shame  ! 

Beauf.  sen.  Pray  you,  hear  with  patience,  —  never 
Without  assistance  or  sure  aids  from  you, 
Could,  with  the  pirates  of  Argiers}  and  Tunis, 
Even  those  that  you  had  almost  twice  defeated,        . 
Acquire  such  credit,  as  with  them  to  be 
Made  absolute  commander  (pray  you  observe  me)  ; 
If  there  had  not  some  contract  pass'd  between  you, 
That,  when  occasion  served,  you  would  join  with 
To  the  ruin  of  Marseilles.  [them, 

Mont.  More,  what  urged 
Your  son  to  turn  apostata  $  1 

Cham.  Had  he  from 

The  state,  or  governor,  the  least  neglect 
Which  envy  could  interpret  for  a  wrong  ?         [could 
7>an.  Or,  if  you  slept  not  in  your  charge,  how 
So  many  ships  as  do  infest  our  coast, 
And  have  in  our  own  harbour  shut  our  navy, 
Come  in  unfought  with  ? 

Beauf.  jun.  They  put  him  hardly  to  it. 
Malef.  sen.  My  lords,  with  as  much  brevity  as  I  can, 
I'll  answer  each  particular  objection  [which 

With  which  you  charge  me.     The  main  ground,  on 
You  raise  the  building  of  your  accusation, 
Hath  reference  to  my  son  :  should  I  now  curse  him, 
Or  wish,  in  the  agony  of  my  troubled  soul, 
Lightning  had  found  him  in  his  mother's  womb, 
You'll  say  'tis  from  the  purpose  ;  and  I  therefore 
Betake  him  to  the  devil,  and  so  leave  him. 
Did  never  loyal  father  but  myself 
Beget  a  treacherous  issue  ?  was't  in  me 
With  as  much  ease  to  fashion  up  his  mind, 
As  in  his  generation  to  form. 
The  organs  to  his  body  ?     Must  it  follow, 

*  That  tit  there  a*  my  judges,  to  determine,]  My,  which 
completes  the  metre,  is  now  first  inserted  from  ihe  old  copy. 

+  The  eyes  of  htm.}  So  the  old  copy  :  the  modern  editors 
read  tye  ! 

;  Could  with  the  pirates  of  Argiers]  Argiers  is  the  old 
reading,  and  is  that  of  every  author  of  Massinger's  time. 
(So  in  the  Tempest, 


Black  ravenous  ruin,  with  her  sail-stretch'd  wings, 
Ready  to  sink  us  down,  and  cover  u-." 

Every  Man  out  ofhii  Humour. 
And  Fletcher : 

"  Fix  here  and  rest  awhile  your  sail-stretch'd  uringt, 
That  have  outstript  the  winds."  The  Prophetess. 

Milton,  too,  has  the  same  bold  expression  :    the  original  to 

aw.  on,  in  ji.gi.ri.  —  LU.,  I    which  they  are  all   indebted,  is  a  sublime  passage  in   the 

The  editors  invariably  modernize  it  into  Algiers.  Fairy  Queen.     B.  I.  c.  xi.st.  10. 

$  Your  sontotum  apostata]The  modern  editors,  asbefore,  T  This  glorious  relation.]  Our   old   writers  frequently  u»e 

read  apostatf !       (See   note    to     tirgin  Martyr,  act  iv.       this  woid  in  the  sense  of  gloriosus,  vain,  boastful,  csten- 
sc«nu  iii. — Eu.j  g  1    tatiuus. 


, 

"  froxpero.  -  Where  was  she  born  ?  speak  ;  tell  me. 
Ariel.  Sir,  in  Argier."  —  ED.) 


Because  that  he  is  impious,  I  am  false  ? 

I  would  not  boast  my  actions,  vet  'tis  lawful 

To  upbraid  my  benefits  to  unthankful  men. 

Who  sunk  the  Turkish  gallies  in  the  streights, 

But  Malefort  ?  Who  rescued  the  French  merchants 

When  they  were  boarded,  and  stow'd  under  hatches 

By  the  pirates  of  Argiers,  when  every  minute 

They  did  expect  to  be  chain 'd  to  the  oar, 

But  your  now  doubted  admiral  1  then  you  fill'd 

The  air  with  shouts  of  joy,  and  did  proclaim, 

W  hen  hope  had  left  them,  and  grim-look'd  despair 

Hover'd  with  sail-stretch'd  wings  over  their  heads* 

To  me,  as  to  the  Neptune  of  the  sea, 

They  owed  the  restitution  of  their  goods, 

Their  lives,  their  liberties.     O,  can  it  then 

Be  probable,  my  lords,  that  he  that  never 

Became  the  master  of  a  pirate's  ship, 

But  at  the  mainyard  hung  the  captain  up, 

And  caused  the  rest  to  be  thrown  over-board ; 

Should,  after  all  these  proofs  of  deadly  hate, 

So  oft  express'd  against  them,  entertain 

A  thought  of  quarter  with  them  ;  but  much  less 

(To  the  perpetual  ruin  of  my  glories) 

To  join  with  them  to  lift  a  wicked  arm 

Against  my  mother-country,  this  Marseilles 

Which,  with  my  prodigal  expense  of  blood, 

I  have  so  oft  protected  ! 

Beauf.  xn.  What  you  have  done 
Is  granted  and  applauded  ;  but  yet  know 
This  glorious  relation  f  of  your  actions 
Must  not  so  blind  our  judgments,  as  to  suffer 
This  most  unnatural  crime  you  stand  accused  of, 
To  pass  unquestion'd 

Cham.  No  ;  you  must  produce 
Reasons  of  more  validity  and  weight, 
To  plead  in  your  defence,  or  we  shall  hardly 
Conclude  you  innocent. 

Mont.  The  large  volume  of 

Your  former  worthy  deeds,  with  your  experience, 
Both  what,  and  when  to  do,  but  makes  against  you. 
Lan.  For  had  your  care  and  courage  been  the  same 
As  heretofore,  the  dangers  we  are  plunged  in 
Plad  been  with  ease  prevented. 

Malef.  ten.  What  have  I 
Omitted,  in  the  power  of  flesh  and  blood 
Even  in  the  birth  to  strangle  the  designs  of 
This  hell-bred  wolf,  my  son  ?  alas !  my  lords, 
I  am  no  god,  nor  like  him  could  foresee 
His  cruel  thoughts,  and  cursed  purposes  ; 
Nor  would  the  sun  at  my  command  forbear 
To  make  his  progress  to  the  other  tvorld, 
Affording  to  us  one  continued  light. 
Nor  could  my  breath  disperse  those  foggy  mists, 
Cover'd  with  which,  and  darkness  of  the  night, 
Their  navy  undisceru'd,  without  resistance, 
Beset  our  harbour  :  make  not  that  my  fault, 
Which  you  injustice  must  ascribe  to  fortune. — 

•  Hover'd  with  sail  stretch'd  wings  over  their  heads.]    Si 
Jonson  : 

o'er  our  heads 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


[Acr.  I 


But  if  that  nor  my  former  acts,  nor  what 

I  have  deliver'd,  can  prevail  with  you, 

To  make  pood  my  integrity  and  truth ; 

Rip  up  this  bosom  and  pluck  out  the  heart 

That  hath  been  ever  loyal.  [A  trumpet  within. 

Beauf.  ten.  How  !  a  trumpet ! 
Enquire  the  cause.  [E.ri(  Montreville. 

Malef.  sen.  Thou  searcher  of  men's  hearts, 
And  sure  defender  of  the  innocent, 
(My  other  crying  sins — awhile  not  look'd  on) 
If  I  in  this  am  guilty,  strike  me  dead, 
Or  bv  some  unexpected  means  confirm, 
I  am  accused  unjustly  !  [Aside. 

Re-enter  MONTREVILLE  with  a  Sea  Captain. 

Beanf.  sen.  Speak  the  motives 
That  bring  thee  hither  ? 

Capt.  From  our  admiral  thus  : 
He  does  salute  you  fairly,  and  desires 
It  may  be  understood  no  public  hate 
Hath  brought  him  to  Marseilles ;  nor  seeks  he 
The  ruin  of  his  country,  but  aims  only 
To  wreak  a  private  wrong  :  and  if  from  you 
He  may  have  leave*  and  liberty  to  decide  it 
In  single  combat,  he'll  give  up  good  pledges, 
If  he  fall  in  the  trial  of  his  right, 
We  shall  weigh  anchor,  and  no  more  molest 
This  town  with  hostile  arms. 

Beauf.  sen.  Speak  to  the  man, 
If  in  this  presence  he  appear  to  you 
To  whom  you  bring  this  challenge. 

Capt.  'Tis  to  you. 

Beauf.  sen.  His  father ! 

Montr.  Can  it  be  ? 

Beanf.  jun.  Strange  and  prodigious  ! 

Malef.  sen.  Thou  seest  I  stand  unmoved :  were 

thy  voice  thunder, 
It  should  not  shake  me ;  say,  what  would  the  viper  ? 

Capt.  The  reverence  a  father's  name  may  challenge, 
And  duty  of  a  son  no  more  remember'd, 
He  does  defy  thee  to  the  death. 

Malef.  sea.  Go  on.  [head, 

Capt.  And  with  his   sword  will  prove  it  on  thy 
Thou  art  a  murderer,  an  atheist ; 
And  that  all  attributes  of  men  turn'd  furies 
Cannot  express  thee  ;  this  he  will  make  good, 
If  thou  dar'st  give  him  meeting. 

Malef.  sen.  Dare  I  live ! 

Dare  I,  when  mountains  of  my  sins  o'erwhelm  me, 
At  my  last  gasp  ask  for  mercy !  how  I  bless 
Thy  coming,  captain  ;  never  man  to  me 
Arrived  so  opportunely ;  and  thy  message, 
However  it  may  seem  to  threaten  death, 
Does  yield  to  me  a  second  life  in  curing 
My  wounded  honour.     Stand  I  yet  suspected 
As  a  confederate  with  this  enemy, 
Whom  of  all  men,  against  all  ties  of  nature, 
He  marks  out  for  destruction  !  you  are  just, 
Immortal  Powers,  and  in  this,  merciful ; 
And  it  takes  from  my  sorrow,  and  my  shame 
For  being  the  father  to  so  bad  a  son, 


and  if  from  you 


He  nay  haee  leave,  &c.]  This  passage  it  very  incorrectly 
pointed  in  the  former  editions. 


In  that  you  are  pleased  to  offer  up  the  monster 

To  my  correction.     Blush  and  repent 

As  you  are  bound,  my  honourable  lords, 

Your  ill  opinions  of  me.     Not  great  Brutus 

The  father  of  the  Roman  liberty 

With  more  assured  constancy  beheld 

His  traitor  sona,  for  labouring  to  call  home 

The  banish'd  Tarquins,  scourged  with  rods  to  death 

Than  1  will  shew,  when  I  take  back  the  life 

This  prodigy  of  mankind  received  from  me. 

Beauf.  sen.     We   are  sorry,  monsieur   Malefort 

for  our  error, 

And  are  much  taken  with  your  resolution  ; 
But  the  disparity  of  years  and  strength, 
Between  you  and  your  son,  duly  consider'd, 
We  would  not  so  expose  you. 

Malef.  sen.  Then  you  kill  me, 
Under  pretence  to  save  me.     O  my  lords, 
As  you  love  honour,  and  a  wrong'd  man's  fame, 
Deny  me  not  this  fair  and  noble  means 
To  make  me  right  again  to  all  the  world. 
Should  any  other  but  myself  be  chosen 
To  punish  this  apostata  with  death*, 
You  rob  a  wretched  father  of  a  justice 
That  to  all  after  times  will  be  recorded. 
I  wish  his  strength  were  centuple,  his  skill  equal 
To  my  experience,  that  in  his  fall 
He  may  not  shame  my  victory  !  I  feel 
The  powers  and  spirits  of  twenty  strong  men  in  me 
Were  he  with  wild  fire  circled,  I  undaunted 
Would  make  way  to  him. — As  you  do  affect,  sir, 
My  daughter  Theocrinef  ;  as  you  are 
My  true  and  ancient  friend  ;  as  thou  art  valiant^  ; 
And  as  all  love  a  soldier,  second  me 

[They  all  sue  to  the  governor 
In  this  my  just  petition.     In  your  looks 
I  see  a  grant,  my  lord. 

Beauf.  sen.  You  shall  o'erbear  me  ; 
And  since  you  are  so  confident  in  your  cause, 
Prepare  you  for  the  combat. 

Malef'.  sen.  With  more  joy 
Than  yet  I  ever  tasted  :  by  the  next  sun, 
The  disobedient  rebel  shall  hear  from  me, 
And  so  return  in  safety.      [Tu  the  Captain.}      Mjr 

good  lords, 

To  all  my  service, — I  will  die,  or  purchase 
Rest  to  Marseilles  ;  nor  can  I  make  doubt, 
But  his  impiety  is  a  potent  charm, 
To  edge  my  sword,  and  add  strength  to  my  arm. 

[Exeunt. 

•  To  punith  thit  apostata  urith  death.']  Both  the  editors 
read,  To  punish  thit  apostate  son  with  death  .'  Here  is  the 
mischief  of  altering  an  author's  language.  When  the  metre 
does  not  suit  oar  new  fangled  terms,  we  are  obliged  to  insert 
words  of  our  own  to  complete  it.  Apostata  stood  in  the 
verse  very  well :  but  Coxeter  and  M.  Mason  having  deter- 
mined to  write  apostate,  found  themselves  compelled  to  tack 
ton  to  it,  and  thus  enfeebled  tl>e  original  expression. 

f  Uy  daughter  Theocrine  ;]  Theocrine  is  constantly  used 
as  a  quadrisyllable.  It  should  be  observed  that  as  the  story 
and  the  names  are  French,  Massinger  adopts  the  French 
mode  of  enouncing  them.  The  reader  must  bear  this  in 
mind. 

I a*  thou  art  valiant;]  This  is  said  to  the 

captain  who  brought  the  challenge  :  the  other  persons  ad- 
jured are  ioung  Beaufort  and  Montreville.  Itappears,  from 
the  pointing  of  the  former  editions,  that  the  passage  was  not 
understood. 


I.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


39 


ACT  II 


SCENE  I.— An  open  Space  without  the  City. 
Enter  three  Sea  Captains. 

2  Capt.  He  did  accept  the  challenge,  then] 
1   Capt.  Nay  more, 

Was  overjov'd  in't ;  and,  as  it  had  been 
A  fair  invitement  to  a  solemn  feast, 
And  not  a  comhat  to  conclude  with  death, 
He  cheerful!  v  embraced  it. 

3  Capt    Are  the  articles 
Sign'd  to  on  both  parts  ? 

1  Capt.  At  the  father's  suit, 

With  much  unwillingness  the  governor 
Consented  to  them. 

2  Capt.  You  are  inward  with 

Our  admiral ;  could  you  yet  never  learn 
What  the  nature  of  the  quarrel  is,  that  renders 
The  son  more  than  incensed,  implacable, 
Against  the  father  ? 

1  Capt.  Never;  yet  I  have,' 

As  far  as  manners  would  give  warrant  to  it, 

With  my  best  curiousness  of  care  observed  him. 

I  have  sat  with  him  in  his  cabin  a  day  together*, 

Yet  not  a  syllable  exchanged  between  us 

Sigh  he  did  often,  as  if  inward  grief 

And  melancholy  at  that  instant  would 

Choke  up  his  vital  spirits,  and  now  and  then 

A  tear  or  two,  as  in  derision  of 

The  toughness  of  his  rugged  temper,  would 

Fall  on  his  hollow  cheeks,  which  but  once  felt, 

A  sudden  flash  of  fury  did  dry  up  ; 

And  lay  in  <*  then  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 

He  would  murmur,  but  yet  so  as  I  oft  heard  him, 

We  shall  meet,  cruel  father,  yes,  we  shall ; 

When  I'll  exact,  for  every  womanish  drop 

Of  sorrow  from  these  eyf-s,  a  strict  accompt 

Of  much  more  from  thy  heart. 

2  Capt.  'Tis  wondrous  strange. 

3  Capt.  And  past  my  apprehension. 

1  Capt.  Yet  what  makes 

The  miracle  greater,  when  from  the  maintop 

A  sail's  descried,  all  thoughts  that  do  concern 

Himself  laid  by,  no  lion,  pinch'd  with  hunger, 

Rouses  himself  more  fiercely  from  his  den, 

Than  he  comes  on  the  deck  :  and  there  how  wisely 

He  gives  directions,  and  how  stout  he  is 

In  his  executions,  we,  to  admiration, 

Have  been  eyewitnesses  :  yet  he  never  mind's 

The  booty  when  'tis  made  ours  :  but  as  if 

The  danger,  in  the  purchase  of  the  prey, 

Delighted  him  much  more  than  the  reward, 

His  will  made  known,  he  does  retire  himself 

To  his  private  contemplation,  no  joy 

Express'd  by  him  for  victory. 

Enter  MALEFORT  junior. 

2  Capt.  Here  he  comes, 

But  with  more  cheerful  looks  than  ever  yet 
I  saw  him  wear. 

Malrf.jun.  It  was  long  since  resolved  on, 
Nor  must  I  stagger  now  [in'ti].     May  the  cause, 
That  forces  me  to  this  unnatural  act, 


•  /  have  sat  with  him  in  hi*  cabin,  &c.]  This  beautiful 
passage,  expressing  concealed  resentment,  deserves  to  be 
remarked  by  every  reader  of  taste  and  judgment.  COXETER. 

t  \or  must  I  ttagyernovi  'in't].  In  the  old  copy,  a  syl- 
lable has  dropt  out,  which  readers  the  line  quite  unmet rical. 


Be  buried  in  everlasting  silence, 

And  I  find  rest  in  death,  or  my  revenge ! 

To  either  I  stand  equal.     Pray  you,  gentlemen, 

Be  charitable  in  your  censures  of  me, 

And  do  not  entertain  a  false  belief 

That  I  am  mad,  for  undertaking  that 

Which  must  be,  when  effected,  still  repented. 

It  adds  to  my  calamity,  that  I  have 

Discourse*  and  reason,  and  but  too  well  know 

I  can  nor  live,  nor  end  a  wretched  life, 

But  both  ways  I  am  impious.     Do  not,  therefore, 

Ascribe  the  perturbation  (if  my  soul 

To  a  servile  fear  of  death  :  I  oft  have  view'd 

All  kinds  of  his  inevitable  darts, 

Nor  are  they  terrible.     Were  I  condemn 'd  to  leap 

From  the  cloud-cover 'd  brows  of  a  steep  rock, 

Into  the  deep  ;  or  Curtius  like,  to  fill  up, 

For  my  country's  safety,  and  an  after  name, 

A  bottomless  abyss,  or  charge  through  fire, 

It  could  not  so  much  shake  me,  as  th'  encounter 

Of  this  day's  single  enemy. 

1  Capt.  If  you  please,  sir, 
You  may  shun  it,  or  defer  it. 

Malef.jun.  Not  for  the  world  : 
Yet  two  things  I  entreat  you  :  the  first  is, 
You'll  not  enquire  the  difference  between 
Myself  and  him,  which  as  a  father  once 
I  honour'd,  now  my  deadliest  enemy  ; 
The  last  is,  if  I  fall,  to  bear  my  body 
Far  from  this  place,  and  where  you  please  inter  it. — 
I  should  say  more,  but  by  his  sudden  coming 
I  am  cut  off. 

Enter  BEAUFORT  junior  and  MONTREVILT.E,  leading  in 
MALEFORT  senior  ;  BELGAHDE  following,  with  others. 

Beauf.jun.  Let  me,  sir,  have  the  honour 
To  be  your  second. 


I  have  no  great  confidence  in  the  genuineness  of  what  I  have 
inserted  between    brackets :    it  is   harmless,   however,  and 
serves,  as  Falstatf  says,  to  fill  a  pit  as  well  as  a  better. 
«  It  adds  to  my  calamity,  that  I  have 

Discourse  and  reason]  It  is  very  difficult  to  determine 
the  precise  meaning  which  otir  ancestors  gave  to  discourse; 
or  to  distinpiish  the  line  which  separated  it  from  reaton. 
Perhaps  it  indicated  a  more  rapid  deduction  of  consequence! 
from  premises,  than  was  supposed  to  be  effected  by  rea- 
son :— bill  I  speak  with  hesitation.  The  acute  Gl.m ville  says, 
"  The  act  of  the  mind  which  connects  propositions,  and 
deduceth  conclusions  from  ihem,  the  schools  called  discourse, 
anil  we  shall  not  miscall  it,  if  we  name  it  reason."  What- 
ever be  the  sense,  it  frequently  appears  in  onr  old  writers, 
by  whom  it  is  u-ii.ilU  coupled  with  reason  or  judgment, 
which  last  should  seem  to  be  the  more  proper  word.  Thus 
in  the  City  Madam  : 

''  Such  as  want 

Discourse  and  judgement,  and  through  weakness  fall, 
May  merit  men's  i ompassion." 
Again,  in  the  Coxcomb' 

"  Why  should  a  man  that  has  discourse  and  reason, 
And  knows  how  near  he  loses  all  in  these  things, 
Covet  to  have  his  wbhes  satisfied?" 
The  reader  remembers  the  exclamation  of  Hamlet 
"  Oh  heaven  !  a  beast  that  wants  discourse  of  reason,  &c. 

"This,"  says  Warburton,  who  contrived  to  blunder  with 
more  ingenuity  than  usually  f.ills  to  the  lot  of  a  commenta- 
tor, •'  is  finely  expressed,  and  with  a  philosophical  exactness! 
Beasts  want  not  reason,"  (this  is  a  new  discovery,)  "  but  the 
discourse  of  reason :  i.  e.  the  regular  inferring  one  thing 
from  another  by  the  assistance  of  universals" !  Discourse 
(^'reason  is  so  poor  and  perplexed  a  phrase,  that  without 
regard  for  the  "  philosophical  exactness"  of  Shakspeare,  I 
should  dismiss  it  at  once,  lor  what  1  believe  to  be  his  gcnuin* 
language  : 
"  O  heaven  !  a  beast  that  wants  discourse  and  reason."  & 


40 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


[Acr  II 


Montr.  With  your  pardon,  sir, 
I  must  put  in  for  that,  since  our  tried  friendship 
Hath  lasted  from  our  infancy. 

Belg.  I  have  served 

Under  your  command,  and  you  hare  seen  me  fight, 
And  handsomely,  though  I  say  it;  and  if  now*, 
At  this  downright  game,  I  may  but  hold  your  cards 
I'll  not  pull  down  the  side. 

Malef.  sen.  I  rest  much  bound 
To  your  so  noble  offers,  and  I  hope 
Shall  find  your  pardon,  though  I  now  refuse  them  ; 
For  which  I'll  yield  strong  reasons,  but  as  briefly 
As  the  time  will  give  me  leave.     For  me  to  borrow 
(  That  am  supposed  the  weaker)  any  aid 
From  the  assistance  of  my  second's  sword, 
Might  write  me  down  in  the  black  list  of  those 
That  have  nor  fire  nor  spirit  of  their  own  ; 
But  dare,  and  do,  as  they  derive  their  courage 
From  his  example,  on  whose  help  and  valour 
They  wholly  do  depend.     Let  this  suffice 
In  my  excuse  for  that.     Now,  if  you  please, 
On  both  parts,  to  retire  to  yonder  mount, 
Where  you,  as  in  a  Roman  theatre, 
May  see  the  bloody  difference  determined, 
Your  favours  meet  my  wishes. 
Malef.  jun.  'Tis  approved  of 
By  me  ;  and  I  command  you  [To  his  Captains  \  lead 

the  way, 

And  leave  me  to  my  fortune. 
Beatif.jun,  I  would  gladly 
Be  a  spectator  (since  I  am  denied 
To  be  an  actor)  of  each  blow  and  thrust, 
And  punctually  observe  them. 
Malef.  jun.  You  shall  have 
All  you  desire ;  for  in  a  word  or  two 
I  must  make  bold  to  entertain  the  time 
If  he  give  suffrage  to  it. 

Malef.  sen.  Yes,  I  will  ; 
I'll  hear  thee,  and  then  kill  thee  :  nay,  farewell. 

Malef.  jun.  Embrace  with  love  on  both  sides,  and 
Leave  deadly  hate  and  fury.  [with  us 

Malef.  sen.  From  this  place 
You  ne'er  shall  see  both  living. 

Belg.  What's  past  help,  is 
Beyond  prevention. 

[They  embrace  on  both  sides,  and  take  leave 

severally  of  the  father  and  son. 
Malef.  sen.  Now  we  are  alone,  sir  ; 
And  thou  hast  liberty  to  unload  the  burthen 
Which  thou  groan'st  under.     Speak  thy  griefs. 

Malef.  jun.  I  shall,  sir  ; 
But  in  a  perplex'd  form  and  method,  which 
You  only  can  interpret :  Would  you  had  not 
A  guilty  knowledge  in  your  bosom,  of 


•  and  if  now. 


At  this  downright  game,  1  may  but  hold  your  cards, 
I'll  not  pull  down   the   side.]  i.  e.   I'll   not   injure   your 
cause  :  the  same  expression  occurs  in  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Florence  : 

"  Cox.  Pray  you  pause  a  little. 

If  I  hold  your  cards,  I  shall  pull  down  the  side, 
I  am  not  good  at  the  game." 

The  allusion  is  to  *  party  at  cards  :  to  set  up  a  side,  was  to 
become  partners  in  a  game  ;  to  pull  or  pluck  down  a  side 
(for  both  these  terms  are  found  in  our  old  plays)  wag  to 
occasion  its  loss  by  ignorance  or  treachery.  Thus,  in  the 
Parson's  Wedding '. 

"Pleas.  A  traitor!  bind  him,  \\K\\MpuWddown  a  side." 
And  in  the  Maid'*  Tragedy  : 

Evad.  Aspatia,  take  her  part. 
Dela.  I  will  refuse  it, 
"  She  will  pluck  down  a  tide,  she  docs  not  nse  It" 


The  language  which  you  force  me  to  deliver, 

So  I  were  nothing  !  As  you  are  my  father, 

I  bend  my  knee,  and,  uncompell'd,  profess 

My  life,  and  all  that's  mine,  to  be  your  gift ; 

And  that  in  a  son's  duty  I  stand  bound 

To  lay  this  head  beneath  your  feet,  and  run 

All  desperate  hazards  for  your  ease  and  safety : 

But  this  confest  on  my  part,  I  rise  up 

And  not  as  with  a  father,  (all  respert, 

Love,  fear,  and  reverence  cast  off,)  but  as 

A  wicked  man,  1  thus  expostulate  with  you. 

Why  have  you  done  that  which  I  dare  not  speak 

And  in  the  action  changed  the  humble  shape 

Of  my  obedience,  to  rebellious  rage,  [me, 

And  insolent  pride  ?  and  with  shut  eyes  constrain'd 

To  run  my  bark  of  honour  on  a  shelf 

I  must  not  see,  nor,  if  I  saw  it,  shun  it  ? 

In  my  wrongs  nature  suffers,  and  looks  backward, 

And  mankind  trembles  to  see  me  pursue 

What  beasts  would  fly  from.     For  when  I  advance 

This  sword,  as  I  must  do,  against  your  head, 

Piety  will  weep,  and  filial  duty  mourn, 

To  see  their  altars  which  you  built  up  in  me, 

In  a  moment  razed  and  ruin'd.     *That  you  could 

(From  my  grieved  soul  I  wish  it)  but  produce, 

To  qualify,  not  excuse,  your  deed  of  horror, 

One  seeming  reason,  that  I  might  fix  here, 

And  move  no  further  ! 

Malef.  sen.  Have  I  so  far  lost 
A  father's  power,  that  I  must  give  account 
Of  my  actions  to  my  son  ?  or  must  I  plead 
As  a  fearful  prisoner  at  the  bar,  while  he 
That  owes  his  being  to  me  sits  a  judge 
To  censure  that,  which  only  by  myself 
Ought  to  he  question'd  ?  mountains  sooner  fall 
Beneath  their  valleys,  and  the  lofty  pine 
Pay  homage  to  the  bramble,  or  what  else  is 
Preposterous  in  nature,  ere  my  tongue 
In  one  short  syllable  yields  satisfaction 
To  any  doubt  of  thine ;  nay,  though  it  were 
A  certainty  disdaining  argument ! 
Since,  though  my  deeds  wore  hell's  black  liverv, 
To  thee  they  should  appear  triumphal  robes, 
Set  off  with  glorious  honour,  thou  being  bound 
To  see  with  my  eyes,  and  to  hold  that  reason, 
That  takes  or  birth  or  fashion  from  my  will. 

Malef.  jun.  This  sword  divides  that  slavish  knot. 
Malef.  sen.  It  cannot : 

It  cannot,  wretch  ;  and  if  thou  but  remember, 
From  whom  thou  hadst  this  spirit,  thou  dar'st  not 

hope  it. 
Who  train'd  thee  up  in  arms  but  I  ?     Who  taught 

thee 

Men  were  men  only  when  they  durst  look  down 
With  scorn  on  death  and  danger,  and  contemn'd 
All  opposition,  till  plumed  Victoryt 
Had  made  her  constant  stand  upon  their  helmets? 


*  That  you  could  &c.]  O  that,  &c.  This  omission  of  the 
ngn  of  the  optative  interjection  is  common  to  all  our  old 
liamathls. 

t till  plumed    Victory 

Had  made  her  constant  stand  upon  their  helmets?}  This 
noble  image  seems  to  have  been  copied  by  Milton,  who 
describing  Satan,  says, 

"  His  stature  reach'd  the  sky,  and  on  his  crest 

Sat  Horror  plumed  ;" . — 

And,  in  another  place  : 

" at  his  right  hand  Victory 

Sat  eagle-u'ing'd." • 

The  whole  speech  of  Malefort  here  noticed  is  truly  sublime, 
nd  above  all  commendation.  COXBTJEB. 


SCENE  I.I 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


41 


Under  my  shield  thou  hast  fought  as  securely 

As  the  young  eaglet,  cover'd  with  the  wings 

Of  her  fierce  dam,  learns  how  and  where  to  prey. 

All  that  is  manly  in  thee,  I  call  mine  ; 

But  what  is  weak  and  womanish,  thine  own. 

And  what  I  gave,  since  thou  art  proud,  ungrateful, 

Presuming  to  contend  with  him,  to  whom 

Submission  is  due,  I  will  take  from  thee. 

Look,  therefore,  for  extremities,  and  expect  not 

I  will  correct  thee  as  a  son,  hut  kill  thee 

As  a  serpent  swollen  with  poison  ;  who  surviving 

A  little  longer,  with  infectious  breath, 

Would  render  all  things  near  him,  like  itself, 

Contagious.     Nay,  now  my  anger's  up, 

Ten  thousand  virgins  kneeling  at  my  feet, 

And  with  one  general  cry  howling  for  mercy, 

Shall  not  redeem  thee. 

Mttlef.jitn.  Thou  incensed  Power, 
Awhile  forbear  thy  thunder  !  let  me  have 
No  aid  in  my  revenge,  if  from  the  grave 
My  mother 

Malef.  sen.  Thou  shalt  never  name  her  more. 

[Theyfght. 

BEAUFORT  junior,  MONTREVILLE,  BELGARDE,  and  the 
three  Sea  Captains,  appear  on  the  Mount. 

Beanf.jitn.  They  are  at  it. 

2  Copt.  That  thrust  was  put  strongly  home. 

Montr.  But  with  more  strength  avoided. 

Belg.  Well  come  in  ; 
He  has  drawn  blood  of  him  yet :  well  done,  old 

1  Capt.  That  was  a  strange  miss.  [cock. 
Beauf.jun.  That  a  certain  hit. 

[Young  Malef  art  it  slain. 
3<tlg.  He's  fallen,  the  day  is  ours1 

2  Capt.  The  admiral's  slain. 
Montr.  The  father  is  victorious  ! 
Belg.  Let  us  haste 

To  gratulatp  his  conquest. 

1  Capt.  We  to  mourn 
The  fortune  of  the  son. 

Beauf.jun.  With  utmost  speed  . 
Acquaint  the  governor  with  the  good  success, 
That  he  may  entertain,  to  his  full  merit, 
The  father  of  his  country's  peace  and  safety. 

[They  retire. 

Malef.  sen.  Were  a  new  life  hid  in  each  mangled 

limb, 

I  would  search,  and  find  it :  and  howe'er  to  some 
I  may  seem  cruel  thus  to  tyrannize 
Upon  this  senseless  flesh,  I  glory  in  it: — 
That  I  have  power  to  be  unnatural, 
Is  my  security  ;  die  all  my  fears, 
And  waking  jealousies,  which  have  so  long 
Been  my  tormentors!  there's  now  no  suspicion- 
A  fact  which  I  alone  am  conscious  of, 
Can  never  be  discover'd,  or  the  cause 
That  call'd  this  duel  on,  I  being  above 
All  perturbations  ;  nor  is  it  in 
The  power  of  fate,  again  make  me  wretched. 
Re-enter  BEAUFORT  junior,  MONTREVILLE,  BELGARDE, 
and  the  three  Sea  Captains. 

Beatif.  jun.  All  honour  to  the  conqueror  !  who 

dares  tax 
My  friend  of  treachery  now  ? 

(Pope  uses  the  same  figure  in  the  Odyssey  6,  xix. 
"  Auxiliar  to  his  son,  Uljsses  bears 
The  plumy  creited  helms  and  pointed  spears 
With  shields  indented  deep  in  glorious  wars."  ED.) 


Belg.  I  am  very  glad,  sir,  [much, 

You  have  sped  so  well  :  but  I  must  tell  you  thus 
To  put  you  in  mind  that  a  low  ebb  must  follow 
Your  high  swoll'n  tide  of  happiness,  you  have  pur- 
This  honour  at  a  high  price.  [chased 

Malef.  Tis,  Belgarde, 
Above  all  estimation,  and  a  little 
To  be  exalted  with  it  cannot  savour 
Of  arrogance.     That  to  this  arm  and  sword 
Marseilles  owes  the  freedom  of  her  fears, 
Or  that  my  loyalty,  not  long  since  eclipsed, 
Shines  now  more  bright  than  ever,  are  not  things 
To  be  lamented  :  though,  indeed,  they  may 
Appear  too  dearly  bought,  my  falling  glories 
Being  made  up  again,  and  cemented 
With  a  son's  blood.     'Tis  true,  he  was  my  son, 
While  he  was  worthy  ;  but  when  he  shook  off 
His  duty  to  me,  (which  my  fond  indulgence, 
Upon  submission,  might  perhaps  have  pardon'd,) 
And  grew  his  country's  enemy,  I  look'd  on  him 
As  a  stranger  to  my  family,  and  a  traitor 
Justly  proscribed,  and  he  to  be  rewarded 
That  could  bring  in  his  head.     I  know  in  this 
That  I  am  censured  rugged,  and  austere, 
That  will  vouchsafe  not  one  sad  sigh  or  tear 
Upon  his  slaughter'd  body :  but  I  rest 
Well  satisfied  in  myself,  being  assured 
That  extraordinary  virtues,  when  they  soar 
Too  high  a  pitch  for  common  sights  to  judge  of, 
Losing  their  proper  splendour,  are  condenm'd 
For  most  remarkable  vices*. 

Beauf.jun.  'Tis  too  true,  sir, 
In  the  opinion  of  the  multitude  ; 
But  for  myself,  that  would  be  held  your  friend, 
And  hope  to  know  you  by  a  nearer  name, 
They  are  as  they  deserve,  received. 

Malef.  My  daughter 
Shall  thank  you  for  the  favour. 

Beauf.jun.  I  can  wish 
No  happiness  beyond  it. 

1  Capt.  Shall  we  have  leave 
To  bear  the  corpse  of  our  dead  admiral, 
As  he  enjoin'd  us,  from  the  coast  ? 

Malef.  Provided 

The  articles  agreed  on  be  observed, 
And  you  depart  hence  with  it,  making  oath 
Never  hereafter,  but  as  friends,  to  touch 
Upon  this  shore. 

1  Capt.  We'll  faithfully  perform  it. 

Malef.  Then  as  you  please  dispose  of  it :  'tis  an 

object 

That  I  could  wish  removed.    His  sins  die  with  him 
So  far  he  has  my  charity. 

1  Capt.  He  shall  have 
A  soldier's  funeral. 

[The  Captains  bear  the  body  off"  with  sad  music. 

Malef.  Farewell! 

Beauf.jun.  These  rites 

Paid  to  the  dead,  the  conqueror  that  survives 
Must  reap  the  harvest  of  his  bloody  labour. 
Sound  all  loud  instruments  of  joy  and  triumph, 
And  with  all  circumstance  and  ceremony, 
WaU  on  the  patron  of  our  liberty, 
Which  he  at  all  parts  merits. 


*  For  moit  remarkable  vices."*  Remarkable  had  in  Mas- 
singer's  time  a  more  dignified  sound,  and  a  more  appro- 
priate meaning,  than  it  bears  at  present.  With  him  it  con- 
stantly stands  "for  surprising,  highly  striking,  or  observable  in 
an  uncommon  degree  ;  of  this  it  will  be  well  to  take  notice. 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


f  ACT-  II. 


Malef.  I  am  honour'd 
Beyond  my  hopes. 

Beauf.  jun.  'Tis  short  of  your  deserts. 
Lead  on  :  oh,  sir,  you  must ;  you  are  too  modest. 

[E.reunt  with  loud  music. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  MALEFORT'S  House. 
Enter  THEOCRINE,  Page,  and  Waiting  4V  omen. 

Theoc.    Talk  not    of  comfort ;  I   am  both  ways 

wretched, 

And  so  distracted  with  my  doubts  and  fears, 
I  know  not  where  to  fix  my  hopes.     My  loss 
Is  certain  in  a  father,  or  a  brother, 
Or  both ;  such  is  the  cruelty  of  my  fate, 
And  not  to  be  avoided. 

1  Worn.  You  must  bear  it, 
With  patience,  madam. 

2  Worn.  And  what's  not  in  you 

To  be  prevented,  should  not  cause  a  sorrow 
Which  cannot  help  it. 

Page.  Fear  not  my  brave  lord, 
Your  noble  father;  fighting  is  to  him 
Familiar  as  eating.     He  can  teach 
Our  modern  duellists  how  to  cleave  a  button, 
And  in  a  new  way,  never  yet  found  out 
By  old  Caranz.i*. 

1  Worn.  May  he  be  victorious, 
And  punish  disobedience  in  his  son ! 

Whose  death,  in  reason,  should  at  no  part  move  you, 
He  being  but  half  your  brother,  and  the  nearness 
Which  that  might  challenge  from  you,  forfeited 
By  his  impious  purpose  to  kill  him,  from  whom 
He  received  life.  [A  shout  within. 

2  Worn.  A  general  shout — 
1  Worn.  Of  joy. 

Page.  Look  up,  dear  lady  ;  sad  news  never  came 
Usher'd  with  loud  applause. 

Theoc.  I  stand  prepared 
To  endure  the  shock  of  it. 

Enter  Usher. 

Ush.  I  am  out  of  breath, 
With  running  to  deliver  first — 

Theoc.  What? 

Ush.  We  are  all  made. 

My  lord  has  won  the  day  ;  your  brother's  slain  ; 
The  pirates  gone :  and  by  the  governor, 
And  states,  and  all  the  men  of  war,  he  is 
Brought  home  in  triumph : — nay,  no  musing,  pay  me 
For  my  good  news  hereafter. 

Theoc.  Heaven  is  just !  [meet  him. 

Ush.  Give  thanks  at  leisure  ;  make  all  haste  to 
I  could  wish  I  were  a  horse,  that  I  might  bear  you 
To  him  upon  my  back. 

Page.  Thou  art  an  ass, 
And  this  is  a  sweet  burthen. 

Ush.  Peace,  you  crack-rope  !  [Exeunt, 


SCENE  IH.— A  Street. 

Loud  music.    Enter  MONTREVILLE,  BELGARDE,  BEAU- 
FORT senior,  BEAUFORT  junior ;  A!ALEFORT,  followed 
by  MONTAIGNE,  CHAMONT,  and  LANOUR. 
Beauf.  sen.  All  honours  we   can  give  you,  and 

rewards, 

1  Lough  all  that's  rich  or  precious  in  Marseilles 
Weie  laid  down  at  your  feet,  can  hold  no  weight 

•  By  old  Caranxa.]  See  the  Guardian,  Vol.  IV.  p.  175. 


With  your  deservings  :  let  me  glory  in 

Your  action,  as  if  it  were  mine  own  ; 

And  have  the  honour,  with  the  arms  of  love, 

To  embrace  the  great  performer  of  a  deed 

Transcending  all  this  country  e'er  could  boast  of. 

Mont.  Imagine,  noble  sir,  in  what  we  may 
Express  our  thankfulness,  and  rest  assured 
It  shall  be  freely  granted. 

Cham.  He's  an  enemy 

To  goodness  and  to  virtue,  that  dares  think 
There's  any  thing  within  our  power  to  give  *, 
Which  you  in  justice  may  not  boldly  challenge. 

Lan.  And  as  your  own  ;  for  we  will  ever  be 
At  your  devotion. 

Malef.  Much  honour'd  sir, 
And  you,  my  noble  lords,  I  can  say  only. 
The  greatness  of  your  favours  overwhelms  me, 
And  like  too  large  a  sail,  for  the  small  bark 
Of  my  poor  merits,  sinks  me.     That  I  stand 
Upright  in  your  opinions,  is  an  honour 
Exceeding  my  deserts,  I  having  done 
Nothing  but  what  in  dutyl  stood  bound  to: 
And  to  expect  a  recompense  were  base, 
Good  deeds  being  ever  in  themselves  rewarded. 
Yet  since  your  liberal  bounties  tell  me  that 
I  may,  with  your  allowance,  be  a  suitor, 
To  you,  my  lord,  I  am  an  humble  one, 
And  must  ask  that,  which  known,  I  fear  you  will 
Censure  me  over  bold. 

Beauf.  sen.  It  must  be  something 
Of  a  strange  nature,  if  it  find  from  me 
Denial  or  delay. 

Malef.  Thus  then,  my  lord, 
Since  you  encourage  me  :   You  are  happy  in 
A  worthy  son,  and  all  the  comfort  that 
Fortune  has  left  me,  is  one  daughter  ;  now, 
If  it  may  not  appear  too  much  presumption, 
To  seek  to  match  my  lowness  with  your  height 
I  should  desire  (and  if  I  may  obtain  it, 
I  write  nil  ultra  to  my  largest  hopes) 
She  may  in  your  opinion  be  thought  worthy 
To  be  received  into  your  family, 
And  married  to  your  son  :  their  years  are  equal, 
And  their  desires,  I  think,  too;  she  is  not 
Ignoble,  nor  my  state  contemptible, 
And  if  you  think  me  worthy  your  alliance, 
'Tis  all  I  do  aspire  to. 

Beauf. jun.  You  demand 
That  which  with  all  the  service  of  my  life 
I  should  have  labour'd  to  obtain  from  you 

0  sir,  why  are  you  slow  to  meet  so  fair 

And  noble  an  offer?  can  France  shew  a  virgin 
That  may  be  parallel'd  with  her  ?  is  she  not 
The  pho;nix  of  the  time,  the  fairest  star 
In  the  bright  sphere  of  women? 

Beauf.  sen.  Be  not  rapt  so  : 
Though  I  dislike  not  what  is  motion'd,  yet 
In  what  so  near  concerns  me,  it  is  fit 

1  should  proceed  with  judgment. 

Enter  Usher,  THEOCRINE,  Page,  and  Waiting  Women. 

Beauf.  jun.  Here  she  comes  : 
Look  on  her  with  impartial  eyes,  and  then 
Let  envy,  if  it  can,  name  one  graced  feature 
In  which  she  is  defective. 

*  Therf'i  any  thing  within  our  power  to  give,]  The  old 
copy  incorrectly  reails,  There'*  any  other  thing  ^c,  and  in 
the  next  speech,  overwhelm  for  overwhelm* — the  last  is  so 
common  a  mode  of  expression,  that  I  should  not  have  cor- 
reeled  it,  if  nnk»  had  nut  immedhtely  followed. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


43 


Malef.  Welcome  girl ! 
My  joy,  my  comfort,  my  delight,  my  all, 
Wby  dost  thou  come  to  greet  my  victory 
In  such  a  sable  habit?  this  shew'd  well 
When  thy  father  was  a  prisoner,  and  suspected  ; 
But  now  his  faith  and  loyalty  are  admired, 
Rather  than  doubted,  in  your  outward  garments 
You  are  to  express  the  joy  you  feel  within  : 
Nor  should  you  with  more  curiousness  and  care 
Pace  to  the  temple  to  be  made  a  bride, 
Than  now,  when  all  men's  eyes  are  fixt  upon  you, 
You  should  appear  to  entertain  the  honour 
From  rne  descending  to  you,  and  in  which 
You  have  an  equal  share. 

Theoc.  Heaven  has  my  thanks, 
With  all  humility  paid  for  your  fair  fortune, 
And  so  far  duty  binds  me  ;  yet  a  little 
To  mourn  a  brother's  loss,  however  wicked, 
The  tenderness  familiar  to  our  sex 
May,  if  you  please,  excuse. 
Malef.  Thou  art  deceived. 
He,  living,  was  a  blemish  to  thy  beauties, 
But  in  his  death  gives  ornament  and  lustre 
To  thy  perfections,  but  that  they  are 
So  exquisitely  rare,  that  they  admit  not 
The  least  addition.     Ha  !  here's  yet  a  print 
Of  a  sad  tear  on  thy  cheek  ;  how  it  takes  from, 
Our  present  happiness  !  with  a  father's  lips 
A  loving  father's  lips,  I'll  kiss  it  off, 
The  cause  no  more  remember 'd. 

Theoc.  You  forget,  sir, 
The  presence  we  are  in. 

Malef.     'Tis  well  consider'd  ; 
And  yet,  who  is  the  owner  of  a  treasure 
Above  all  value,  but  without  offence, 
May  glory  in  the  glad  possession  of  it? 
Nor  let  it  in  your  excellence  beget  wonder, 
Or  any  here,  that  looking  on  the  daughter, 
I  feast  myself  in  the  imagination 
Of  those  sweet  pleasures;  and  allow'd  delights, 
I  tasted  from  the  mother,  who  still  lives 
In  this  her  perfect  model ;  for  she  had 


Such  smooth  and  high-arch'd  brows,  such  sparkling 

eyes. 

Whose  every  glance  stored  Cupid's  emptied  quiver. 
Such  ruby  lips, — and  such  a  lovely  bloom.*, 
Disdaining  all  adulterate  aids  of  art, 
Kept  a  perpetual  spring  upon  her  face, 
As  Death  himself  lamented,  being  forced 
To  blast  it  with  his  paleness  :  and  if  now         [you, 
Her  brightness  dimm'd  with  sorrow,  take  and  please 
Think,  think,  young  lord,  when  she  appears  herself, 
This  veil  removed,  in  her  own  natural  pureness, 
How  far  she  will  transport  you. 

Beauf.  jun.  Did  she  need  it, 

The  praise  which  you  ( and  well  deserved)  give  to  her, 
Must  of  necessity  raise  new  desires 
In  one  indebted  more  to  years  ;  to  me   . 
Your  words  are  but  as  oil  pour'd  on  a  fire, 
That  flames  already  at  the  height. 

Malef.  No  more  ; 

I  do  believe  you,  and  let  me  from  you 
Find  so  much  credit ;  when  I  make  her  yours, 
I  do  possess  you  of  a  gift  which  I 
With  much  unwillingness  part  from.  My  good  lords 
Forbear  your  further  trouble  ;  give  me  leave, 
For  on  the  sudden  I  am  indisposed, 
To  retire  to  my  own  house,  and  rest :  to-morrow, 
As  you  command  me,  I  will  be  your  guest, 
And  having  deck'd  my  daughter  like  herself, 
You  shall  have  further  conference. 

Beauf,  sen.  You  are  master 
Of  your  own  will  :  but  fail  not,  I'll  expect  you. 

Malef.  Nay,  I  will  be  excused  ;  I  must  part  with 
you.  [To  young  Beaufort  and  the  rest. 

My  dearest  Theocrius,  give  me  thy  hand, 
I  will  support  thee. 

Theoc.  You  gripe  it  too  hard,  sir. 

Malef.  Indeed  I  do,  but  have  no  further  end  in  it 
But  love  and  tenderness,  such  as  I  may  challenge, 
And  you  must  grant.     Thou  art  a  sweet  one  ;  yes, 
And  to  be  cherish'd. 

Theoc.  May  I  still  deserve  it ! 

[Exeunt  several  wayt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — A  Banqueting  Room  in  Beaufort's  Honse. 
Enter  BEAUFOUT  senior,  and  Steward. 

Beauf,  sen.  Have  you  been  careful  ? 

Stew.  With  my  best  endeavours. 
Let  them  bring  stomachs,  there's  no  want  of  meat,  sir, 
Portly  and  curious  viands  are  prepared, 
To  please  all  kinds  of  appetites. 

Beauf.  sen.  'Tis  well, 
I  love  a  table  furnish'd  with  full  plenty, 
And  store  of  friends  to  eat  it :  but  with  this  caution, 
I  would  not  have  my  house  a  common  inn, 
For  some  men  that  come  rather  to  devour  me, 
Than  to  present  their  service.     At  this  time,  too, 
It  being  a  serious  and  solemn  meeting, 
I  must  not  have  my  board  pester'd  with  shadows*, 

*  /  mutt  not  have  my  board  pester 'd  with  shadows,]  It 
was  considered,  Plutarch  says,  as  a  mark  of  politeness, to 
let  an  invited  guest  know  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  bring  a 
frieixl  or  two  with  him ;  a  permission  that  was,  however, 
sometimes  abused.  These  friends  the  Komans  called 
shadows,  (umbra:, J  a  term  which  Massinger  has  very  hap- 
pily explained. 


That,  under  other  men's  protection,  break  in 
Without  invitement. 

Stew.  With  your  favour  then,  [knowledge 

You  must  double  your  guard ,  my   lord,  for  on  my 
There  are  some  so  sharp  set,  not  to  be  kept  out 
By  a  file  of  musketeers  :  and  'tis  less  danger, 
I'll  undertake,  to  stand  at  push  of  pike 
With  an  enemy  in  a  breach,  that  undermined  too, 
And  the  cannon  playing  on  it,  than  to  stop 
One  harpy,  your  perpetual  guest,  from  entrance, 
When  the  dresser,  the  cook's  drum,  thunders,  Come 
The  service  will  be  lost  elsef !  [on, 


*  And,  such  a  lovely  bloom,]  For  this  reading  we  are  inr 
debted  to  Mr.  M.  Mason.  All  the  former  editions  rthd 
brown;  which  the  concluding  lines  of  this  beautiful  speech 
iiiconlestably  prove  to  be  a  misprint. 

•t  When  the  dresser,  the  cook's  drum,  Uiundert,  Come  on,. 

The  service  will  be  lost  else  !]  It  was  formerly  customary 
for  the  cook,  when  dinner  was  ready,  to  knock  on  the 
dresser  with  his  knife,  by  way  of  summoning  the  »e«- 
vants  to  carry  it  into  the  hall;  to  this  there  are  many.  aUtv 
«ions.  In  the  Merry  £eygars,  Old  Rents  says  Hatk 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


[Acr  III. 


Beauf.sen.  What  is  he  ? 

Stem.  As  tall  a  trencherman*,  that  is  most  certain, 
As  e'er  demolish'd  pye-fortifi  cation 
As  soon  as  batter'd  ;  and  if  the  rim  of  his  belly 
Were  not  made  up  of  a  much  tougher  stuff 
Than  his  buff  jerkin,  there  were  no  defence 
Against  the  charge  of  his  guts :  you  needs  must 
He's  eminent  for  his  eating.  [know  him, 

Beauf.  sen.  O,  Belgarde  ? 

Stew.  The  same  ;  one  of  the  admiral's  cast  captains, 
Who  swearf,  there  being  no  war,  nor  hope  of  any, 
The  only  drilling  is  to  eat  devoutly, 
And  to  be  ever  drinking — that's  allow'd  of 
But  they  know  not  where  to  get  it,  there's  the  spite 
on't. 

Beauf.  sen.  The  more   their  misery  ;  yet,  if  you 
For  this  day  put  him  offj.  [can, 

Stew.  It  is  beyond 
The  invention  of  man. 

Beauf.sen.  No: — say  this  only,  [Whispers to  him. 
And  as  from  me ;  you  apprehend  me  1 

Stew.  Yes,  sir. 

Beauf.  sen.  But  it  must  be  done  gravely. 

Stew.  Never.doubt  me,  sir. 

Beauf.  sen.  We'll  dine  in  the  great  room,  but  let 

the  musick 
And  banquet^  be  prepared  here.  [Exit. 

Stew.  This  will  make  him 

Lose  his  dinner  at  the  least,  and  that  will  vex  him. 
As  for  the  sweetmeats,  when  they  are  trod  under 

foot, 

Let  him  take  his  share  with  the  pages  and  the 
Or  scramble  in  the  rushes.  [luckies, 

Enter  BELGARDE. 

Belg.  'Tis  near  twelve  ; 
I  keep  a  watch  within  me  never  misses. 
Save  (hee,  master  steward ! 

Stew.  You  are  most  welcome,  sir. 

Belg.  Has  thy  lord  slept  well  to  night  1     I  come 

to  enquire. 

I  had  a  foolish  dream,  that,  against  my  will, 
Carried  me  from  my  lodging,  to  learn  only 
How  he's  disposed. 

Stew.  He's  in  most  perfect  health,  sir. 

Belg.  Let  me  but  see  him  feed  heartily  at  dinner, 
And  I'll  believe  so  too  ;  for  from  that  ever 
I  make  a  certain  judgment.  t 


hey  knock  to  the  dretter."  Servants  were  not  then  al- 
lowed, as  at  present,  to  frequent  the  kitchen,  lest  they  should 
interfere  with  the  momentous  concerns  of  the  cook.  Mr. 
Reed  says  that  this  practice  "  was  continued  in  the  family 
of  Lord  Fairfax"  (and  doubtless  in  that  of  many  others) 
"  after  the  civil  wars :  in  that  nobleman's  orders  for  the 
servants  of  his  household,  is  the  following  :  Then  must  he 
warn  to  the  dresser,  Gentlemen  and  yeomen,  to  the  dresser." 
OM  Plays  xii.  430. 

•  Steward.  .4*  tall  a  trencherman,  &c.]  Tall,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  our  old  writers,  meant  stout,  or  rnther  bold  and 
fearless ;  but  tliey  abused  the  word  (of  which  they  seem 
fond)  in  a  great  variety  of  senses.  A  tall  man  of  his  hand* 
was  a  great  lighter ;  a  tall  man  of  his  tongue,  a  licentious 
speaker ;  and  a  tall  man  of  his  trencher,  or,  as  above,  a  tall 
trencherman,  a  hearty  feeder.  Instances  of  these  phrases 
occur  so  frequently,  that  it  would  be  a  waste  of  time  to 
dwell  upon  them. 

i   Who  swear,  &c.l    So  the  old  copy:  the  modern  editors 
read  swears,  than  which  nothing  can  be  more  injudicious. 
J  Beauf.  sen.  The  more  their  misery  ;  yet,  if  you  can, 
For  this  day  put  him  off.]    This  has  been   hitherto  given 
as  an  imperfect  speech  ;  why,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine. 

§ but  let  the  music 

And  banquet  be  prepared  here.}  That  is,  the  dessert.  See 
the  C'%  Madam. 


Stew.  It  holds  surely 
In  y°ur  own  constitution. 

Belg.  And  in  all  men's, 
'Tis  the  best  symptom  ;  let  us  lose  no  time; 
Delay  is  dangerous. 

Stew.  Troth,  sir,  if  I  might, 
Without  offence,  deliver  what  my  lord  has 
Committed  to  my  trust,  I  shall  receive  it 
As  a  special  favour. 

Belg.  We'll  see  it,  and  discourse, 
As  the  proverb  says,  for  health  sake,  after  dinner. 
Or  rather  after  supper  ;  willingly  then 
I'll  walk  a  mile  to  hear  thee*. 

Stem.  Nay,  good  sir, 
I  will  be  brief  and  pithy. 

Belg.  Prithee  be  so. 

Stew.  He  bid  me  say,  of  all  his  guests,  that  he 
Stands  most  affected  to  you,  for  the  freedom 
And  plainness  of  your  manners.     He  ne'er  observed 
To  twirl  a  dish  about,  you  did  not  like  of,  [you 

All  being  pleasing  to  you  ;  or  to  take 
A  sayf,  of  venison,  or  stale  fowl,  by  your  nose, 
Which,  is  a  solecism  at  another's  table  ; 
But  by  strong  eating  of  them,  did  confirm 
They  never  were  delicious,  to  your  palate, 
But  when  they  were  mortified,  as  the  Hugonot  says 
And  so  your  part  grows  greater;  nor  do  you 
Find  fault  with  the  sauce,  keen  hunger  being  the 

best, 

Which  ever,  to  your  much  praise,  you  bring  with 
Nor  will  you  with  impertinent  relations,  [y°u  '. 

Which  is  a  masterpiece  when  meat's  before  you, 
Forget  your  teeth,  to  use  your  nimble  tongue, 
But  do  the  feat  you  come  for. 

Belg.  Be  advised, 

And  end  your  jeering  :  for  if  you  proceed, 
You'll  feel,  as  I  can  eat  I  can  be  angry, 
And  beating  may  ensue. 

Stew.  I'll  take  your  counsel, 

And  roundly   come   to  the  point :  my   lord  much 
That  you,  that  are  a  couitier  as  a  soldier,    [wonders, 
In  all  things  else,  and  every  day  can  vary 
Your  actions  and  discourse,  continue  constant 
To  this  one  suit. 

Belg.  To  one  !  'tis  well  I  have  one, 
Unpawn'd,  in  these  days  ;  every  cast  commander 
Is  not  blest  with  the  fortune,  I  assure  you. 
But  why  this  question  1  does  this  offend  him  ? 

Stew.  Not  much  ;  but  he  believes  it  is  the  reason 
You  ne'er  presume  to  sit  above  the  saltj  ; 


*  Or  rather  after  supper ;  willingly  then 

I'll  walk  a  mile  to  hear  thce.\  Alluding  to  the  good  old  pro 
verb,  which  inculcates  Umperance  at  this  meal,  by  recom- 
mending a  walk  after  it. 

t  (In  edit,  of  1813,  Gifford  has  a  long  note  to  this  word  to 
prove  its  distinction  from  assay,  a  trial,  a  proof.  The  same 
meaning  attaches  to  say  as  in  Spenser's  Faerie  Qucene,  b. 
vi.  c.  ii. 

"  Which  whon  he  spyde  upon  the  earth  t'encroach. 
Through  the  dead  carcases  he  made  his  way ; 
Mongst  which  he  found  a  sword  of  better  say, 
With  which  he  forth  went  into  th"  open  light." 
In  King  Lear  the  word  also  occurs,  meaning  proof,  and  al- 
though  somewhat  different   in   the   application,  this  is  evi- 
dently the   sense  here  intended.      Our  ancestors  doubtless 
considered  the  word  synonimuus  with  taste.  ED.) 

|  You  ne'er  presume  to  tit  above  the  salt;  This  refers  to 
the  manner  in  which  our  ancestors  were  usually  seated  at 
their  meals.  The  tables  being  long,  the  salt  was  commonly 
placed  about  the  middle,  and  served  as  a  kind  of  boundary 
to  thfi  different  quality  of  the  guests  invited.  Those  of  dis- 
tinction were  ranked  above:  the  space  below  was  assigned 
to  the  dependents,  inferior  relations  of  the  master  of  the 
house,  &c.  It  argues  litt'e  'or  »he  delicacy  of  our  ancestor! 


SCENE  II] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


And  therefore,  this  day,  our  great  admiral, 
With  other  states,  being  invited  guests, 
He  does  entreat  you  to  appear  among  them, 
In  some  fresh  habit. 

Belg.  This  staff  shall  not  serve 
To  beat  the  dog  off ;  these  are  soldier's  garments, 
And  so  by  consequence  grow  contemptible. 

Stew.  It  has  stung  him. 

Belg.  I  would  I  were  acquainted  with  the  players, 
In  charity  they  might  furnish  me  :  but  there  is 
No  faith  in  brokers ;  and  for  believing  tailors, 
They  are  only  to  be  read  of,  but  not  seen  ; 
And  sure  they  are  confined  to  their  own  hells, 
And  there  they  live  invisible.     Well,  I  must  not 
Be  fubb'd  off  thus  :  pray  you  report  my  service 
To  the  lord  governor ;  I  will  obey  him ; 
And  though  my  wardrobe's  poor,  rather  than  lose 
His  company  at  this  feast,  I  will  put  on 
The  richest  suit  I  have,  and  fill  the  chair  _ 
That  makes  me  worthy  of*  [Exit. 

Stew.  We  are  shut  of  him, 
He  will  be  seen  no  more  here :  how  my  fellows 
Will  bless  me  for  his  absence  !  he  had  starved  them, 
Had  he  staid  a  little  longer.     Would  he  could, 
For  his  own  sake,  shift  a  shirt !  and  that's  the  utmost 
Of  his  ambition  :  adieu,  good  captain.  [Exit. 

SOCNE  II.— The  same. 
Enter  BEAUFORT  senior,  and  BEAUFORT  junior. 

Beauf.  sen.  'Tis  a  strange  fondness. 

Beauf.  jun.  'Tis  beyond  example. 
His  resolution  to  part  with  his  estate, 
To  make  her  dower  the  weightier,  is  nothing  ; 
But  to  observe  how  curious  lie  is 
In  his  own  person,  to  add  ornament 
To  his  daughter's  ravishing  features,  is  the  wonder. 
I  sent  a  page  of  mine  in  the  way  of  courtship 
This  morning  to  her,  to  present  my  service, 
From  whom  I  understand  all  :  there  he  found  him 
Solicitous  in  what  shape  she  should  appear ; 
This  gown  was  rich, but  the  fashion  stale  ;  the  other 
Was  quaint,  and  neat,  but  the  stuff'  not  rich  enough  : 
Then  does  he  curse  the  tailor,  and  in  rage 
Falls  on  her  shoemaker,  for  wanting  art 
To  express  in  every  circumstance  the  form 
Of  her  most  delicate  foot ;  then  sits  in  council 


that  they  should  admit  of  such  distinctions  at  their  board ; 
but,  in  truth,  they  seem  to  have  placed  their  guests  below  the 
talt,  for  no  better  purpose  than  iliat  of  mortifying  them. 
Nixon,  in  his  Strange  Footpost,  (F.  3.)  gives  a  very  admir- 
able account,  of  the  miseries  "  of  a  poor  scholar,"  (Hall's 
veil  known  satire,  "A  gentle  squyre,"  &c.,  is  a  versification 
of  it,)  from  which  I  have  taken  the  following  characteristic 
traits:  "  Now  as  for  his  fare,  it  is  lightly  at  the  cheapest 
table,  but  he  must  sit  under  the  salt,  lh.it  is  an  axiome  in 
such  places; — then,  having  drawne  his  knife  leisurably,  un- 
folded his  napkin  mannerly,  after  twice  or  thrice  wyping  his 
beard,  if  he  have  it,  he  may  reach  the  bread  on  his  knife's 
point,  and  fall  to  his  porrige,  and  between  every  sponefull 
take  as  much  dcliberaton,  as  a  capon  craming,  lest  he  be  out 
of  his  porriye  before  they  have  buried  part  of  their  first 
cowrie  in  their  bellies." 

(The  saltcellar  was  a  massy  piece  of  plate  with  a  cover  of 
equal  dimensions.  In  Nicholls's  Progresses  of  Queen  Kliza- 
beth,  occurs  a  figure  of  one,  and  in  Dibdin's  Literary  Remi- 
niscences, is  an  engraving  of  one  belonging  to  the  celebrated 
Archbishop  Parker,  it  is  figured  half  the  original  size,  and 
from  it  some  itlea  may  be  formed  of  tue  dimensions  of  these 
ancient  pieces  of  furniture.  ED.) 

* and  Jill  the  chair 

That  maket  me  worthy  of.  This  too  has  been  hitherto 
printed  as  an  imperfect  sentence;  but  surely,  without  ne- 
cessity. The  meaning  is,  "  I  will  fill  the  chair  of  which  that 
(i.  e.  the  richest  suit  1  have)  makes  me  worthy." 


With  much  deliberation,  to  find  out 

What  tire  would  best  adorn  her;  nnd  one  chosen, 

Varying  in  his  opinion,  he  tears  off, 

And  stamps  it  under  foot  ;  then  tries  a  second, 

A  third,  and  fourth,  and  satisfied  at  length, 

With  much  ado,  in  that,  he  grows  asrain 

Perplex'd  and  troubled  where  to  place  her  jewels, 

To  be  most  mark'd,  and  whether  she  should  wear 

This  diamond  on  her  forehead,  or  between 

Her  milkwhite  pups,  disputing  on  it  both  ways  ; 

Then  taking  in  his  hand  a  rope  of  pearl, 

(The  best  of  France,)  he  seriously  considers, 

Whether  he  should  dispose  it  on  her  arm, 

Or  on  her  neck  ;  with  twenty  other  trifles, 

Too  tedious  to  deliver. 

Beauf.  sen.  I  have  known  him 
From  his  first  youth,  but  never  yet  observed, 
In  all  the  passages  of  his  life  and  fortunes. 
Virtues    so  mix'd  with  vices :    valiant   the   world 

speaks  him, 

But  with  that,  bloody  ;  liberal  in  his  gifts  too, 
But  to  maintain  his  prodigal  expense, 
A  fierce  extortioner  ;  an  impotent  lover 
Of  women  for  a  flash*,  but,  his  fires  quench'd, 
Hating  as  deadly  :  the  truth  is,  I  am  not 
Ambitious  of  this  match  ;  nor  will  I  cross  you 
In  your  affections. 

Beauf.jun.  I  have. ever  found  you 
(And  'tis  my  happiness)  a  loving  father, 

[Loud  music. 

And  careful  of  my  good  : by  the  loud  music, 

As  you  gave  order  for  his  entertainment, 

He's  come  into  the  house.     Two  long  hours  since, 

The  colonels,  commissioners,  and  captains, 

To  pay  him  all  the  rites  his  worth  can  challenge, 

Went  to  wait  on  him  hither. 

Enter  MALEFORT,  MONTAIGXE,  CHAMONT,  LANOUR, 
MONTREVILLE,  TnEOCRiNE,  Usher,  Page,  and 
Waiting  Women. 

Beauf.  sen.  You  are  most  welcome, 
And  what  I  speak  to  you,  does  from  my  heart 
Disperse  itself  to  all. 

Malef.  You  meet,  my  lord, 
Your  trouble. 

Beauf.  sen.  Rather,  sir,  increase  of  honour, 
When  you  are  pleased  to  grace  my  house. 

Beauf.jun.  The  favour 
Is  doubled  on  my  part,  most  worthy  sir, 
Since,  your  fair  daughter,  my  incomparable  mistress, 
Deigns  us  her  presence. 

Maltf.  View  her  well,  brave  Beaufort, 
But  yet  at  distance ;  you  hereafter  may 
Make  your  approaches  nearer,  when  the  priest 
Hath  made  it  lawful  :  and  were  not  she  mine 
I  durst  aloud  proclaim  it,  Hymen  never 
Put  on  his  saffron-colour'd  robe,  to  change 
A  barren  virgin  name,  with  more  good  omens 
Than  at  her  nuptials.     Look  on  her  again, 
Then  tell  me  if  she  now  appear  the  same 
That  she  was  yesterday. 

Beauf.  sen.  Being  herself, 
She  cannot  but  be  excellent ;  these  rich 
And  curious  dressings,  which  in  others  might 
Cover  deformities,  from  her  take  lustre, 
Nor  can  add  to  her. 


an  impotent  iover 


Of  women  for  a.  flash,  &c.  Wild,  fierce,  uncontrollable  in 
his  passions;  this  is  a  Latinism,  impotens  amoris,  and  is  a 
>ery  strong  expression. 


46 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


[Acr  III 


Malef.  You  conceive  her  right, 
And  in  your  admiration  of  her  sweetness, 
You  only  can  deserve  her.     Blush  not,  girl, 
Thou  art  abo'-e  his  praise,  or  mine  ;  nor  can 
Obsequious  Flattery,  though  she  should  use 
Her  thousand  oil'd  tongues  to  advance  thy  worth, 
Give  aught,  (for  that's  impossible,)  but  take  from 
Thy  more  than  human  graces;  and  even  then, 
When  she  liath  spent  herself  with  her  best  strength, 
The  wrong  she  has  done  thee  shall  be  so  apparent, 
That,  losing  her  own  servile  shape  and  name, 
She  will  be  thought  Detraction  :  but  I 
Forget  myself ;  and  something  whispers  to  me, 
I  have  said  too  much. 

Mont.  I  know  not  what  to  think  on't, 
But  there's  some  mystery  in  it,  which  I  fear 
Will  be  too  soon  discover'd. 

Malef.  I  much  wrong 

Your  patience,  noble  sir,  by  too  much  hugging 
My  proper  issue,  and,  like  the  foolish  crow, 
Believe  my  black  brood  swans. 

Beauf,  sen.  There  needs  noi,  sir, 
The  least  excuse  for  this ;  nay,  I  must  have 
Your  arm,  you  being  the  master  of  the  feast, 
And  this  the  mistress. 

Theoc.  I  am  any  thing 
That  you  shall  please  to  make  me. 

Beauf.  jun.  Nay,  'tis  yours, 
Without  more  compliment. 

.Mont*.  Your  will's  a  law,  sir. 

[Loud  music.  Exeunt  Beaufort  senior,  Malefort, 
Theocrine,  Beaufort  junior,  Montaigne,  Chamont, 
Lanour,  Montrevilie. 

Ush.  Would  I  had  been  born  a  lord  ! 

1  Worn.  Or  I  a  lady  ! 

Page.  It  may  be  you  were  both  begot  in  court, 
Though  bred  up  in  the  city  ;  for  your  mothers, 
As  I  have  heard,  loved  the  lobby  ;  and  there,  nightly, 
Are  seen  strange  apparitions  :  and  who  knows 
But  that  some  noble  faun,  heated  with  wine, 
And  cloy'd  with  partridge,  had  a  kind  of  longing 
To  trade  in  sprats  ?  this  needs  no  exposition  : — 
But  can  you  yield  a  reason  for  your  wishes  ? 

Uth.    Why,  had  I  been  born  a  lord,  I   had  been 
no  servant.  [waiters, 

1  Worn.  And  whereas    now  necessity  makes  us 
We  had  been  attended  on. 

2  Worn.  And  might  have  slept  then 

As  longas  we  pleased,  and  fed  when  we  had  stomachs, 
And  worn  new  clothes,  nor  lived,  as  now,  in  hope 
Of  a  cast  gown,  or  petticoat. 

Page.  You  are  fools, 

And  ignorant  of  your  happiness.     Ere  I  was  sworn 
To  the  pantoflef,  I  have  beard  my  tutor 
Prove  it  by  logic,  that  a  servant's  life 
Was  better  than  his  master's   and  by  that 
I  learn'd  from  him,  if  that  my  memory  fail  not, 
I'll  make  it  good. 

Uth.  Proceed,  my  little  wit 
In  decimo  sexto. 

Page.  Thus  then  :  from  the  king 
To  the  beggar,  by  gradation,  all  are  servants  , 


•  Afont.]  So  the  old  copy:  it  must,  however,  be  a  mistake 
for  Theoc.  or  rather,  perhaps,  for  Multf. 

t Ere  I  vat 

Sworn  to  the  pantofle,]  i.  e.  takeu  from  attt>nding  in  the 
porter's  lodge,  (which  seem?  to  have  been  the  first  degree  or 
tervitude,;  to  wait  on  Theocrine. 


And  you  must  grant  the  slavery  is  less 
To  study  to  please  one,  than  many. 

Ush.  True.  [plain 

Page.  Well  then  ;  and  first  to  you,  sir,  you  com- 
You  serve  one  lord,  but  your  lord  serves  a  thousand, 
Besides  his  passions,  that  are  his  worst  masters  ; 
You  must  humour  him,  and  he  is  bound  to  sooth 
Every  grim  sir  above  him'  :  if  he  frown, 
For  the  least  neglect  you  fear  to  lose  your  place  ; 
But  if,  and  with  all  slavish  observation,  [stool, 

From  the  minion's  self,  to  the  groom   of  his  close- 
He  hourly  seeks  not  favour,  he  is  sure  it.] 
To  be  eased  of  liis  office,  though  perhaps  he  bought 
Nay,  more  :  that  high  disposer  of  all  such 
That  are  subordinate  to  him,  serves  and  fears 
The  fury  of  the  many -headed  monster, 
The  giddy  multitude  :  and,  as  a  horse 
Is  still  a  horse,  for  all  his  golden  trappings, 
So  your  men  of  purchased  titles,  at  their  best,  are 
But  serving  men  in  rich  liveries. 

Ush.  Most  rare  infant! 
Where  learnd'st  thou  this  morality  ? 

Page.  Why,  thou  dull  pate, 
As  I  told  thee,  of  my  tutor. 

2  Worn.  Now  for  us,  boy. 

Page.  I  am  cut  oft': — the  governor. 
Enter  BEAUFOHT  senior,  and  BEAUFORT  junior  ;  Servant* 
setting  forth  a  banquet. 

Beauf.  sen.  Quick,  quick,  sirs. 
See  all  things  perfect. 

Serv.  Let  the  blame  be  ours  else. 

Beauf.  sen.  And,  as  I  said,  when  we  are  at  the 

banquet, 

And  high  in  our  cups,  for  'tis  no  feast  without  it, 
Especially  among  soldiers  ;  Theocrine 
Being  retired,  as  that's  no  place  for  her, 
Take  you  occasion  to  rise  from  the  table, 
And  lose  no  opportunity. 

Beauf.  jun.  'Tis  my  purpose  ; 
And  if  I  can  win  her  to  give  her  heart, 
I  have  a  holy  man  in  readiness 
To  join  our  hands ;  for  the  admiral,  her  father, 
Repents  him  of  his  grant  to  me,  and  seems 
So  far  transported  with  a  strange  opinion 
Of  her  fair  features,  that,  should  we  defer  it, 
I  think,  ere  long,  he  will  believe,  and  strongly, 
The  dauphin  is  not  worthy  of  her:  I 
Am  much  amazed  with't. 

Beauf.  sen.  Nay,  dispatch  there,  fellows. 

[Exeunt  Beaufort  senior  and  Beaufort  junior. 

Serv.  We   are   ready,   when   you   please.     Sweet 

formsf,  your  pardon ! 

It  has  been  such  a  busy  time,  I  could  not. 
Tender  that  ceremonious  respect 
Which    you    deserve ;  but    now,    the    great   work 
I  will  attend  the  less,  and  with  all  care  [ended, 

Observe  and  serve  you. 


he  is  bound  to  tooth 


Every  grim  sir  above  htm :]  Grim  sir,  Mr.  Uodsley  inju 
diciouMy  altered  to  trim  sir!  tor  this  he  ishonouied  withihe 
approbation  of  Coxeter  ;  though  nothing  can  be  more  certain 
than  that  the  old  reading  is  rii;hi.  Skelton  calls  Wolsey  a 
grim  sire,  and  Fletcher  has  a  similar  expression  in  the  Elder 
Brother  : 

"  Cowry.  It  is  a  faith 

That  we  will  die  in  ;  since  from  the  blackguard 
To  the/;rj»i  sir  in  office,  there  are  few 
Hold  other  tenet  i." 

+  fiwett  forms,  &c.]  This  is  a  paltry  play  on  words.  The 
form*  meant  by  the  servant,  arr  the  Ions;  benches  on  which 
the  guests  were  to  sit.  The  trite  pedantry  of  the  speech  ii 
well  exposed  by  the  Page. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


47 


Page.  This  is  a  penn'd  speech, 
And  serves  as  a  perpetual  preface  to 
A  dinner  made  of  fragments. 

Ush.  We  wait  on  you. 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— The  same.     A  Banquet  set  forth. 

Loud  Music.  Enter  BEAUFORT  senior,  MALEFORT, 
MONTAIGNE,  CHAMONT,  LANOUR,  BEAUFORT  junior, 
MONTREVILLE,  and  Servants. 

Beauf.  sen.  You  are  not  merry,  sir. 

Malef.  Yes,  my  good  lord, 

You  have  given  us  ample  means  to  drown  all  cares  : — 
And  yet  I  nourish  strange  thoughts,  which  I  would 
Most  willingly  destroy.  [Aside. 

Beauf.  sen.  Pray  you,  take  your  place. 

Beauf .  jun.  And  drink  a  health  ;  and   let  it  be, 

if  you  please, 
To  the  worthiest  of  women.     Now  observe  him. 

Malef.  Give  me  the  bowl  ;  since  you  do  me  the 
I  will  begin  it.  [honour, 

Cham.  May  we  know  her  name,  sir  ?        [queen's, 

Malef.  You   shall ;    I  will   not  choose  a  foreign 
Nor  yet  our  own,  for  that  would  relish  of 
Tame  flattery ;  nor  do  their  height  of  title,        [ness, 
Or  absolute  power,  confirm  their  worth  and  good- 
These  being  heaven's  gifts,  and  frequently  couferr'd 
On  such  as  are  beneath  them;  nor  will  I 
Name  the  king's  mistress,  howsoever  she 
In  his  esteem  may  carry  it ;  but  if  J, 
As  wine  gives  liberty,  may  use  my  freedom, 
Not  sway'd  this  way  or  that,  with  confidence, 
(And  I  will  make  it  good  on  any  equal,) 
If  it  must  be  to  her  whose  outward  form 
Is  better 'd  by  the  beauty  of  her  mind, 
She  lives  not  that  with  justice  can  pretend 
An  interest  to  this  so  sacred  health, 
But  my  fair  daughter.     He  that  only  doubts  it, 
I  do  pronounce  a  villain  :  this  to  her,  then. 

[Drinks. 

Mont.  What  may  we  think  of  this  ? 

Beauf.  sen.  It  matters  not. 

Lan.  For  my  part,  I  will  sooth  him,  rather  than 
Draw  on  a  quarrel  *. 

Cham.  It  is  the  safest  course ; 
And  one  I  mean  to  follow. 

Beauf.  jun.  It  has  gone  round,  sir.  [Exit. 

Malef.  Now  you  hare  done  her  right ;  if  there 
Worthy  to  second  this,  propose  it  boldly,  [be  any 
I  am  your  pledge. 

Beauf.  sen.  Let's  pause  here,  if  you  please, 
And  entertain  the  time  with  something  else. 
\Iusic  there  !  in  some  lofty  strain  ;  the  song  too 
That  I  gave  order  for ;  the  new  one,  call'd 
The  Soldier's  Delight.  [Music  and  a  song. 

Enter  BELGARDE  in  armour,  a  case  of  carbines  by 
his  side. 

Belg.  Who  stops  me  now  ? 
Or  who  dares  only  say  that  I  appear  not 
In  the  most  rich  and  glorious  habit  that 
Renders  a  man  complete  ?  What  court  so  set  off 

•  Draw  on  a  quarrel.]  This  has  hitherto  been  printed, 
Draw  on  a  quarrel,  Chamont ;  and  the  next  speech  given 
to  Montreville.  It  is  not  very  probable  that  the  latter 
should  reply  to  an  observation  addressed  to  Charaont,  with 
whom  he  does  not  appear  to  be  familiar:  and  besides,  the 
excess  of  metre  seems  to  prove  that  the  name  has  sliptfrom 
the  margin  of  the  succeeding  line  into  the  text  of  this. 


With  state  and  ceremonious  pomp,  but,  thus 
Accoutred,  I  may  enter  ?  Or  what  feast, 
Though  all  the  elements  at  once  were  ransack'd 
To  store  it  with  variety  transcending 
The  curiousness  and  cost  on  Trajan's  birthday  ; 
(Where  princes  only,  and  confederate  kings, 
Did  sit  as  guests,  served  and  attended  on 
By  the  senators  of  Rome),  at  which  •  a  soldier, 
In  this  his  natural  and  proper  shape, 
Might  not,  and  boldly,  fill  a  seat,  and  by 
His  presence  make  the  great  solemnity 
More  honour'd  and  remarkable  ? 

Beauf.  sen.  Tis  acknowledged  ; 
And  this  a  grace  done  to  me  unexpected. 

Mont.  But  why  in  armour  ? 

Malef.  What's  the  mystery  ? 
Pray  you,  reveal  that. 

iBelg.  Soldiers  out  of  action, 
That  very  rare         *         *         *         * 
*         *         *         *         but,  like  unbidden  guests. 
Bring  their  stools  with  them,  for  their  own  defence  J, 
At  court  should  feed  in  gauntlets,  they  may  have 
Their  fingers  cut  else  :  there  your  carpet  knights. 
That  never  charged  beyond  a  mistress'  lips, 
Are  still  most  keen,  and  valiant.     But  to  you, 
Whom  it  does  most  concern,  my  lord,  I  will 
Address  my  speech,  and  with  a  soldier's  freedom 
In  my  reproof,  return  the  bitter  scoff 
You  threw  upon  my  poverty  :  you  contemn'd 
My  coarser  outside,  and  from  that  concluded 

* at  which   a  soldier  &c.]    The  old  copy 

reads,  tat  with  a  soldier.  The  emendation,  which  is  a  very 
happy  one,  was  made  by  Mr.  M.  Mason.  The  corruption  is 
easily  accounted  for:  the  primer  mistook  the  second  paren- 
thesis foi  an  s,  and  having  uiven  sat  for  at,  was  obliged  to 
alter  the  next  word,  to  make  sense  of  the  line.  This  will 
be  understood  at  once  by  a  reference  to  the  quarto,  where 
the  first  parenthesis  only  appears,  which  was  therefore 
omitted  by  the  succeeding  editors.  I  know  not  where  Mas- 
singer  found  this  anecdote  of  Trajan ;  he  wa<,  indeed,  a 
magnificent,  and,  in  some  cases,  an  ostentatious  prince  ; 
but  neither  his  pride,  nor  his  prudence,  I  believe,  would 
have  allowed  the  "  senators  of  Rome"  to  degrade  them- 
selves by  wailing  on  the  allies  of  the  republic. 

t  Belg.  Soldier*  out  of  action, 

That  very  rare,        *••••* 

•         •        *         *        •     but,  like  unbidden  guests 

Bring  their  stools  with  them,  &c.l  So  I  have  ventured  to 
print  this  passage,  being  persuaded  that  a  line  is  lost.  The 
breaks  c  innot  be  filled  up,  but  the  sense  might  be,  Soldiers 
out  of  action,  that  very  rarely  find  seats  reserved  for  them, 
i.  e.  arc  invited,  but,  like,  &c.  How  the  mudern  editors 
understood  this  passage  I  know  not  but,  they  all  give  it  thus. 

Belg.  Soldier f  out  of  action. 
That  very  rare,  but  like  unbidden  guests 
JBrinu  &c. 

This  custom  of  guests,  who  are  uninvited  bringing  their 
scats  with  them,  is  frequently  referred  to  by  our  old  writers: 
so  Rowley : 

Widuw.  What  cope.'mate's  this  trow  ?  Who  let  him  in  1 

Jarvis.  By  this  light,  a  fellow  of  an  excellent  breeding; 
he  came  unbidden,  and  brought  his  stool  with  him. 
J for  their  own  defence, 

At  court  should  feed  in  gauntlets,  they  may  have 
Their  fingers  cut  else:  Here  is  the  bon-mot  for  which 
Quin  was  so  much  celebrated  that  "at  city  leasts  it  was 
neither  safe  nor  prudent  to  help  one's  self  without  a  basket- 
hilted  knife."  Massinger  got  it,  I  suppose,  from  Barclay's 
second  Eclogue,  which  has  great  merit  for  the  lime  in  which 
it  was  written: 

"  If  the  dishe  be  pleasaunt  eyther  fleshe  or  fislie, 

Ten  handes  at  once  swarme  in  the  dishe 

To  put  there  tliy  handes  is  peril  without  fayle. 
Without  a  yauntltt,  or  els  a  ylove  ofmayle  ; 
Among  all  those  knives,  thou  one  of  both  must  have, 
Or  eli  it  is  harde  thy  fingers  to  save." 

Where  Barclay  found  it,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  there  is  something 
of  the  kind  in  Diogenes  Laertius.  "  There  a  nothing  new 
under  the  sun  !  " 


48 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


[Acr  III 


(As  by  your  groom  you  made  me  understand) 
I  was  unworthy  to  sit  at  your  table, 
Among  these  tissues  and  embroideries, 
Unless  I  changed  my  habit  :   I  have  done  it, 
And  show  myself  in  that  which  I  have  worn 
In  the  heat  and  fervour  of  a  bloody  fight ; 
Arid  then  it  was  in  fashion,  not  as  now, 
Ridiculous  and  despised.     This  hath  past  through 
A  wood  of  pikes,  and  every  one  aim'd  at  it, 
Yet  scorn'd  to  take  impression  from  their  fury  : 
With  this,  as  still  you  see  it,  fresh  and  new, 
I've  charged  through  fire  that  would  have  singed 
your  sables,  [colour 

Black  fox,   and   ermines,    and   changed  the  proud 
Of  scarlet,  though  of  the  r'ght  Tyrian  die. — 
But  now,  as  if  the  trappings  made  the  man, 
Such  only  are  admired  that  come  adorn'd 
With  what's  no  part  of  them.     This  is  mine  own, 
My  richest  suit,  a  suit  I  must  not  part  from, 
But  not  regarded  now  :  and  yet  remember, 
'Tis  we  that  bring  you  in  the  means  of  feasts, 
Banquets,  and  revels,  which,  when  you  possess, 
With  barbarous  ingratitude  you  deny  us 
To  be  made  sharers  in  the  harvest,  which 
Our  sweat  and  industry  reap'd,  and  sow'd  for  you. 
The  silks  you  wear,  we  with  our  blood  spin  for  you  ; 
This  massy  plate,  that  with  the  ponderous  weight 
Does  make  your  cupboards  crack,  we  (unaffrighted 
With  tempests,  or  the  long  and  tedious  way, 
Or  dreadful  monsters  of  the  deep,  that  wait 
With  open  jaws  still  ready  to  devour  us,) 
Fetch  from  the  other  world.     Let  it  not  then, 
In  after  ages,  to  your  shame  be  spoken, 
That  you,  with  no  relenting  eyes,  look  on 
Our  wants  that  feed  your  plenty  :  or  consume, 
In  prodigal  and  wanton  gifts  on  drones, 
The  kingdom's  treasure,  yet  detain  from  us 
The  debt  that  with  the  hazard  of  our  lives, 
We  have  made  you  stand  engaged  for  ;  or  force  us, 
Against  all  civil  government,  in  armour 
To  require  that,  which  with  all  willingness 
Should  be  tender'd  ere  demanded. 

Beauf.  sen.  I  commend 

This  wholesome  sharpness  in  you,  and  prefer  it 
Before  obsequious  lameness  ;  it  shews  lovely  : 
Nor  shall  the  rain  of  your  good  counsel  fall 
Upon  the  barren  sands,  but  spring  up  fruit*, 
Such  as  you  long  have  wish'd  for.     And  the  rest 
Of  your  profession,  like  you,  discontented 
For  want  of  means,  shall  in  their  present  payment 
Be  bound  to  praise  your  boldness  :  and  hereafter 
I  will  take  order  you  shall  have  no  cause, 
For  want  of  change,  to  put  your  armour  on, 
But  in  the  face  of  an  enemy  ;  not  as  now, 
Among  your  friends.     To  that  which  is  due  to  you, 
To  furnish  you  like  yourself,  of  mine  own  bounty 
I'll  add  two  hundred  crowns. 

Cham.  I,  to  my  power, 
"Will  follow  the  example. 

Mont.  Take  this,  captain, 
Tis  all  my  present  store  ;  but  when  you  please, 
Command"^  me  further. 

Lan.  I  could  wish  it  more. 

Belg.  This  is  the  luckiest  jest  ever  came  from  me. 
Let  a  soldier  use  no  other  scribe  to  draw 
The  form  of  his  position.     This  will  speed 

• but   spring   tip  fruit,]   i.  e.   cauie  it  to 

spring  up-   This  sense  of  the  word  isr  familiar  to  Massing 
and  liu  contemporaries, 


When  your  thrice-humble  supplications, 
With  prayers  for  increase  of  health  and  honours 
To  their  grave  lordships,  shall,  as  soon  as  read, 
Be  pocketed  up,  the  cause  no  more  remember'd  j 
When  this  dumb  rhetoric — Well,  I  have  a  life, 
Which  I,  in  thankfulness  for  your  great  favours, 
My  noble  lords,  when  you  please  to  command  it, 
Must  never  think  mine  own.      Broker,  be  happy, 
These  golden  birds  fly  to  thee.  [Exit. 

Beauf'.  sen.  You  are  dull,  sir, 
And  seem  not  to  be  taken  with  the  passage 
You  saw  presented. 

Malef.  Passage  !  I  observed  none, 
My  thoughts  were  elsewhere  busied.     Ha  !  she  is 
In  danger  to  be  lost,  to  be  lost  for  ever, 
If  speedily  I  come  not  to  her  rescue, 
For  so  my  genius  tells  me. 

Montr.  What  chimeras 
Work  on  your  fantasy  ? 

Malef.  Fantasies!  they  are  truths. 
Where  is  my  Theocrine  ?  you  have  plotted 
To  rob  me  of  my  daughter  ;  bring  me  to  her, 
Or  I'll  call  down  the  saints  to  witness  for  me, 
You  are  inhospitable. 

Beauf.  sen.  You  amaze  me. 

Your  daughter's  safe,  and  now  exchanging  courtship 
With  my  son,  her  servant*.     Why  do  you  hear  this 
With  such  distracted  looks,  since  to  that  end 
You  brought  her  hither  ? 

Malef.  Tis  confess'd  I  did  ; 

But  now,  pray  you,  pardon  me  ;  and,  if  you  please, 
Ere  she  delivers  up  her  virgin  fort, 
I  would  observe  what  is  the  art  he  uses 
In  planting  his  artillery  against  it : 
She  is  my  only  care,  nor  must  she  yield, 
But  upon  noble  terms. 

Beauf.  sen.  'Tis  so  determined. 

Malef.  Yet  I  am  jealous. 

Mont.  Overmuch,  I  fear. 
What  passions  are  these  ? 

Beauf.  sen.  Come,  I  will  bring  you 
Where  you,  with  these,  if  they  so  please,  may  see 
The  love-scene  acted. 

Montr.  There  is  something  more 
Than  fatherly  love  in  this. 

Mont.  We  wait  upon  you.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV. — Another  Room  in  BEAUFORT'S  Houu. 
Enter  BEAUFORT  junior,  and  THEOCRINE. 

Beauf.  jun.  Since  then  you  meet  my  flames  with 

equal  ardour, 

As  you  profess,  it  is  your  bounty,  mistress, 
Nor  must  I  call  it  debt  ;  yet  'tis  your  glory, 
That  your  excess  supplies  my  want,  and  makes  me 
Strong  in  my  weakness,  which  could  never  be, 
But  in  your  good  opinion. 

Theoc.  You  teach  me,  sir, 
What  I  should  say  ;  since  from  your  sun  of  favour, 


*  Your  daughter's  safe,  and  now  exchanging  courtship 
With  my  son,  her  servant.]  Servant  was  at  ihis  time  the 
invariable  term  for  a  suitor,  who,  in  return,  called  the  object 
of    his    addresses,  mistreat.     Thus    Shirley,    Cone  example 
for  all,) 

"  Bon.  What's  the  gentleman  she  has  married? 
Serv.  A  man  of  pretty  fortune,  that  has  been 
Her  servant  many  years. 

Htm.  How  do  you  mean, 
Wantonly, or  docs  he  serve  for  wages? 
Serv.  Neither;  I  mean  her  tuitur." 


6CENE  II.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


I,  like  dim  Phoebe,  in  herself  obscure, 
Borrow  that  light  I  have. 

Beauf.  jun.  Which  you  return 
With  large  increase,  since  that  you  will  o'ercome, 
And  I  dare  not  contend,  were  you  but  pleased 
To  make  what's  yet  divided  one. 

Theoc.  I  have 

Already  in  my  wishes  ;  modesty 
Forbids  me  to  speak  more. 

Beanf.jun.  But  what  assurance, 
But  still  without  offence,  may  I  demand, 
That  may  secure  me  that  your  heart  and  tongue 
Join  to  make  harmony. 

Theoc.  Choose  any, 

Suiting  your  love,  distinguished  from  lust, 
To  ask,  and  mine  to  grant. 

Enter,  behind,  BEAUFORT  senior,  MALEFORT, 
MONTREVILLE,  and  the  rest. 

Beauf.  sen.  Yonder  they  are. 

Malef.  At  distance  too  !  'tis  yet  well. 

Beanf.jun.  I  may  take  then 
This  hand,  and  with  a  thousand  burning  kisses, 
Swear  'tis  the  anchor  to  my  hopes  1 

Theoc.  You  may,  sir. 

Malef.  Somewhat  too  much. 

Beaiif.jun.  And  this  done,  view  myself 
In  these  true  mirrors  ? 

Theoc.  Ever  true  1o  you,  sir  : 
And  may  they  lose  the  ability  of  sight, 
When  they  seek  other  object ! 

Malef.  This  is  more 
Thiin  1  can  give  consent  to. 

Beauf.  jun.  And  a  kiss 
Thus  printed  on  your  lips,  will  not  distaste  you  *  1 

Malef.  Her  lips  !  [tracted? 

Montr.  Why,  where  should  he  kiss  ?  are  you  dis- 

Beauf.jun.  Then,  when  this  holy  man  hath  made 
it  lawful [Brings  in  a  Priest. 

Malef,  A  priest  so  ready  too  !  I  must  break  in. 

Beanf.jun.  And  what's  spoke  here  is  register'd 
I  must  engross  those  favours  to  myself  [above  ; 
Which  are  not  to  be  named. 

Theoc.  All  I  can  give, 
But  what  they  are  I  know  not. 

Beaiif.jun.  I'll  instruct  you. 

Malef.  O  how  my  blood  boils  ! 

Montr.  Pray  you,  contain  yourself; 
Methinks  his  courtship's  modest  f. 

Beanf.jun.  Then  being  mine, 
And  wholly  mine,  the  river  of  your  love 
To  kinsmen  and  allies,  nay,  to  your  father, 
(  Howe'er  out  of  his  tenderness  he  admires  you,) 
Must  in  the  ocean  of  your  affection 
To  me,  be  swallow'd  up,  and  want  a  name, 
Compared  with  what  you  owe  me. 

Theoc.  'Tis  most  fit,  sir. 

The  stronger  bond  that  binds  me  to  you,  must 
Dissolve  the  weaker. 

Malef.  I  am  ruin'd,  if 
I  come  not  fairly  off. 

*  Beauf.  jun.    And  a  kist 

Tims  printed  on  your  lips,  will  not  distaste  yoji  ?]  i.  e. 
displease  you :  the  word  perpetually  lecnrs  in  this  sense. 

t  Met/links  his  courtship's  modest.]     For  his  the  modern 
editors  have  this.    The  change  is  unnecessary.     The  next 
speecn,  as  Mr.  G  ilchrist  observes,  bears  a  distant  resemblance 
to  the  nrst  sonnet  of  Daniel  to  Delia: 
"  Unto  the  boundlesse  ocean  of  thy  beantic 

Runnes  this  poor  river,  charg'rt  with  streames  of  zeale, 

Returning  thee  the  tribute  of  my  diitie. 

Which  here  my  love,  my  truth,  my  plaints  reveale." 


Jieauf.  sen.  There's  nothing  wanting 
But  your  consent. 

Malef.  Some  strange  invention  aid  me  ! 
This  !  yes,  it  must  be  so.  [Aside 

Montr.  Why  do  you  stagger, 

When  what  you  seem'd  so  much  to  wish,  is  offer'd, 
Both  parties  being  agreed  too  *  ? 

Beauf.  sen.  I'll  not  court 

A  grant  from  you,  nor  do  I  wrong  your  daughter, 
Though  I  say  my  son  deserves  her. 

Malef.  'Tis  far  from 

My  humble  thoughts  to  undervalue  him 
I  cannot  prize  too  high  :  for  howsoever 
From  my  own  fond  indulgence  I  have  sung 
Her  praises  with  too  prodigal  a  tongue. 
That  tenderness  laid  by,  I  stand  confirm'd 
All  that  I  fancied  excellent  in  her, 
Balanced  with  what  is  really  his  own, 
Holds  weight  in  <jo  proportion. 

Montr.  New  turnings  ! 

Beauf.  sen.  Whither  tends  this  ? 

Malef.  Had  you  observed,  my  lord, 
With  what  a  sweet  gradation  he  woo'd, 
As  I  did  punctually,  you  cannot  blame  her, 
Though  she  did  listen  with  a  greedy  ear 
To  his  fair  modest  offers  :  but  so  great 
A  good  as  then  flow'd  to  her,  should  have  been 
With  more  deliberation  entertain'd, 
And  not  with  such  haste  swallow'd  :  she  shall  first 
Consider  seriously  what  the  blessing  is, 
And  in  what  ample  manner  to  give  thanks  for't, 
And  then  receive  it.    And  though  I  shall  think 
Short  minutes  years,  till  it  be  perfected  f> 
I  will  defer  that  which  I  most  desire  ; 
And  so  must  she,  till  longing  expectation, 
That  heightens  pleasure,  makes  her  truly  know 
Her  happiness,  and  with  what  outstretch'd  anna 
She  must  embrace  it. 

Beaiif.jun.  This  is  curiousness 
Beyond  example  $. 

Malef.  Let  it  then  begin 

From  me :  in  what's  mine  own  I'll  use  my  will, 
And  yield  no  further  reason.     I  lay  claim  to 
The  liberty  of  a  subject.     Fall  not  off, 
But  be  obedient,  or  by  the  hair 
I'll  drag  thee  home.     Censure  me  as  you  please, 
I'll  take  my  own  way. — O  the  inward  fires 
That,  wanting  vent,  consume  me  ! 

[Eiit  with  Theocrine. 

Montr.  'Tis  most  certain 
He's  mad,  or  worse. 

Beauf.  sen.  How  worse  §  ? 

•  Both  parties  being  agreed  too  ?]  The  old  copy  gives  this 
hemistich  to  Beaufort  junior,  and  is  probably  ri«lit,  as  Male- 
fort  had  by  this  time  interposed  between  the  lovers.  The 
alteration  is  by  Coxeter.  For  to,  which  stands  in  all  the 
editions,  I  read  too.  It  should  be  observed  that  our  old  writers 
usually  spell  those  two  words  alike,  leaving  the  sense  to  be 
discovered  by  the  context  (omitted  in  edit.  1813). 

t • till  it  be  perfected,]      The  old  orthography  v»  a 

perfitted,  a  mode  of  spelling  much  better  adapted  to  poetry, 
anil  which  I  am  sorry  we  have  suti'ered  to  grow  obsolete. 

t  Beauf.  jun.     This  is  curiousness 

Beyond  example.}  i.  e.  a  refined  and  over  scrupulous  con- 
sideration of  the  subject.  So  ihe  word  is  frequently  applied 
by  our  old  writeis.  (It  occurs  again  in  the  "  Parliament  of 
Love,"  Act.  i,  sc.4;  and  in  the  Works  of  Tyndall,  folio 
p  67,  I  find  the  following  apposite  illustration  of  this  ex 
pression,  "  Be  diligent,  therefore,  that  those  be  not  deceaved 
with  curiousnes.  For  me  of  no  small  reputation  have  been 
deceaved  with  their  owne  sophistry." — Eu.) 

$  Beauf.  sen.  How  worse.'}  This  shoit  speech  is  not 
appropriated  in  the  old  copy.  Dodsley  gives  it  to  the  present 


50 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


ACT  IV. 


Montr.  Nay,  there  I  leave  you  ; 
My  thoughts  are  free. 

'Beauf.jun.  This  I  foresaw. 
Beauf.  sen.  Take  comfort, 


He  shall  walk  in  clouds,  but  I'll  discover  him  : 
And  he  shall  find  and  feel,  if  he  excuse  not, 
And  with  strong  reasons,  this  gross  injury, 
I  can  make  use  of  my  authority.  [Exeunt 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  MALEFORT'S  House. 
Enter  MALEFORT. 

What  flames  are  these  my  wild  desires  fan  in  me  ? 
The  torch  that  feeds  then  was  not  lighted  at 
Thy  altars,  Cupid  :  vindicate  thyself, 
And  do  not  own  it  ;  and  confirm  it  rather, 
That  this  infernal  brand,  that  turns  me  cinders, 
Was  by  the  snake-hair'd  sisters  thrown  into 
My  guilty  bosom.     O  that  I  was  ever 
Accurs'd  in  having  issue  !  my  son's  blood, 
(That  like  the  poison'd  shirt  of  Hercules 
Grows  to  each  part  about  me,)  which  my  hate 
Forced  from  him  with  much  willingness,  may  admit 
Some  weak  defence  ;  but  my  most  impious  love 
To  my  fair  daughter  Theocrine,  none  ; 
Since  my  affection  (rather  wicked  lust) 
That  does  pursue  her,  is  a  greater  crime 
Than  any  detestation,  with  which 
I  should  afflict  her  innocence.   With  what  cunning 
I  have  betrav'd  myself*,  and  did  not  feel 
The  scorching  heat  that  now  with  fury  rages  ! 
Why  was  I  tender  of  her  ?  cover 'd  with 
That  fond  disguise,  this  mischief  stole  upon  me. 
I  thought  it  no  offence  to  kiss  her  often. 
Or  twine  mine  arms  about  her  softer  neck  t, 
And  by  false  shadows  of  a  father's  kindness 
I  long  deceived  myself :  but  now  the  effect 
Is  too  apparent.     How  I  strove  to  be 
In  her  opinion  held  the  worthiest  man 
In  courtship,  form,  and  feature  !  envying  him 
That  was  preferr'd  before  me  ;  and  yet  then 
My  wishes  to  myself  were  not  discover'd. 
But  still  my  fires  increased,  and  with  delight 
I  would  call  her  mistress  J,  willingly  forgetting 
The  name  of  daughter,  choosing  rather  she 
Should   style   me   servant,    than,    with    reverence, 
father  : 


speaker,  and  is  evidently  right.     M.  Mason  follows  Coxeter, 
who  gives  it  to  no  one  I 

*  With  what  cunning 

I  have  betrayed  myself,  4-c.l  Gifford,  in  the  edition  of 
1813,  icm.irks  on  this  speech  that  it  is  a  close  translation  of 
the  description  of  the  fatal  passion  of  Byblis,  by  Ovid,  to 
whom  I  must  refer  the  reader  for  the  parallel  passage. — 
Mttamorph,  Lib.  ix,  456. —  Ki>  ) 

t  Or  twine  mine  arms  about  her  softer  neck,]  i.  e.  her  soft 
neck:  our  oil  poets  frequently  adopt,  and  indeed  with  sin- 
gular good  taste,  the  comparative  for  the  positive.  Thus,  in 
a  very  pretty  passage  in  the  Combat  of  Love  and,  friend- 
ship, by  R.  Mead  : 

"  When  I  shall  sit  circled  within  yonr  armes, 
How  shall  I  cast  a  blemish  on  your  honour, 
And  appear  onely  like  tome  falter  stone, 
Placed  in  a  ring  of  gold,  which  growi  a  jewel 
But  from  the  seat  which  holds  it!" 

And  indeed  Massinger  himself  furnishes  numerous  instances 
of  this  practice  ;  one  occurs  just  below: 

" which  jour  gentler  temper, 

On  my  submission,  1  hope,  will  pardon." 
Another  we  have  already  hart,  in  the  Viryin-Martyr  : 

"  Jud-ge  not  my  readier  will  by  the  event." 
t  /  would  call  her  mistress, &c.]  See  note  to  Act  iii,  tc.  4. 
ante 


Yet,  waking,  I  ne'er  cherish'd  obscene  hopes  *, 
But  in  my  troubled  slumbers  often  thought 
She  was  too  near  to  me,  and  then  sleeping  blush'd 
At  my  imagination  ;  which  pass'd, 
(My  eyes  being  open  not  condemning  it,) 
I  was  ravish'd  with  the  pleasure  of  the  dream. 
Yet  spite  of  these  temptations  I  have  reason 
That  pleads  against  them,  and  commands  me  to 
Extinguish  these  abominable  fires  ; 
And  I  will  do  it  ;  I  will  send  her  back 
To  him  that  loves  her  lawfully.     Within  there  ! 
Enter  THEOCRINE. 

Theoc.  Sir,  did  you  call  ? 

Malef.  I  look  no  sooner  on  her, 
But  all  my  boasted  power  of  reason  leaves  me. 
And  passion  again  usurps  her  empire. 
Does  none  else  wait  me  ? 

Theoc.  I  am  wretched,  sir, 
Should  any  owe  more  duty  ? 

Malef.  This  is  worse 
Than  disobedience  ;  leave  me. 

Theoc.  On  my  knees,  sir, 
As  I  have  ever  squared  my  will  by  yours, 
And  liked  and  loath'd  with  your  eyes,  I  beseech  yoa 
To  teach  me  what  the  nature  of  my  fault  is, 
That  hath  incensed  you  ;  sure  'tis  one  of  weakness 
And  not  of  malice)  which  your  gentler  temper, 
On  my  submission,  I  hope,  will  pardon : 
Which  granted  by  your  piety,  if  that  I, 
Out  of  the  least  neglect  of  mine  hereafter, 
Make  you  remember  it,  may  I  sink  ever 
Under  your  dread  command,  sir. 

Malef.  O  my  stars  ! 
Who  can  but  doat  on  this  humility,  [ters 

That  sweetens Lovely  in  her  tears  ! The  fet- 

That  seem'd  to  lessen  in  their  weight  but  now  t> 
But  this  grow  heavier  on  me. 

•  Yet  waking,  /  nt'er  cherish'd  obscene  hopes,]  The  old 
copy  read<,  Yet  mocking,— if  this  be  the  genuine  word,  it 
must  mean  "  notwithstanding  my  wanton  abuse  of  the  terms 
mentioned  above,  I  never  cherished,"  &c.  this  is  certainly 
not  defective  in  sense ;  but  the  rest  of  the  sentence  calls  no 
loudly  for  waking,  that  I  have  not  scrupled  to  insert  it  in 
the  text;  the  corruption,  at  the  press,  was  sufficiently  easy. 

t  Malef.  O  my  stars  ! 

Who  can  but  doat  on  this  humility, 

That  sweetens Lovely  in  her  tears! The  fetter*, 

That  seem'd  to  lessen  in  their  weight  but  nmo, 

By  this  grow  heavier  on  me.]  So  I  venture  to  point  the 
passage  :  it  is  abrupt,  and  denotes  the  distracted  state  of  the 
speaker's  mind.  It  stands  thus  in  Mr.  Af.  Mason  : 

Malef.  O  my  stars .'  who  can  but  doat  on  this  humility 

That  sweetens  'lovely  in  her  tears)  the  fetters 

That  seem'd  to  lessen  in  their  weight ;  but  now 

By  this  grow  heavier  on  me. 

Coxete*  follows  the  old  copies,  which  only  differ  from  this, 
in  placing  a  note  of  interrogation  after  teart.  Both  are 
evidently  wrong,  because  unintelligible. 

The  reader  must  not  be  surprised  at  the  portentous  verse 
which  begins  the  quotation  from  Mr.  M.  Mason.  Neither 
he,  nor  Coxeter,  nor  Dodsley,  reems  to  have  had  the  smallest 
solicitude  (1  will  not  say  knowledge)  respecting  th>-  metre 
of  their  author  :  and  Massinger,  the  most  harmonious  of 
poets,  appears,  in  their  desultory  pages,  as  imiuncablc  a» 
Marstou  or  Donne* 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


51 


Theoc.  Dear  sir. 

Malef.  Peace  ! 
T  must  not  hear  thee. 

Theoc.  Nor  look  on  me  ? 

Malef.  No, 
Thv  looks  and  words  are  charms. 

Theoc.  May  they  have  power  then 
To  calm  the  tempest  of  your  wrath  !  Alas,  sir, 
Did  I  but  know  in  what  I  give  offence, 
In  my  repentance  I  would  show  my  sorrow 
For  what  is  past,  and,  in  my  care  hereafter, 
Kill  the  occasion,  or  cease  to  be  ; 
Since  life,  without  your  favour,  is  to  me 
A  load  I  would  cast  off. 

Malef.  O  that  my  heart 
Were  rent  in  sunder,  that  I  mght  expire, 
The  cause  in  my  death  buried*  !  yet  I  know  not — 
With  such  prevailing  oratory  'tis  begg'd  from  me, 
That  to  deny  thee  would  convince  me  to 
Have  suck'd  the  milk  of  tigers  :  rise,  and  I, 
t  But  in  a  perplex'd  and  mysterious  method, 
Will  make  relation  :  That  which  all  the  world 
A  dmires  and  cries  up  in  thee  for  perfections, 
Are  to  unhappy  me  foul  blemishes, 
And  mulcts  in  nature.     If  thou  hadst  been  born  J 
Deform 'd  and  crooked  in  the  fe  itures  of 
Thy  body,  as  the  manners  of  th  y  mind  ; 
Moor-lipp'd,  flat-nosed,  dim-eyed,  and  beetle-brow'd 
With  a  dwarf's  stature  to  a  giant's  waist ; 
Sour-breath'd,  with  claws  for  fingers  on  thy  hands, 
Splay-footed,  gouty-legg'd,  and  over  all 
A  loathsome  leprosy  had  spread  itself, 
And  made  thee  shunn'd  of  hum.in  fellowships  ; 
I  had  been  blest. 

Theoc.  Why,  would  you  wish  a  monster 
(For  such  a  one,  or  worse,  you  have  described) 
To  call  you  father  ? 

Malef.  Rather  than  as  now, 
(Though  I  had  drown'd  thee  for  it  in  the  sea,) 
Appearing,  as  thou  dost,  a  new  Pandora, 
With  Juno's  fair  cow-eyes  {,  Minerva's  brow, 
Aurora's  blushing  cheeks.  Hebe's  fresh  youth, 
Venus'  soft  paps,  with  Thetis'  silver  feet. 

Theoc.  Sir,  you  have  liked  and  loved  them,  and 
oft  forced, 

*  The  cam*  in  my  death  buried !]    yet  I  know  not. 

Meaning,  1  appiehend,  that  his  incestuous  passion  was  per- 
haps suspected.     As  tliis  passage  hath  been  hitherto  pointed, 
it  was  not  lo  be  understood. 

t  But  in  a  perplex'd  and  mysterious  method,]  We  have 
already  had  this  expression  from  the  son  : 

'•'  But  in  a  perplex'd  form  and  method,"  &c.,  Actii,  sc.  1. 
And  mulling  c.m  more  stron»ly  express  the  character  of  this 
most  vicious  father,  whose  crimes  were  too  horrible  for  his 
eon  to  express,  and  whose  wishes  are  too  flagitious  for  his 
(laughter  lo  hear. 

*  If  thou  hadst  been  born,  &c.]    Thus  in  K ing  John  : 
"  If  thon,  that  bid'nt  me  be  content,  wert  grim, 

I'gly,  and  Mand'rons  to  thy  mother's  womb, 
Full  of  unpleasing  blots,  and  sightless  stains, 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious, 
Patch'd  with  foul  moles,  and  eye-otiending  marks, 
I  would  not  care,  I  then  would  be  content ; 
For  ihen  I  should  not  love  thee  ;"     COXETER. 
§  With  Juno'*  fair  cow-eyes,  &c.]    These  lines  of  Mas- 
singer  are  an   immediate  translation  from  a  pretty  Greek 
epigram : 

Ofifiar'  £x£'C  Hpjjc,  MtXirr;,  rac  X«PaC  AOqvjjc., 
T«c  wa£«c.  Ila^iJjc.,  ra  fffvpa  rijc.  QtTiSof,  &c. 

Do  DO. 

These  cote-eyes,  however,  make  but  a  sorry  kind  of  an  ap- 
pearance in  English  poetry  ;  but  so  it  ever  will  be  when  the 
figurative   terms   of  one   languagg   are   literally    applied   to 
nether.     See  the  Emperor  of  the  East. 


With  your  hyperboles  of  praise  pour'd  on  them, 
My  modesty  to  a  defensive  red,  [pleased 

Strew'd  o'er    that  paleness,  which  you  then  were 
To  style  the  purest  white. 

Malef.  And  in  that  cup 
I  drank  the  poison  I  now  feel  dispersed 
Through  every  vein  and  artery.    Wherefore  art  thou 
So  cruel  to  me  ?     This  thy  outward  shape 
Brought  a  fierce  war  against  me,  not  to  be 
By  flesh  and  blood  resisted  :  but  to  leave  me 
No  hope  of  freedom,  from  the  magazine 
Of  thy  mind's  forces,  treacherously  thou  drew'st  up 
Auxiliary  helps  to  strengthen  that 
Which  was  already  in  itself  too  potent. 
Thy  beauty  gave  the  first  charge,  but  thy  duty, 
Seconded  with  thy  care  and  watchful  studies 
To  please,  and  serve  my  will,  in  all  that  might 
Raise  up  content  in  me,  like  thunder  brake  through 
All  opposition  ;  and,  my  ranks  of  reason 
Disbanded,  my  victorious  passions  fell 
To  bloody  execution,  and  compell'd  me 
With  willing  hands  to  tie  on  my  own  chains, 
And,  with  a  kind  of  flattering  joy,  to  glory 
In  my  captivity. 

Theoc.  I,  in  this  you  speak,  sir, 
Am  ignorance  itself. 

Malef.  And  so  continue  ; 

For  knowledge  of  the  arms  thou  bear'st  against  me, 
Would  make  thee  curse  thyself,  but  yield  no  aids 
For  thee  to  help  me  ;  and  twere  cruelty 
In  me  to  wound  that  spotless  innocence, 
Howe'er  it  make  me  guilty.     In  a  wprd, 
Thy  plurisy  *  of  goodness  is  thy  ill  ; 
Thy  virtues  vices,  and  thy  humble  lowness 
Far  worse  than  stubborn  sullenness  and  pride  ; 
Thy  looks,  that  ravish  all  beholders  else, 
As  killing  as  the  basilisk's,  thy  tears, 
Express'd  in  sorrow  for  the  much  I  suffer, 
A  glorious  insultation  t,  and  no  sign 
Of  pity  in  thee  :  and  to  hear  thee  speak 
In  thy  defence,  though  but  in  silent  action, 
Would  make  the  hurt,  already  deeply  fester'd, 
Incurable  :  and  therefore,  as  thou  wouldst  not 
By  thy  presence  raise  fresh  furies  to  torment  me, 
I  do  conjure  thee  by  a  father's  power, 
(And  'tis  my  curse  I  dare  not  think  it  lawful 
To  sue  unto  thee  in  a  nearer  name,) 
Without  reply  to  leave  me. 

Theoc.  My  obedience 

Never  learn 'd  yet  to  question  your  commands, 
But  willingly  to  serve  them  ;  yet  I  must, 
Since  that  your  will  forbids  the  knowledge  of 
My  fault,  lament  my  fortune.  [Exit. 

'Malef.  O  that  1 

Have  reason  to  discern  the  better  way, 
And  yet  pursue  the  worse  J  !  When  I  look  on  her, 
I  burn  with  heat,  and  in  her  absence  freeze 
With  the  cold  blasts  of  jealousy,  that  another 

*  Thy  plurUy  of  yoodness  is  thy  ill ;}  i.  e.  thy  superabtfn 
dance  of  goodness  :  the  thought  is  from  Shakspeare : 
"  For  goodness,  growing  to  a  plurisy, 

Dies  in  his  own  too  much." 

For  thy,  the  old  copy  reads  the;  it  is,  however,  an  evident 
error  of  the  pre«s. 

t  A  glorious  instillation,]   used   in  the  senst  of  gloriosus. 
See  note  to  Act.  i,  sc.  I. 
}  Mal.-f.  O  that  / 

Have  reason  to  diseern  the  better  tray, 
And  yet  pursue  the  worse!}   This  had  been  said  before  b> 
Medea  : 

video  meliora,  proboque, 

Deteriora  sequor. 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


[Acr  IV. 


Should  e'er  taste  those  delights  that  are  denied  me  ; 
And  which  of  these  afflictions  brings  less  torture, 
I  hardly  can  distinguish  :  Is  there  then 
No  mean  ?  No  ;  so  my  understanding  tells  me, 
And  that  by  my  cross  fates  it  is  determined 
That  I  am  both  ways  wretched. 

Enter  Usher  and  MONTREVILLE. 
Usher.  Yonder  he  walks,  sir, 
In  much  vexation  :  he  hath  sent  my  lady, 
His  daughter,  weeping  in  ;  but  what  the  cause  is, 
Rests  yet  in  supposition. 

Montr.  I  guess  at  it, 

But  must  be  further  satisfied  ;  I  will  sift  him 
In  private,  therefore  quit  the  room. 

Usher.  I  am  gone,  sir.  L^1'*- 

Malef.  Ha !  who  disturbs  me  ?  Montreville  !  your 

pardon. 

Montr.  Would  you  could  grant  one  to  yourself ! 
With  the  assurance  of  a  friend,  and  yet,    [I  speak  it 
Before  it  be  too  late,  make  reparation 
Of  the  gross  wrong  your  indiscretion  offer'd 
To  the  governor  and  his  son  ;  nay,  to  yourself ; 
For  there  begins  my  sorrow. 

Malef.  Would  I  had 
No  greater  cause  to  mourn,  than  their  displeasure ! 

For  I  dare  justify 

Montr.  We  must  not  do  * 

All  that  we  dare.    We're  private,  friend.   I  observed 
Your  alterations  with  a  stricter  eye, 
Perhaps,  than  others  ;  and.  to  lose  no  time 
In  repetition,  your  strange  demeanour 
To  your  sweet  daughter. 

Malef.  Would  you  could  find  out 
Some  other  theme  to  treat  of. 

Montr.  None  but  this ; 
And  this  I'll  dwell  on  ;  how  ridiculous, 

And  subject  to  construction 

Malef.  No  more  ! 

Montr.  You  made  yourself,  amazes  me,  and  if 
The  frequent  trials  interchanged  between  us 
Of  love  and  friendship,  be  to  their  desert 
Esteem'd  by  you,  as  they  hold  weight  with  me, 
No  inward  trouble  should  be  of  a  shape 
So  horrid  to  yourself,  but  that  to  me 
You  stand  bound  to  discover  it,  and  unlock 
Your  secret'st  thoughts  ;  though  the  most  innocent 
Loud  crying  sins.  [were 

Malef.  And  so,  perhaps,  they  are  : 
And  therefore  be  not  curious  to  learn  that 
Which,  known,  must  make  you  hate  me. 

Montr.  Think  not  so. 

I  am  yours  in  right  and  -wrong ;  nor  shall  you  find 
A  verbal  friendship  in  me,  but  an  active  ; 
And  here  I  vow,  1  shall  no  sooner  know 
What  the  disease  is,  but,  if  you  give  leave, 
I  will  apply  a  remedy.     Is  it  madness  ? 
t  I  am  familiarly  acquainted  with 


*  We  mutt  not  do,  &c.]  This  and  the  two  next  speeches 
are  jumbled  entirely  out  of  metre  by  the  modern  editors. 
It  geems  odd  that  they  should  not  know  whether  they  were 
printing  prose  or  verse 

+  /  am  familiarly  acquainted  with  a  deep-read  man, 
That  can  with  charms  and  herbs]  So  the  lines  stand  in 
all  the  editions:  upon  which  Mr.  M.  Mason  remarks,  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  metre  requires  a  different  division. 
This  is  well  thought  of  I  In  his  edition,  the  Unnatural 
Combat  stands  towards  the  end  of  the  third  volume,  and,  to 
speak  moderately,  I  have  already  corrected  his  versification 
in  a  hundred  places  within  the  compass  of  at  many  pages: 
Bay,  of  the  little  which  has  passed  since  the  entrance  of 
Montreville,  nearly  a  moiety  has  undergone  a  new  arrange- 
ment. 


A  deep-read  man,  that  can  with  charms  and  herbs 
Restore  you  to  your  reason  ;  or  suppose 
You  are  bewitch' d  ?  he  with  more  potent  spells 
And   magical   rites   shall  cure  you.     Is't  heaven's 
anger  ? 

With  penitence  and  sacrifice  appease  it : 

Beyond  this,  there  is  nothing  that  lean 
Imagine  dreadful  ;  in  your  fame  and  fortunes 
You  are  secure  ;  your  impious  son  removed  too, 
That  render'd  you  suspected  to  the  state  ; 

And  your  fair  daughter 

Malef.  Oh  !  press  me  no  further.  [hath  she 

Montr.  Are  you  wrung  there  !   Why,  what  of  her? 
Made  shipwreck  of  her  honour,  or  conspired 
Against  your  life?  or  seal'd  a  contract  with 
The  devil  of  hell,  for  the  recovery  of 
Her  young  Inamorato  ? 

Malef.  None  of  these; 

And  yet,  what  must  increase  the  wonder  in  you, 
Being  innocent  in  herself,  she  hath  wounded  me 
But  where,  enquire  not.     Yet,  I  know  not  how 
I  am  persuaded,  from  my  confidence 
Of  your  vow'd  love  to  me,  to  trust  you  with 
My  dearest  secret ;  pray  you  chide  me  for  it, 
But  with  a  kind  of  pity,  not  insulting 
On  my  calamity. 
Montr.  Forward. 

Malef.  This  same  daughter 

Montr.  What  is  her  fault  ? 
Malef.  She  is  too  fair  to  me. 
Montr.  Ha  !  how  is  this? 
Malef.  And  I  have  look'd  upon  her 
More  than  a  father  should,  and  languish  to 
Enjoy  her  as  a  husband. 
Montr.  Heaven  forbid  it ! 

Malef.  And  this  is  all  the  comfort  you  can  give  me ! 
Where  are  your  promised  aids,   your   charms,  your 

herbs, 

Your  deep-read  scholar's  spells  and  magic  rites? 
Can  all  these  disenchant  me  ?  No,  I  must  be 
My  own  physician,  and  upon  myself 
Practise  a  desperate  cure. 

Montr.  Do  not  contemn  me  : 
Enjoin  me  what  you  please,  with  any  bazar  1 
I'll  undertake  it.  What  means  have  you  practised 
To  quench  this  hellish  fire  ? 

Malef.  All  I  could  think  on, 
But  to  no  purpose  ;  and  yet  sometimes  absence 
Does  yield  a  kind  of  intermission  to 
The  fury  of  the  fit. 

Montr.  See  her  no  more,  then. 
Malef.  'Tis  my  last  refuge,  and  'twas  my  intent, 
And  still  'tis,  to  desire  your  help. 

Montr.  Command  it.  [are 

Malef.  Thus  then  :  you  have  a  fort,  of  which  you 
The  absolute  lord,  whither,  I  pray  you,  bear  her  : 
And  that  the  sight  of  her  may  not  again 
Nourish  those  flames,  which  I  feel  something  lessen'd 
By  all  the  ties  of  friendship  I  conjure  you, 
And  by  a  solemn  oath  you  must  confirm  it, 
That  though  my  now  calm'd  passions  should  rage 

higher 

Than  ever  heretofore,  and  so  compel  me 
Once  more  to  wish  to  see  her  ;  though  I  use 
Persuasions  mix'd  with  threatnings,  (nay,  add  to  it. 
That  I,  this  failing,  should  with  hands  held  up  thus 
Kneel  at  your  feet,  and  bathe  them  with  tears 
Prayers  or  curses,  vows,  or  imprecations, 
Only  to  look  upon  her,  though  at  distance 
j   You  still  must  be  obdurate. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT 


Montr.  If  it  be 

Your  pleasure,  sir,  that  I  shall  be  unmoved, 
I  will  endeavour. 

Malef.  You  must  swear  to  be 
Inexorable,  as  you  would  prevent 
The  greatest  mischief  to  your  friend,  that  fate 
Could  throw  upon  him. 

Montr.  Well,  I  will  obey  you. 
But  how  the  governor  will  be  answer'd  yet, 
And  'tis  material,  is  not  consider'd. 

Malef.  Leave  that  to  me.  I'll  presently  give  order 
How  you  shall  surprise  her ;  be  not  frighted  with 
Her  exclamations. 

Montr.  Be  you  constant  to 
Your  resolution,  I  will  not  fail 
In  what  concerns  my  part. 

Malef.  Be  ever  bless'd  for't !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— A  Street. 
Enter  BEAUFORT  junior,  CHAMONT,  and  LANOUR. 

Cham.  Not  to  be  spoke  with,  say  you  1 

Beanf.jun.  No. 

Lan.  Nor  you 
Admitted  to  have  conference  with  her? 

Beauf.jun.  Neither. 

His  doors  are  fast  lock'd  up,  and  solitude 
Dwells  round  about  them,  no  access  allow'd 
To  friend  or  enemy ;  but 

Cham.  Nay,  be  not  moved,  sir; 
Let  his  passion  work,  and,  like  a  hot-rein'd  horse*, 
'Twill  quickly  tire  itself. 

Beauf.jun.  Or  in  his  death, 
Which,  for  her  sake,  'till  now  I  have  forborn, 
I  will  revenge  the  injury  he  hath  done  to 
My  true  and  lawful  love. 

Lan.  How  does  your  father, 
The  governor,  relish  it  ? 

Beauf.jun.  Troth,  he  never  had 
Affection  to  the  match  ;  yet  in  his  pity 
To  me,  he's  gone  in  person  to  his  house, 
Nor  will  he  be  denied ;  and  if  he  find  not 
Strong  and  fair  reasons,  Malefort  will  hear  from  him 
In  a  kind  he  does  not  look  for. 

Cham.    In  the  mean  time. 
Pray  you  put  on  cheerful  looks. 

Enter  MONTAIGNE. 

Beauf.jun.  Mine  suit  my  fortune. 

Lan,  O  here's  Montaigne. 

Mont.  I  never  could  have  met  you 
More  opportunely.     I'll  not  stale  the  jest 
By  my  relation  f  ;  but  if  you  will  look  on 
The  malecontent  Belgarde,  newly  rigg'd  up, 


-and,  like  a  hot-rein'd  horse, 


ana,  iitte  a  noi-rei7i  a  nurse, 

'Twill  quickly  tire  itself.}    This  is  from  Shakspeare, 

" Anger  is  like 

A  full  hot  horse,  who  being  allow'd  his  way, 
Sclf-metlle  tires  him."     COXETER. 

t I'll  not  stale  the  jest 

By  my  relation ,-]  i.  e.  render  it  flat,  deprive  it  of  zest  by 
previous   intimation.    This  is  one  of  a  thousand  instances 
which   might   be   brought  to   prove  that  the  true  reading  in 
Coriotanttt,  Act.  I.  sc.  i.  is, 
"  I  shall  tell  you 

A  pretty  tale  ;   it  may  be,  yon  have  heard  it ; 
But  since  it  serves  my  purpose,  I  will  venture 
To  stale't  a  little  more." 


With  the  train  that  follows  him,  'twill  be  *n  object 
Worthy  of  your  noting. 

Beauf.jun.  Look  you  the  comedy 
Make  good  the  prologue,  or  the  scorn  will  dwell 
Upon  yourself. 

Mont.  I'll  hazard  that ;  observe  now. 

BELGARDE  comes  out  in  a  gallant  habit ;  ttays  at  the 
door  with  his  sword  drawn. 

Several  voices  •within.       Nay,   captain  !    glorious 

captain  ! 

Belg.  Fall  back,  rascals ! 
Do  you  make  an  owl  of  me  ?  this  day  I  will 

Receive  no  more  petitions. - 

Here  are  bills  of  all  occasions,  and  all  sizes  ! 
If  this  be  the  pleasure  of  a  rich  suit,  would  I  were 
Again  in  my  buff  jerkin,  or  my  armour  ! 
Then  I  walk'd  securely  by  my  creditors'  noses, 
Not  a  dog  marked  me  ;  every  officer  shunn'd  me, 
And  not  one  lousy  prison  would  receive  me  : 
But  now,  as  the  ballad  says,  I  am  turn  d  gallant, 
There  does  not  live  that  thing  I  owe  a  sous  to, 
But  does  torment  me.     A  faithful  cobler  told  me, 
With  his  awl  in  his  hand,  I  was  behind  hand  with 

him 

For  setting  me  upright,  and  bade  me  look  to  myself. 
A  sempstress  too,  that  traded  but  in  socks, 
Swore  she  would  set  a  Serjeant  on  my  back 
For  a  borrow'd  shirt :  my  pay,  and  the  benevolence 
The  governor  and  the  states  bestow 'd  upon  me, 
The  city  cormorants,  ray  money-mongers, 
Have  swallow'd  down  already  ;  they  were  sums, 
I  grant, — but  that  I  should  be  such  a  fool, 
Against  my  oath,  being  a  cashier'd  captain, 
To  pay  debts,  though  grown  up  to  one  and  twenty,, 
Deserves  more  reprehension,  in  my  judgment, 
Than  a  shopkeeper,  or  a  lawyer  that  lends  money, 
In  a  long,  dead  vacation. 

Mont.  How  do  you  like 
His  meditation  ? 

Cham.  Peace  !  let  him  proceed. 
Belg.  I  cannot  now  go  on  the  score  for  shame, 
And  where  I  shall  begin  to  pawn — ay,  marry, 
That  is  considered  timely  !  I  paid  for 
This  train  of  yours,  dame  Estridge  *,  fourteen  crowns, 
And  yet  it  is  so  light,  'twill  hardly  pass 
For  a  tavern  reckoning,  unless  it  be 
To  save  the  charge  of  painting,  nail'd  on  a  post 
For  the  sign  of  the  feathers.     Pox  upon  the  fashion, 
'J  hat  a  captain  cannot  think  himself  a  captain, 
If  he  wear  not  this,  like  a  fore-horse  !  yet  it  is  not 
Staple  commodity  :  these  are  perfumed  too 
O'  the  Roman  wash,  and  yet  a  stale  red  herring 


so,  indeed,  it  does,  and  many  other  things  ;  none  of  which, 

however,  bear  any  relation  lo  the  text.  Steevens,  too,  pre- 
fers scale,  which  he  provts,  from  a  variety  of  learned  autho- 
rities, to  mean  "  scatter,  disperse,  spread  :"  to  make  any  of 

them,  however,  suit  his  purpose,  he  is  obliged  to  give  ail 
unfaithful  version  of  the  text :  "  Though  some  of  you,  have 

tieard  the  story,  I  will  spread,  it  yet  widrr,  and  Jirtuse  it 
among  the  re*t."l  There  is  nothing  of  this  in  Shnkspeare; 
and  indeed  1  cannot  avoid  looking  upon  the  whole  of  oil 

ong  note,  as  a  feeble  attempt  to  justify  a  palpable  error  of 
the  press,  at  the  cost  of  taste  and  sense. 

The  mistakes  of  Stecvtns  are  dangerous,  and  should  b« 
noticed.  They  have  seduced  the  editors  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  who  have  brought  back  to  the  text  of  their  authors 
a  conuption  long  since  removed,  on  the  authority  (as  they 
«ay)  of  the  quotations  produced  in  the  note  to  Coriolanui 
Se'e  Vol.  vii.  p.  258. 

»  7  paid  for 

This  train  of  your. t,  dame  Estridge,]  i.  e.  this  tail ;  ther» 

9  some  humour  in  thii  lively  apostrophe  to  the  ostrich. 


THE  UNNATUKAL  COMBAT. 


Would  fill  the  belly  better,  and  hurt  the  head  less: 
And  this  is  Venice  gold  ;  would  I  had  it  again 
In   French  crowns   in  my   pocket!    O    you   com- 
manders, 

That,  like  me,  have  no  dead  pays,  nor  can  cozen 
The  commissary  at  a  muster  *,  let  me  stand 
For  an  example  to  you  !  as  you  would 
Enjoy  your  privileges,  videlicet, 
To  pay  your  debts,  and  take  your  letchery  gratis ; 
To  have  your  issue  warm'd  by  others  fires ; 
To  be  often  drunk,  and  swear,  yet  pay  no  forfeit 
To  the  poor,  but  when  you  share  with  one  another ; 
With  all  your  other  choice  immunities  : 
Only  of  this  I  seriously  advise  you, 
Let  courtiers  f  trip  like  courtiers,  and  your  lords 
Of  dirt  and  dunghills  mete  their  woods  and  acres, 
In  velvets,  satins,  tissues  ;  but  keep  you 
Constant  to  cloth  and  shamois. 

Mont.  Have  you  heard 
Of  such  a  penitent  homily? 

Betg.  1  am  studying  now 
Where  I  shall  hide  myself  till  the  rumour  of 
My  wealth  and  bravery  vanish  $ :  let  me  see, 
There  is  a  kind  of  vaulting  house  not  far  off, 
Where  I  used  to  spend  my  afternoons,  among 
Suburb  she  gamesters  ;  and  yet,  now  I  think  on't, 
I  have  crack'd  a  ring  or  two  there,  which  they  made 
Others  to  solder  :   No 

Enter  a  Bawd,  and  two  Courtezans  with  two  Children. 

1  Court.  O  !  have  we  spied  you  !  [time, 
Bawd.  Upon  him  without  ceremony !  now's  the 

While  he's  in  the  paying  vein. 

2  Court.  Save  you,  brave  captain ! 

Beauf.jun.  'Slight,  how  he  stares  !  they  are  worse 

than  she-wolves  to  him. 
Belg.  Shame  me  not  in  the  streets ;  I  was  coming 

to  you. 

1  Court.  O  sir,  you  may  in,  public  pay  for  the 
You  had  in  private.  [fiddling 

2  Court.  We  bear  you  are  full  of  crowns,  sir, 

1  Court.  And  therefore,  knowing  you  are  open- 
handed, 

Before  all  be  destroy'd,  T'll  put  you  in  mind,  sir, 
Of  your  young  heir  here. 

2  Court.  Here's  a  second,  sir, 
That  looks  for  a  child's  portinn. 


-  O  you  commanders, 


That,  like  me,  have  no  dead  pays,  nor  can  cozen 
The  commissary  at  a  muster,]  The  collusory  practices 
here  alluded  to  (as  Mr.  Gilclirist  observes)  appear  not  to 
have  been  um'rcquent,  and  indeed,  Sir  W.  D'Avenant,  with 
this,  mentions  many  similar  corruptions  in  the  "war  depart- 
ment" of  his  time  : 

"  Can  you  not  gull  the  state  finely, 

Muster  up  your  ammunition  cassocks  slutted  with  straw, 
Number  a  hundred  forty  nine  dead  pays, 
And  thank  heaven  for  your  arilhmetick  ? 
Cannot  you  clothe  your  ragged  infantry 
With  cabbage  leaves  ?  devour  the  reckonings, 
And  grow  tat  in  the  ribs,  but  you  must  hinder 
Poor  ancients  from  eating  warm  beef?"    The  Siege,  Act  iii. 
t  Let  courtiers,  &c.]      The  reader  will  smile  at  the  aocu- 
tate  notions  of  metre  possessed  by  the  former  editors :  this 
and  the  four  following  lines  stand  thus  in  Coxetcr,  and  Mr 
M.  Mason  ; 

J^et  courtiers  trip  like  courtiers, 
And  your  lords  of  dirt  and  dunghills  mete 
Thr.ir  woods  and  actes,  in  velvets,  satins,  tissues  ; 
But  keep  you  constant  to  cloth  and  shamois. 

Moat.  Have  you  heard  of  such  a  penitent  homily  f 
J  My  wealth  and  bravery  vanish:}    Itravery  is  used  by 
•U  the  -vriters  of  Mas-inker's  time,  for  ostentatious  finery  of 
cpparel. 


Bawd.  There  are  reckonings 
For  muskadine  and  eggs  too,  must  be  thought  on. 

1  Court.  We  have  not  been  hasty,  sir. 
Bawd.  But  staid  your  leisure  : 

But  now  you  are  ripe,  and  loaden  with  fruit 

2  Court.  'Tis  fit  you  should  be  pull'd ;  here's  a  boy, 
Pray  you,  kiss  him,  'tis  your  own,  sir.  [sir, 

1  Court.  Nay,  buss  this  first, 

It  hath  just  your  eyes  ;  and  such  a  promising  nose, 
That  if  the  sign  deceive  me  not,  in  time 
'Twill  prove  a  notable  striker*,  like  his  father. 

Belg.  And  yet  you  laid  it  to  another. 

1  Court.  True, 

While  you  were  poor  ;  and  it  was  policy  ; 

But  she  that  has  variety  of  fathers, 

And  makes  not  choice  of  him  that  can  maintain  it, 

Ne'er  studied  Aristotle  f. 

Lan.  A  smart  quean ' 

Belg.  Why,  braches,  will  you  worry  me  f  ? 

2  Court.  No,  but  ease  you 

Of  your  golden  burthen  ;  the  heavy  carriage  may 
Bring  you  to  a  sweating  sickness. 

Belg.  Very  likely ; 
I  foam  all  o'er  already. 

1  Court.  Will  you  come  off,  sir  §  ? 

Belg.  Would  I  had  ne'er  come  on !  Hear  me  with 

patience, 

Or  I  will  anger  you.     Go  to,  you  know  me, 
And  do  not  vex  me  further  :  by  my  sins, 
And  your  diseases,  which  are  certain  truths, 
Whate'er  you  think,  1  am  not  master,  at 
This  instant,  of  a  livre. 

2  Court.  What,  and  in 
Such  a  glorious  suit ! 

Belg.  The  liker,  wretched  things, 
To  have  no  money. 

Bawd.  You  mav  pawn  your  clothes,  sir. 

1  Court.  Will  you  see  your  issue  starve? 

2  Court.  Or  the  mothers  beg  ? 

Belg.     Why,     you     unconscionable     strumpets, 

would  you  have  me 

Transform  my  hat  to  double  clouts  and  biggins  ? 
My  corselet  to  a  cradle  ?  or  my  belt 
To  swaddlebands  ?  or  turn  my  cloak  to  blankets  ? 
Or  to  sell  my  sword  and  spurs,  for  soap  and  candles  ? 

*  'Twill  prove  a  notable  striker,]  A  striker  is  a  wencher: 
the  word  occurs  again  in  the  Parliament  of  Love. 

t  Ne'er  studied  Aristotle ,}  Thi?  has  been  hitherto  printed, 
Ne'er  studied  Aristotle's  problems:  a  prosaic  redundancy, 
of  which  every  reader  of  Alassinger  will  readily  acquit  him. 

}  Belg.  Why,  braches,  will  ytiu  worry  me  ?}  A  brarhe  is 
a  female  hound.  It  is  strange  to  see  what  quantities  of  paper 
have  been  wasted  in  confounding  the  sense  of  this  plain 
word!  The  pages  of  Shakspeare,  and  Jonson,  and  Fletcher, 
are  incumbcred  with  endless  quotations,  which  Ktnerally 
leave  the  reader  as  ignorant  as  they  found  him.  One,  how- 
ever, which  has  escaped  the  commentators,  at  least  the 
material  part  of  it,  is  worth  all  that  they  have  advanced  on 
the  word.  The  Gentleman's  Rfcreation,  p.  '28.  "  There  are 
in  England  and  Scotland  two  kimls  of  hunting  dogs,  and  no 
where  else  in  the  world ;  the  first  kind  is  called  Arache,  and 
this  is  a  foot-scenting  creature  both  of  wilde-bcasts,  birds,  and 
fishes  also  which  lie  hid  among  the  rocks.  The  female  hereof 
in  England  is  called  a  brache :  a  brache  is  A  MANNERLY 
NAME  for  all  huunA-bitches:"  and  when  we  add  for  all  others, 
it  will  be  allowed  that  enough  has  been  said  on  the  subject. 

$  I  Court.  Will  you  come  off ,  sir  ?}  i.e.  Will  you  pay,  sir? 
to  the  word  is  used  by  all  our  old  dramatic  writers: 

"  — if  he 

In  the  old  justice's  suit,  whom  he  robb'd  lately, 
Will  come  off"  roundly,  we'll  set  him  free  to»  ' 

The  (Fidoui. 
Again,  in  the  Wedding,  by  Shirley  : 

"  What  was  the  price  yo-i  took  for  Gratiana  7 

Did  Marwood  come  off  roundly  with  hia  wages  7" 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


55 


Have  you  no  m  _>rcy  ?  what  a  chargeable  devil 
We  carry  in  01  r  breeches  ! 

Beauf.  jun.  Now  'tis  time 
To  fetch  him  off. 

Enter  BEAUFORT  senior, 

Mont.  ^  our  father  does  it  for  us. 

Bawd.  The  governor ! 

Beau/,  sen.  What  are  these? 

1  Co  irt.  An  it  like  your  lordship, 
Very  poor  spinsters. 

Bi  .icd.  I  am  his  nurse  and  laundress, 

J  elg.    You  have  nurs'd  and  launder'd  me,   hell 
V>  nish  !  [take  you  for  it ! 

Cliam.  Do,  do,  and  talk  with  him  hereafter. 

1  Court.  Tis  our  best  course. 

2  Court.   We'll  find  a  time  to  fit  him. 

[Exeunt  Bawd  and  Courtezans. 
Beauf.  sen.  Why  in  this  heat,  Belgarde? 
Belg.  You  are  the  cause  oft. 
Beauf.  sen.  Who,  I? 

Belg.  Yes,  your  pied  livery  and  your  gold 
Draw  these  vexations  on  me  ;  pray  you  strip  me, 


And  let  me  be  as  I  was  :  I  will  not  lose 
The  pleasures  and  the  freedom  which  I  had 
In  my  certain  poverty,  for  all  the  wealth 
Fair  France  is  proud  of. 

Beauf.  sen.  We  at  better  leisure 
Will  learn  the  cause  of  this. 

Beauf.  jun.  What  answer,  sir, 
From  the  admiral  ? 

Beauf.  sen.  None  ;  his  daughter  is  removed 
To  the  fort  of  Montreville,  and  he  himself 
In  person  fled,  but  where,  is  not  discover'd  ; 
I  could  tell  you  wonders,  but  the  time  denies  me 
Fit  liberty.     In  a  word,  let  it  suffice 
The  power  of  our  great  master  is  contemn'd 
The  sacred  laws  of  God  and  man  profaned  ; 
And  if  I  sit  down  with  this  injury, 
I  am  unworthy  of  my  place,  and  thou 
Of  my  acknowledgment:  draw  up  all  the  troops  ; 
As  I  go,  I  will  instruct  you  to  what  purpose. 
Such  as  have  power  to  punish,  and  yet  spare, 
From  fear  or  from  connivance,  others  ill, 
Though  not  in  act,  assist  them  in  their  will. 

[Exeunt 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — A  Street  near  MALEFORT'S  House. 

Enter  MONTREVILLE  with  Servants,  TIIEOCRINE,  Page, 
and  Waiting  Women. 

Montr.  Bind  them,  and  gag  their  mouths  sure  ; 

I  alone 
Will  be  your  convoy. 

1  Worn.  Madam ! 

2  Worn.  Dearest  lady ! 

Page.  Let  me  fight  for  my  mistress. 

Serv.  Tis  in  vain, 
Little  cockerel  of  the  kind. 

Montr.  Away  with  them, 
And  do  as  I  command  you. 

[Exeunt  Servants  with  Page  and  Waiting  Women. 

Theoc.  Montreville, 

You  are  my  father's  friend ;  nay  more,  a  soldier, 
And  if  a  right  one,  as  I  hope  to  find  you, 
Though  in  a  lawful  war  you  had  surprised 
A  city,  that  bow'd  humbly  to  your  pleasure, 
In  honour  you  stand  bound  to  guard  a  virgin 
From  violence  ;  but  in  a  free  estate, 
Of  which  you  are  a  limb,  to  do  a  wrong 
Which  noble  enemies  never  consent  to, 
Is  such  an  insolence 

Montr.  How  her  heart  beats*  ! 
Much  like  a  partridge  in  a  sparhawk's  foot, 
That  with  a  panting  silence  does  lament 
The  fate  she  cannot  fly  from  !  Sweet,  take  comfort, 
You  are  safe,  and  nothing  is  intended  to  you, 
But  love  and  service. 

Theoc.  They  came  never  clothed 
In  force  and  outrage.     Upon  what  assurance 
(Remembering  only  that  my  father  lives, 
Who  will  not  tamely  suffer  the  disgrace) 
Have  you  presumed  to  hurry  me  from  his  house, 

*  Montr.  Flow  her  heart  heal*!  &c.  I  This  is  a  vt-iy  pretty 
ritnile,  and,  though  not  altogether  new,  is  made  striking  by 
the  elegance  with  which  it  is  expressed. 


.And,  as  I  were  not  worth  the  waiting  on, 
To  snatch  me  from  the  duty  and  attendance 
Of  my  poor  servants  ? 

Montr.  Let  not  that  afflict  you, 
You  shall  not  want  observance ;  I  will  be 
Your  page,  your  woman,  parasite,  or  fool, 
Or  any  other  property,  provided 
You  answer  my  affection. 

Theoc.  In  what  kind  1 

Montr.  As  you  had  done  young  Beaufort's. 

Theoc.  How ! 

Montr.  So,  lady  ; 

Or,  if  the  name  of  wife  appear  a  yoke 
Too  heavy  for  your  tender  neck,  so  I 
Enjoy  you  as  a  private  friend  or  mistress, 
Twill  be  sufficient. 

Theoc.  Blessed  angels  guard  me  ! 
Whit  frontless  impudence  is  this  ?  what  devil 
Hath,  to  thy  certain  ruin,  tempted  thee 
To  offer  me  this  motion  ?  bv  my  hopes 
Of  after  joys,  submission  nor  repentance 
Shall  expiate  this  foul  intent. 

Montr.  Intent ! 
'Tis  more,  I'll  make  it  act. 

Theoc.  Ribald,  thou  darest  not : 
And  if  (and  with  a  fever  to  thy  soul) 
Thou  but  consider  that  I  have  a  father, 
And  such  a  father,  as,  when  this  arrives  at 
His  knowledge,  as  it  shall,  the  terror  of 
His  vengeance,  which  as  sure  as  fate  must  follow, 
Will  make  thee  curse  the  hour  in  which  lust  taught 

thee 

To  nourish  these  bad  hopes  ; — and  'tis  my  wonder 
Thou  darest  forget  how  tender  he  is  of  me, 
And  that  each  shadow  of  wrong  done  to  me, 

AVill  raise  in  him  a  tempest  not  to  be          [him 

But  with  thy  heart-blood  calm'd :  this,  when  I  see, 

Montr.  As  thou  shall  never 

Theoc.  Wilt  thou  murder  me  ? 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


[Acr  V. 


Montr.  No,  no,  'tis  otherwise  determined,  fool. 
The  master  which  in  passion  kills  his  slave 
That  may  be  useful  to  him,  does  himself 
The  injury:  know,  thou  most  wretched  creature, 
That  father  thou  presumes!  upon,  that  father, 
That,  when  1  sought  thee  in  a  noble  way, 
Denied  thee  to  me,  fancying  in  his  hope 
A  higher  match  from  his  excess  of  dotage, 
Hath  in  his  bowels  kindled  such  a  flame 
Of  impious  and  most  unnatural  lust, 
That  now  he  fears  his  most  furious  desires 
May  force  him  to  do  that,  he  shakes  to  think  on. 

Theoc,  O  me,  most  wretched  ! 

Montr.  Never  hope  again 

To  blast  him  with  those  eves  :  their  golden  beams 
Are  to  him  arrows  of  death  and  hell, 
But  unto  me  divine  artillery 
And  therefore,  since  what  I  so  long  in  vain 
Pursued,  is  offer'd  to  me,  and  by  him 
Given  up  to  my  possession ;  do  not  flatter 
Thyself  with  an  imaginary  hope, 
But  that  I'll  take  occasion  by  the  forelock, 
And  make  use  of  my  fortune.     As  we  walk, 
I'll  tell  thee  more. 

Theoc.  1  will  not  stir. 

Montr.    I'll  force  thee. 

Theoc.  Help,  help  I 

Montr.  In  vain. 

Theoc.  In  me  my  brother's  blood 
Is  punish 'd  at  the  height. 

Montr.  The  coach  there  ! 

Theoc.  Dear  sir 

Montr.  Tears,  curses,  prayers,  are  alike  to  me  ; 
I  can,  and  must  enjoy  my  present  pleasure, 
And  shall  take  time  to  mourn  for  it  at  leisure. 

\_He  bears  her  off". 


SCENE  II.— .4  Space  before  the  Fort. 
Enter  MALKFORT. 

I  have  play'd  the  fool,  the  gross  fool,  to  believe 

The  bosom  of  a  friend  will  hold  a  secret, 

Mine  own  could  not  contain ;  and  my  industry 

In  taking  liberty  from  my  innocent  daughter, 

Out  of  false  hopes  of  freedom  to  myself, 

Is,  in  the  little  help  it  yields  me,  punish'cl. 

She's  absent,  but  I  have  her  figure  here  ; 

And  every  grace  and  rarity  about  her, 

Are  by  the  pencil  of  my  memory, 

In  living  colours  painted  on  my  heart. 

My  fires  too,  a  short  interim  closed  up, 

Break  out  with  greater  fury.     Why  was  I, 

Since  'twas  my  fate,  and  not  to  be  declined, 

In  this  so  tender-conscienced  ?  Say  I  had 

Enjoy'd  what  1  desired,  what  had  it  been 

But  incest  ?  and  there's  something  here  that  tells  me 

I  stand  accomptable  for  greater  sins 

I  never  check'd  at*.     Neither  had  the  crime 

Wanted  a  precedent :  I  have  read  in  storyl, 


-and  there's  something  here  that  tell*  me 


I  stand  accomptable  for  greater  sins 

I  never  check  d  at.]  These  (lark  allusions  to  a  dreadful 
fact,  aie  introduced  with  admirable  judgment,  as  they  awaken, 
without  gratifying,  the  curiosity  of  the  reader,  and  continue 
the  interest  of  the  story. 

t  /  have  read  in  story,  &c.]  He  had  been  study- 
ing Ovid,  and  [mticnlarly  the  dreadful  story  of  Myrrha. 
This  wretched  attempt* of  Malt-fort  (a  Christian,  at  lea?t  in 
name,  we  may  suppose)  to  palliate,  or  defend  his  meditated 
crime,  by  the  examples  of  fabulous  dt  ities,  men  in  a  state 


Those  first  great  heroes,  that  for  their  brave  deeds 

Were  in  the  world's  first  infancy  styled  gods, 

Freely  enjoy'd  what  I  denied  myself. 

Old  Saturn,  in  the  golden  age,  embraced 

His  sister  Ops,  and,  in  the  same  degree, 

The  Thunderer  Juno,  Neptune  Thetis,  and, 

By  their  example,  afuer  the  first  deluge, 

Deucalion  Pyrrha.     Universal  nature, 

As  every  day  'tis  evident,  allows  it 

To  creatures  of  all  kinds  :  the  gallant  horse 

Covers  the  mare  to  which  he  was  the  sire  ; 

1  he  bird  with  fertile  seed  gives  new  increase 

To  her  that  hatch'd  him  :  why  should  envipus  man 

Brand  that  close  act,  which  adds  proximity        [then 

To  what's  most  near  him,  with  the  abhorred  title 

Of  incest  1  or  our  later  laws  forbid 

What  by  the  first  was  granted  ?  Let  old  men, 

That  are  not  capable  of  these  delights, 

And  solemn  superstitious  fools,  prescribe 

Rules  to  themselves  ;  1  will  not  curb  my  freedom, 

But  constantly  go  on,  with  this  assurance, 

I  but  walk  in  a  path  which  greater  men 

Have  trod  before  me.     Ha  !  this  is  the  fort : 

Open  the  gate  !    Within,  there  ! 

Enter  two  Soldiers. 

1  Sold.  With  your  pardon 
We  must  forbid  your  entrance. 
Malef.     Do  you  know  me? 
%  Sold.  Perfectly,  my  lord. 
Malef.     I  am  [your]  captain's  friend*. 

1  Sold.  It  may  be  so  ;  but  till  we  know  his  plea- 
You  must  excuse  us.  [sure, 

2  Sold.  We'll  acquaint  him  with 
Your  waiting  here. 

Malef.  Waiting,  slave  !  he  was  ever 
Byrne  commanded. 

1  Sold.  As  we  are  by  him. 

Malef.  So  punctual !  pray  you  then,  in  my  name 
His  presence.  [entreat 

2  Sold.  That  we  shall  do.  [Eieunt 
Malef.  I  must  use 

Some  strange  persuasions  to  work  him  to 
Deliver  her,  and  to  forget  the  vows, 
And  horrid  oaths  I,  in  my  madness,  made  him 
Take  to  the  contrary  :  and  may  I  get  her 
Once  more  in  my  possession,  I  will  bear  her 
Into  some  close  cave  or  desert,  where  we'll  end 
Our  lusts  and  lives  together. 

Enter  MONTREVILLE,  and  Soldiers. 

Montr.  Fail  not,  on 
The  forfeit  of  your  lives,  to  execute 
What  I  command.  [Exeunt  Soldiers 

Mulef.  Montreville  !  how  is't  friend  ? 

Montr.  I  am  glad   to  see  you  wear  such  cheerful 
The  world's  well  alter'd.  [looks  ; 

Malef.  Yes,  I  thank  my  stars  : 
But  methinks  thou  art  troubled. 

Montr.  Some  light  cross, 
But  of  no  moment. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


57 


Malef.  So  I  hope ;  beware 

Of  sad  and  impious  thoughts  ;  you  know  how  far 
They  wrought  on  me. 

Montr.  No  such  come  near  me,  sir. 
I  have,  like  you,  no  daughter,  and  much  wish 
You  never  had  been  curs'd  with  one. 

Malef.  Who,  1 1 

Thou  art  deceived,  I  am  most  !tappy  in  her. 
Montr.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 
Malef.  My  incestuous  fires 
To'ards  her  are  quite  burnt  out ;  I  love  her  now 
Asa  father,  and  no  further 

Montr.  Fix  there  then 

Your  constant  peace,  and  do  not  try  a  second 
Temptation  from  her. 

Malef.  Yes,  friend,  though  she  were 
By  millions  of  degrees  more  excellent 
In  her  perfections  ;  nay,  though  she  could  borrow 
A  form  angelical  to  take  my  frailty, 
It  would  not  do  :  and  therefore,  Montreville, 
My  chief  delight  next  her,  I  come  to  tell  thee 
The  governor  and  I  are  reconciled, 
And  I  confirm 'd,  and  with  all  possible  speed, 
To  make  large  satisfaction  to  young  Beaufort, 
And  her,  whom  I  have  so  much  wrong'd  :  and  for 
Thy  trouble  in  her  custody,  of  which 
III  now  discharge  thee,  there  is  nothing  in 
My  nerves  or  fortunes,  but  shall  ever  be 
At  thy  devotion. 

Montr.  You  promise  fairly, 
Nor  doubt  I  the  performance  ;  yet  I  would  not 
Hereafter  be  reported  to  have  been 
The  principal  occasion  of  your  falling 
Into  a  relapse :  or  but  suppose,  out  of 
The  easiness  of  my  nature,  and  assurance 
You  are  firm  and  can  hold  out,  I  could  consent ; 
You  needs  must  know  there  are  so  many  lets* 
That  make  against  it,  that  it  is  my  wonder 
You  offer  me  the  motion  ;  having  bound  me 
With  oaths  and  imprecations  on  no  terms, 
Reasons,  or  arguments,  you  could  propose, 
I  ever  should  admit  you  to  her  sight, 
Much  less  restore  her  to  you. 

Malef.  Are  we  soldiers, 
And  stand  on  oaths  ! 

Montr.  It  is  beyond  my  knowledge 
In  w  hat  we  are  more  worthy,  than  in  keeping 
Our  words,  much  more  our  vows. 

MaUf.  Heaven  pardon  all ! 
How  many  thousands,  in  our  heat  of  wine, 
Quarrels,  and  play,  and  in  our  younger  days, 
In  private  I  may  say,  between  ourselves, 
In  points  of  love,  have  we  to  answer  for, 
Should  we  be  scrupulous  that  way  ? 

Montr.  You  say  well : 
And  very  aptly  call  to  memory 
Two  oaths  against  all  ties  and  rites  of  friendship 
Broken  by  you  to  me. 
Malef.  No  more  of  that 
Montr.  Yes,  'tis  material,  and  to  the  purpose  : 
The  first  (and  think  upon't)  was,  when  I  brought 

you 

As  a  visitant  to  my  mistress  then,  ( the  mother 
Of  this  same  daughter,)  whom,  with  dreadful  words, 
Too  hideous  to  remember,  you  swore  deeply 
For  my  sake  never  to  attempt ;  yet  then, 
Then,  when  you  had  a  sweet  wife  of  yosr  own, 

*  You  need*  mutt  know  there  are  to  many  lets]  i.  e.  impe- 
diment*, obstacles,  &c.    See  the  Viryin-Martyr. 


I  know  not  with  what  *rts.  philtres,  and  charms 
(Unless  in  wealth*  and  fame  you  were  above  me) 
You  won  her  from  me  ;  and,  her  grant  obtain'd, 
A  marriage  with  the  second  waited  on 
The  burial  of  the  first,  that  to  the  world 
Brought  your  dead  son  :  this  I  sat  tamely  down  bv 
Wanting,  indeed,  occasion  and  power 
To  be  at  the  height  revenged. 

Malef.  Yet  this  you  seem'd 
Freely  to  pardon. 

Montr.  As  perhaps  I  did. 
Your  daughter  Tbeocrine  growing  ripe, 
(Her  mother  too  deceased,)  and  fit  for  marriage, 
I  was  a  suitor  for  her,  had  your  word, 
Upon  your  honour,  and  our  friendship  made 
Authentical,  and  ratified  with  an  oath, 
She  should  be  mine  :  but  vows  with  you  being  like 
To  your  religion,  a  nose  of  wax 
To  be  turn'd  every  wav,  that  very  day 
The  governor's  son  but  making  his  approaches 
Of  courtship  to  her,  the  wind  of  your  ambition 
For  her  advancement,  scatter'd  the  thin  sand 
In  which  you  wrote  your  full  consent  to  me, 
And  drew  you  to  his  party.     What  hath  pass'd  sine* 
You  bear  a  register  in  your  own  bosom, 
That  can  at  large  inform  you. 

Malef.  Montreville, 

I  do  confess  all  that  you  charge  me  with 
To  be  strong  truth,  and  that  1  bring  a  cause 
Most  miserably  guilty,  and  acknowledge 
That  though  your  goodness  made  me  mine  own  judg 
I  should  not  shew  the  least  compassion 
Or  mercy  to  myself.     O,  let  not  yet 
My  foulness  taint  your  pureness,  or  my  falsehood 
Divert  the  torrent  of  your  loyal  faith  ! 
My  ills,  if  not  return'd  by  you,  will  add 
Lustre  to  your  much  good  ;  and  to  o'ercome 
With  noble  sufferance,  will  express  your  strength 
And  triumph  o'er  my  weakness.     If  you  please  toi 
My  black  deeds  being  only  known  to  you. 
And,  in  surrendering  up  my  daughter,  buried, 
You  not  alone  make  me  your  slave,  (for  I 
At  no  part  do  deserve  the  name  of  friend,) 
But  in  your  own  breast  raise  a  monument 
Of  pity  to  a  wretch,  on  whom  with  justice 
You  may  express  all  cruelty. 

Montr.  You  much  move  me. 

Malef.  O  that  I  could  but  hope  it!  To  rerenge 
An  injury  is  proper  to  the  wishes 
Of  feeble  women,  that  want  strength  to  act  itf  " 
But  to  have  power  to  punish,  and  yet  pardon, 
Peculiar  to  princes.     See  !  these  knees, 
That  have  been  ever  stiff  to  bend  to  heaven. 
To  you  are  supple.     Is  there  aught  beyond  this 
1  hat  may  speak  my  submission  ?  or  can  pride 
(Though  I  well  know  it  is  a  stranger  to  you) 
l)esire  a  feast  of  more  humility, 
To  kill  her  growing  appetite  ? 

Montr.  I  required  not 
To  be  sought  to  this  poor  way$  ;  yet  'tis  so  far 


*  (Unlett  in  wealth,  &.c.]  i.e.  L'nless  it  were  that  in  wealth, 
lie. 

t  To  revenge 

An  injury  it  proper  to  the  wisfies 

Of  feeble  women,  that  want  ttrenfth  to  act  it:] 

— Quiipe  mintiti 

Semper  et  infirmi  est  animi  exiyuique  tolvptat 
liltio.     Continue  tic  collide,  qund  vindicta 

Ainao  mat/it  yaudet,  quamfcemina." 

JUT.  Sat.  xlii.  199. 
J  Montr.  /  required  not 
To  be  sought  to  thit  poor  way ;]     So  the  olU  copy  :  the 


58 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


[AcrV 


A  kind  of  satisfaction,  that  I  will 

Dispense  a  little  with  those  serious  oaths 

You  made  me  take  :  your  daughter  shall  come  to  you, 

I  will  not  say,  as  you  deliver 'd  her, 

But  as  she  is,  you  may  dispose  of  her 

As  you  shall  think  most  requisite.  [Exit. 

Malef.  His  last  words 
Are  riddles  to  me.     Here  the  lion's  force 
Would  have  proved  useless,  and,  egainst  my  nature, 
Compell'd  me  from  the  crocodile  tn  borrow 
Her  counterfeit  tears  :  there's  now  no  turning  back- 
ward. 

May  1  but  quench  these  fires  that  rage  within  me, 
And  fall  what  can  fall,  I  am  arm'd  to  bear  it ! 

Enter  Soldiers,  thrusting  forth  TIIEOCIUNE  ;  her 
garments  loose,  her  hair  dishevelled. 

2  Sold.  You  must  be  packing. 

Theoc.  Hath  he  robb'd  me  of 
Mine  honour,  and  denies  me  now  a  room 
To  hide  my  shame  ! 

2  Sold.  My  lord  the  admiral 
Attends  your  ladyship. 

1  Sold.  Close  ihe  port,  and  leave  them. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers. 

Malef.  Ha !  who  is  this  ?  how  alter'd !  how  de- 

form'd ! 

It  cannot  be  :  and  yet  this  creature  has 
A  kind  of  a  resemblance  to  my  daughter, 
My  Theocrine  !  but  as  different 
From  that  she  was,  as  bodies  dead  are,  in 
Their  best  perfections,  from  what  they  were 
When  they  had  life  and  motion. 

Theoc.  'Tis  most  true,  sir; 
I  am  dead,  indeed,  to  all  but  misery. 

0  come  not  near  me,  sir,  I  am  infectious  ; 
To  look  on  me  at  distance,  is  as  dangerous 
As  from  a  pinnacle's  cloud-kissing  spire 
With  giddy  eyes  to  view  the  steep  descent ; 
But  to  acknowledge  me,  a  certain  ruin. 

0,  sir ! 

Malef.  Speak,  Theocrine,  force  me  not 
To  further  question  ;  my  fears  already 
Have  choked  my  vital  spirits. 

Theoc.  Pray  you  turn  away 
Your  face  and  hear  me,  and  with  my  last  breath 
Give  me  leave  to  accuse  you  :  what  offence, 
From  my  first  infancy,  did  I  commit, 
That  for  a  punishment  you  should  give  up 
My  virgin  chastity  to  the  treacherous  guard 
Of  goatish  Montreville  ? 

Maltf.  What  hath  he  done  ? 

Theoc.  Abused  me,  sir,  by  violence  ;  and  this  told, 

1  cannot  live  to  speak  more  :  may  the  cause 
In  you  find  pardon,  but  the  speeding  curse 
Of  a  ravish'd  maid  fall  heavy,  heavy  on  him  ! 
Beaufort,  my  lawful  love,  farewell  for  ever.      [Dies. 

modern  editors,  ignorant  of  the  language  of  the  time,  arbi- 
trarily exchange  to  for  in,  and  thus  pervert  the  sense.  To 
teek  to,  is  to  supplicate,  entreat,  liave  earnest  recourse  to, 
&c.,  which  is  the  meaning  of  the  text. 

There  was  a  book,  much  read  by  our  ancestors,  from 
which,  as  being  the  pure  well-head  of  English  prose,  they 
derived  a  number  of  phrases  that  have  sorely  puzzled  their 
descendants.  This  book,  which  is  fortunately  still  in  existence, 
is  the  Bible  :  and  I  venture  to  affirm,  without  fear  of  con- 
tradiction, that  those  old  fashioned  people  who  have  studied 
it  well,  areas  competent  judges  of  the  meaning  of  our  ancient 
writers,  as  most  of  the  devourers  of  black  literature,  from 
Theobald  to  Steevens.  The  expression  in  the  text  frequently 
occurs  in  it:  "  And  Asa  was  diseased  in  his  feet— yet  in  his 
di-tase  he  sought  not  to  the  Lord,  but  to  the  physicians." 
«  Chron.  xvi.  12. 


Malef.  Take  not  thy  flight  so  soon,  immaculate 
'Tis  fled  already. — How  the  innocent,  [spiri* 

As  in  a  gentle  slumber,  pass  away  ! 
But  to  cut  off  the  knotty  thread  of  life 
In  guilty  men,  must  force  stern  Atropos 
To  use  her  sharp  knife  often.     I  would  help 
The  edge  of  her's  with  the  sharp  point  of  mine, 
But  that  I  dare  not  die,  till  I  have  rent 
This  dog's  heart  piecemeal.     O,  that  I  had  wings 
To  scale  these  wails,  or  that  my  hands  were  cannons 
To  bore  their  flinty  sides  !  that  I  might  bring 
The  villain  in  the  reach  of  my  good  sword  ? 
The  Turkish  empire  oft'er'd  for  his  ransome, 
Should  not  redeem  his  life.     O  that  my  voice 
Were  loud  as  thunder,  and  with  horrid  sounds 
Might  force  a  dreadful  passage  to  his  ears, 
And  through  them  reach  his  soul!  libidinous  monster! 
Foul  ravisher  !  as  thou  durst  do  a  deed 
Which  forced  the  sun  to  hide  his  glorious  face 
Behind  a  sable  mask  of  clouds,  appear, 
And  as  a  man  defend  it ;  or  like  me, 
Shew  some  compunction  for  it. 

Enter  MONTREVILLE  on  the  Walls  above. 

Montr.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

MaleJ.  Is  this  an  object  to  raise  mirth  ? 

Montr.  Yes,  yes. 

Malef.  My  daughter's  dead. 

Montr.  Thou  hadst  best  follow  her  ; 
Or  if  thou  art  the  thing  thou  art  reported, 
Thou  shouldst  have  led  the  way.     Do  tear  thy  hair, 
Like  a  village  nurse,  and  mourn,  while  I  laugh  at  thee. 
Be  but  a  just  examiner  of  thyself, 
And  in  an  equal  balance  poize  the  nothing, 
Or  little  mischief  I  have  done,  compared          [thou 
With  the  pond'rous  weight  of  thine  ;  and  how  canst 
Accuse  or  argue  with  me  ?  mine  was  a  rape, 
And  she  being  in  a  kind  contracted  to  me, 
The  fact  may  challenge  some  qualification ; 
But  thy  intent  made  nature's  self  run  backward, 
And  done,  had  caused  an  earthquake. 

Enter  Soldiers  above. 

1  Sold.  Captain ! 

Montr.  Ha!  [slain. 

2  Sold.  Our  outworks  are  surprised,  the  sentinel 
The  corps  de  guard  defeated  too. 

Montr.  By  whom  ? 

1  Sold.  The  sudden  storm  and  darkness  of  the  night 
Forbids  the  knowledge  ;  make  up  speedily, 
Or  all  is  lost.  [Exeunt. 

Montr.   In     the     devil's    name,    whence    comes 

this  ?  [Exit. 

[A  Storm  ;  with  thunder  and  lightning. 

Malef.  Do,  do  rage  on  !  rend  open,  ./Eolus, 
Thy  brazen  prison,  and  let  loose  at  once 
Thy  stormy  issue  !  Blustering  Boreas, 
Aided  with  all  the  gales  the  pilot  numbers 
Upon  his  compass,  cannot  raise  a  tempest 
Through  the  vast  region  of  the  air,  like  that 
I  feel  within  me  :  for  I  am  possess'd 
With  whirlwinds,  and  each  guilty  thought  to  me  is 
A  dreadful  hurricano*.     Though  this  centre 


*  A  dreadful  hurricano.]  So  the  old  copy,  and  rightly : 
the  modern  editors  prefer  hurricane,  a  simple  improvement, 
which  merely  destroys  the  metre  !  How  they  contrive  to 
read  the  line,  thus  printed,  I  cannot  conceive.  With  respect 
to  hurricane,  I  doubt  whether  it  was  much  in  use  in  Mas- 
singer's  time  ;  he  and  his  contemporaries  j-lrnost  invariably 
write  hurricano,  just  as  they  receive  it  from  the  1'ortugueie 
narrators  of  voyages,  &c. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


59 


Labour  to  bring  forth  earthquakes,  and  hell  open 
Her  wide-stretch'd  jaws,  and  let  out  all  her  furies. 
They  cannot  add  an  atom  to  the  mountain 
Of  fears  and  terrours  that  each  minute  threaten 
To  fall  on  my  accursed  head. — 

Enter  the  Ghost  of  young  MALEFOJIT,  naked  from  the 
waist,  f  nit  of  wounds,  leading  in  the  Shadow  of  a 
Lady,  her  fact  leprous. 

Ha  !  is't  fancy  ? 

Or  hath  lull  hea-d  me,  and  makes  proof  if  I 
Dare  sta  id  the  trh;!  ?  Yes,  I  do  ;  and  now 
I  view  th'se  appaiitions,  I  feel 
I  on  e  di  i  know  he  substances.   For  what  come  you? 
Are  your  aerial  fjrms  deprived  of  language, 
And  so  denied  to  tell  me,  that  by  signs 

[The  Ghosts  use  gestures. 
You  bid  me  ask  here  of  myself*?  'Tis  so  : 
And  there  is  something  here  makes  answer  for  you. 
\  ou  come  to  lance  my  sear'd  up  conscience  ;  ves, 
And  to  instruct  me,  that  those  thunderbolts, 
That  burl'd  me  headlong  from  the  height  of  glory, 
Wealth,  honours,  worldly  happiness,  were  forged 
Upon  the  anvil  of  my  impious  wrongs 
And  cruelty  to  you  !  I  do  confess  it ; 
And  that  my  lust  compelling  me  to  make  way 
For  a  second  wife,  I  poison'd  thee ;  and  that 
The  cause  ("which  to  the  world  is  undiscover'd) 
That  forced  thee  to  shake  off  thy  filial  duty 
To  me,  thy  father,  had  its  spring  and  source 
From  thy  impatience,  to  know  thy  mother, 
That  with  all  duty  and  obedience  served  me, 
(For  now  with  horror  I  acknowledge  it,) 
Removed  unjustly  :  yet,  thou  being  my  son, 
Wert  not  a  competent  judge  mark'd  out  by  heaven 
For  her  revenger,  which  thy  falling  by 
My  weaker  hand  confirm 'd. — [Answered  stillby  signs. 

Tis  granted  by  thee. 

Can  any  penance  expiate  my  guilt, 

Or  can  repentance  save  me  ? —  [The  ghosts  disappear. 

They  are  vanish'd ! 

What's  left  to  do  then?  I'll  accuse  my  fate, 
That  did  not  fashion  me  for  nobler  uses  : 
For  if  those  stars  cross  to  me  in  my  birth, 
Had  not  denied  their  prosperous  influence  to  it, 
With  peace  of  conscience,  like  to  innocent  men, 
I  might  have  ceased  to  be,  and  not  as  now, 

To  curse  my  cause  of  being 

[He  is  killed  with  a  flash  of  lightning. 

Enter  BELGARDE  with  Soldiers. 

Belg.  Here's  a  night 

To  season  my  silks  !  Buff-jerkin,  now  I  miss  thee : 
Thou  hast  endured  many  foul  nights,  but  never 
One  like  to  this.     How  fine  my  feather  looks  now ! 
Just  like  a  capon's  tail  stol'n  out  of  the  pen, 
And  hid  in  the  sink  ;  and  yet  't  had  been  dishonour 
To  have  charged  without  it. — Wilt  thou  never cease f? 
Is  the  petard,  as  I  gave  directions,  fasten'd 
On  the  portcullis  ? 

1  Sold.  It  haih  been  attempted 
By  divers,  but  in  vain. 

Belg.  These  are  your  gallants, 
That  at  a  feast  take  the  first  place,  poor  I 
Hardly  allow'd  to  follow  ;  marry,  in 

*  You  bid  me  atk  here  of  myself '?]  AfiKrticwc.,  pointing 
to  his  In-east. 

+  Wilt  thou  never  ceate  ?}  This  short  apostrophe  is  ad- 
Tressed  to  the  storui. 


These  foolish  businesses  they  are  content 
That  I  shall  have  precedence :    I  ranch  thank 
Their  manners  or  their  fear.     Second  me,  soldiers  ; 
They  have  had  no  time  to  undermine,  or  if 
They  have,  it  is  but  blowing  up,  and  fetching 
A  caper  or  two  in  the  air  ;   and  I  will  do  it, 
Rather  than  blow  my  nails  here. 

2  Sold.  O  brave  captain  ?  [Exeunt. 

An  alarum  ;  noise  and  cries  within.  After  a  flourish, 
enter  BEAUFORT  senior,  BEAUFORT  junior,  MON- 
TAIGNE, CHAMONT,  LANOUR,  BELGARDE,  and  Sol- 
diers, With  MONTHEVILLE. 

Montr.  Racks  cannot  force  more  from  me  than  I  have 
Already  told  you  :    I  expect  no  favour  ; 
I  have  cast  up  my  accompt. 

Eeauf.  sen.  Take  you  the  charge 
Of  the  fort,  Belgarde  ;  your  dangers  have  deserved  it. 

Belg.  I  thank  your  excellence  ;  this  will  keep  me 

safe  yet 

From  beinj;  pull'd  by  the  sleeve,  and  bid  remember 
The  thing  I  wot  of. 

Beauf.jun.  All  that  have  eyes  to  weep, 
Spare  one  tear  with  me.     Theocrine's  dead. 

Montr.  Her  father  too  lies  breathless  here,  I  think 
Struck  dead  with  thunder. 

Cham.  'Tis  apparent :  how 
His  carcass  smells ! 

Lan.  His  face  is  alter'd  to 
Another  colour. 

Beauf.jun  But  here's  one  retains 
Her  native  innocence,  that  never  yet 
Call'd  down  heaven's  anger. 

Beanf.  sen.  'Tis  in  vain  to  mourn 
For  what's  past  help.     We  will  refer,  bad  man, 
Your  sentence  to  the  king.     May  we  make  use  of 
This  great  example,  and  learn  from  it,  that 
There  cannot  be  a  want  of  power  above, 
To  punish  murder  and  unlawful  love  !       [Exeunt*. 


*  This  Play  opens  with  considerable  interest  and  vigour : 
but  the  principal  action  is  quickly  exhausted  by  its  own 
briskness.  The  Unnatural  Combat  end*  early  in  the  second 
act,  and  leaves  the  reader  at  a  loss  what  further  to  expect. 
The  remaining  part,  at  least  from  the  beginning  of  the  fourth 
act,  might  be  called  the  Unnatural  Attachment.  Yet  the  two 
subjects  are  not  without  connexion  ;  ;md  this  is  afforded 
chiefly  by  the  projected  marriage  of  young  Beaufort  and 
Theocrine,  which  Malet'ort  urges  as  the  consequence  of  hit 
victory. 

The  piece  is  therefore  to  be  considered  not  so  much  in  ita 
plot,  as  in  its  characters  ;  and  these  are  drawn  with  great 
force,  and  admirable  discrimination.  The  pity  felt  at  first 
for  old  Malefort,  is  soon  changed  into  horror  and  detesta- 
tion ;  while  the  dread  inspired  by  the  son  is  somewhat  relieved 
by  the  suspicion  that  he  avenges  the  cause  of  a  murdered 
mother.  Their  parley  is  as  terrible  as  their  combat ;  and 
they  encounter  with  a  fury  of  passion  and  a  deadlines*  of 
hatred  approaching  to  savage  nature. — Claudiau  will  almost 
describe  them  : — 

Torvus  aper,  fulvusque  leo'cpirre  superbit 

yiribus  ;  hie  seta  savior,  tile  juba. 

On  the  other  hand,  Montrcville  artfully  conceals  his  enmity 
till  he  can  be  "  at  the  height  revenged."  Deprived  of  The- 
ocrine  by  Malefort's  treachery,  he  yet  appears  his  "  bosom 
friend,"  otters  to  be  his  second  in  the  combat,  on  account  of 
their  tried  affection  •'  from  his  infancy,"  and  seems  even  to 
recommend  the  marriage  of  Theocrine  with  his  rival.  To 
Theocrine  herself,  who  can  less  comprehend  his  designs,  he 
shews  some  glimpses  of  spleen  from  the  beginning.  He  takes 
a  malignant  pleasure  in  wounding  her  delicacy  with  light  and 
vicious  talking  ;  and  when  at  length  he  has  |;ossession  of  her 
person,  and  is  preparing  the  dishonour  which  ends  in  her 
death,  he  talks  to  her  of  his  villainous  purpose  withacoolnesi 
which  shews  him  determined  on  his  revenge,  and  secure  of 
its  accomplishment. 

Theocrine  herself  it  admirable  throughout  the  piece.    She 


60 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT. 


[Acr  V. 


hai  a true  virgin  modesty,  and,  perhaps,  one  of  the  best  marks 
of  modesty,  a  true  virgin  frankness.  We  admire  her  fearless 
parity  of  thought,  hei  filial  reverence,  and  her  unconscious- 
ness of  the  iniquity  that  approaches  her;  and  we  are  filled 
with  the  most  tender  concern  for  the  indignities  to  which 
she  is  exposed,  and  the  fate  which  she  suffers. 

Among  the  lighter  characters,  Montaigne,  CUamont,  and 
Lauonr  are  well  drawn.  They  are  some  of  those  insignificant 
people  who  endeavour  to  support  themselves  in  society  by  a 
ready  siibjeclion  to  the  will  of  others.  When  Malefort  is 
to  his  trial,  they  are  glad  to  be  his  accusers ;  and  it  is  allowed  I 


that  they  "  push  him  hard."  Alter  his  victory,  they  are  most 
engerto  profess  themselves  his  friends  and  admiicrs.  When 
he  is  in  his  moody  humour,  they  sooth  him,  that  being  the 
"safest  course*  ,"  and  when  Beaufort  at  length  takes  up  the 
neglected  Belgarde,  they  are  the  first  to  lavish  their  money 
upon  him. — Dr.  IRELAND. 


•  This  consistency  in  their  insipid  characters  would  of 
itself  determine  to  whom  'hose  words  belong,  if  the  editor 
had  not  given  them  to  Chamont  on  other  actv.uutt. 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN.]  Of  this  Tragedy  there  are  two  editions  in  quarto  ;  the  first,  which  is  very  correct 
and  now  very  rare,  bears  date  1623  ;  the  other,  of  little  value,  1638.  It  does  not  appear  in  the  Office-book 
of  the  licenser;  from  which  we  may  be  certain  that  it  was  among  the  author's  earliest  performances. 

The  plot,  as  the  editor  of  the  Companion  to  the  Play  House  observes,  is  founded  on  Guicciardini,  Lib.  viii. 
This,  however,  is  a  mistaken  idea,  as  if  Massinger  was  at  all  indebted  to  Guicciardini,  it  must  be  to  his 
xvth  and  xixth  books.  It  should  be  added,  however,  that  by  this  expression  nothing  more  must  be  under- 
stood than  that  a  leading  circumstance  or  two  is  taken  from  the  historian.  There  was  certainly  a  struggle, 
in  Italy  between  the  emperor  and  the  king  of  France,  in  which  the  duke  of  Milan  sided  with  the  latter,  who 
was  defeated  and  taken  prisoner  at  the  fatal  battle  of  Pavia.  The  rest,  the  poet  has  supplied,  as  suited  his 
design.  Charles  was  not  in  Italy  when  this  victory  was  gained  by  his  generals  ;  and  the  final  restoration 
of  the  Milanese  to  Sforza  took  place  at  a  period  long  subsequent  to  that  event.  The  duke  is  named  Ludo- 
vico  in  the  list  of  dramatis  persona? ;  and  it  is  observable  that  Massinger  has  entered  with  great  accuracy 
into  the  vigorous  and  active  character  of  that  prince  :  he,  however,  had  long  been  dead,  and  Francis  Sforza, 
the  real  agent  in  this  play,  was  little  capable  of  the  spirited  part  here  allotted  to  him.  The  Italian  writers 
term  him  a  weak  and  irresolute  prince,  the  sport  of  fortune,  and  the  victim  of  indecision. 

The  remaining  part  of  the  plot  is  from  Josephus's  History  of  the  Jews,  lib.  xv.  ch.  4  ;  an  interesting  story, 
which  has  been  told  in  many  languages,  and  more  than  once  in  our  own.  The  last  piece  on  the  subject 
was,  I  believe,  the  Marianne  of  Fenton,  which,  though  infinitely  inferior  to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  was,  as  I 
have  heard,  very  well  received. 

That  Fenton  had  read  Massinger  before  he  wrote  his  tragedy,  is  certain  from  internal  evidence  ;  there  are 
not,  however,  many  marks  of  similarity  :  on  the  whole  the  former  is  as  cold,  uninteresting,  and  improbable, 
as  the  latter  is  ardent,  natural,  and  affecting.  Massinger  has  but  two  deaths  ;  while,  in  Fenton,  six  out  of 
eleven  personages  perish,  with  nearly  as  much  rapidity,  and  as  little  necessity  as  the  heroes  of  Tom  Thumb 
or  Chrononhotonthologos. 

It  is  said,  in  the  title-page,  to  have  "  been  often  acted  by  his  Majesty's  Servants  at  the  Black  Friars." 
Either  through  ignorance  or  disingenuity,  Coxeter  and  M.  Mason  represent  it  as  frequently  performed  in 
1623,  giving,  as  in  every  other  instance,  the  time  of  publication  for  that  of  its  appearance  on  the  stage. 


TO  THt   RIGHT   HONOURABLE, 
AND    MUCH    ESTEEMED    FOR    HER    HIGH    BIRTH,    BUT    MORE    ADMIRED    FOR    HER    TIKTUK,1 

THE  LADY  CATHERINE  STANHOPE, 

WIFE  TO  PHILIP  LORD  STANHOPE, 

BARON  OF  SHELFORD. 
MADAM, 

If  I  were  not  most  assured  that  works  of  this  nature  have  found  both  patronage  and  protection  amongst  the 
greatest  princesses*  of  Italy,  and  are  at  this  day  cherished  by  persons  most  eminent  in  our  kingdom,  I 
should  not  presume  to  offer  these  my  weak  and  imperfect  labours  at  the  altar  of  your  favour.  Let  the 
example  of  others,  more  knowing,  and  more  experienced  in  this  kindness  (if  my  boldness  offend)  plead  my 
pardon,  and  the  rather,  since  there  is  no  other  means  left  me  (my  misfortunes  having  cast  me  on  this  course) 
to  publish  to  the  world  (if  it  hold  the  least  good  opinion  of  me)  that  I  am  ever  your  ladyship's  creature 
Vouchsafe,  therefore,  with  the  never-failing  clemency  of  your  noble  disposition,  not  to  contemn  the  tender 
of  his  duty,  who,  while  he  is,  will  ever  be 

An  humble  Servant  to  j^our 

Ladyship,  and  yours 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


•  Prineettes}  So  the  quarto  1023.    That  of  1638  exhibits  princes,  which  Coxeter,  and  consequently  M.  Mason,  follows. 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN 


[Act  1. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


LUDOVICO  SFORZA,  supposed  duke  of  Milan. 
FRANCISCO,  his  especial  Javourite. 
TIBERIO,      i.  i     i     f  i,'  •/ 

STEPHANO,  ) 
GRACCIIO,  a  creature  of  Mariana. 


. 

GIOVANNI,    ) 

CHARLKS  the  emperor, 

PESCARA,  an  imperialist,  but  a  friend  to  Sforza. 

HER.NANDO,  \ 

MEDINA,       > captains  to  the  emperor. 

ALPHONSO,  J 

SCENE,  for  the  first  and  second  acts,  in  MILAN  ;  during  part  of  the  third,  in  the  IMPERIAL  CAMP  near 


Three  Gentlemen. 

An  Officer. 

Two  Doctors.     Two  Couriers. 


MARCEI.IA,  the  dutches*,  wife  to  SFORZA. 

ISABELLA,  mother  to  SFOIIZA. 

MARIANA,  wife  to  FRANCISCO,  and  sistet  io  SFORZA. 

EUGENIA,  sister  to  FRANCISCO. 

A  Gentlewoman. 


A  Guard,  Servants,  Fiddlers,  Attendants. 


PA  VIA  ;  the  rest  of  the  play,  in  MILAN,  and  its  neighbourhood. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — Milan,     An  outer  Room  in  t/ie  Castle*. 

Enter  GUACCHO,   JULIO,  and   GIOVANNI  t,  with 
Flaggons. 

Grac.  Take  every  man  his  flaggon  :  give  the  oath 
To  all  you  meet ;  I  am  this  day  the  state-drunkard, 
I'm  sure  against  my  will ;  and  if  you  find 
A  man  at  ten  that's  sober,  he's  a  traitor, 
And,  in  my  name,  arrest  him. 

Jul.   Very  good,  sir  : 
But,  say  he  be  a  sexton  ? 

Grac.  If  the  bells 

Ring  out  of  tune},  as  if  the  street  were  burning, 
And  he  cry,  'Tit  rare  music  ;  bid  him  sleep  : 
'J'is  a  sign  he  has  ta'en  his  liquor;  and  if  you  meet 
An  officer  preaching  of  sobriety, 
Unless  he  read  it  in  Geneva  print  §, 
Lay  him  by  the  heels. 

•  Milan,  dn  outer  Room  in  the  Castle.}  The  old  copies 
have  no  distinction  of  scenery  ;  inileed,  they  could  have  none 
wilb  their  miserable  platform  and  raised  gallery,  but  what 
was  furnished  by  a  board  with  Milan  or  Rhodes  painted  upon 
It.  1  have  vcnturrd  to  supply  it,  in  conformity  to  the  modern 
mode  of  printing  Shakspeare,  and  to  consult  the  ease  of  the 
general  reader.  I  know  uot  what  pricked  forward  Coxeter, 
but  he  thought  proper  (for  the  first  time)  to  be  precise  in  this 
Play,  and  specify  the  place  of  action.  I  can  neither  com- 
pliment him  upon  his  judgment,  nor  Mr.  M.  Mason  upon  his 
good  sf  n«e  in  following  him:  the  description  here  is,  "ficene, 
a  public  Palace  in  Pisa,"  Pisa  !  a  place  which  is  not  once 
mentioned,  nor  even  hinted  at,  in  the  whole  play. 

t  JULIO,  and  GIOVANNI,]  These  are  not  found  among  the 
old  dramatis  personae,  nor  are  they  of  much  importance.  In 
a  subsequent  scene,  where  they  make  their  appearance  asl*< 
and  2nd  Uentlemen,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  name  them 
again.  Jonio,  which  stood  in  this  scene,  appears  to  be  a 
misprint  for  Julio. 
1  Grac.  Jfthe  bells 

King  out  of  tune,  &c.]  i.  c.  backward  :  the  usual  signal  of 
alarm,  on  the  breaking  out  of  fires.  So  in  the  Captain: 

"  certainly,  my  body 

Is  all  a  wildfire,  for  my  head  rings  backward." 
Again  :  in  the  City  Match  : 

"  Then,  sir,  in  time 

You  may  be  remember'd  at  the  quenching  of 
Fired  houses,  when  the  bells  ring  backward,  by 
Your  nnme  upon  the  buckets." 

$  Unless  he  read  it  in  Geneva  print,]  Alluding  to  the 
ipirituous  liquor  so  called.  M.  MASON. 


Jul.  But  think  you  'tis  a  fault 
To  be  found  sober  ? 

Grac.  It  is  capital  treason  ; 
Or,  if  you  mitigate  it,  let  such  pay 
Forty  crowns  to  the  poor  :  but  give  a  pension 
To  all  the  magistrates  you  find  singing  catches, 
Or  their  wives  dancing  ;  for  the  courtiers  reeling,- 
And  the  duke  himself,  I  dare  not  say  distemper'd  *, 
But  kind,  and  in  his  tottering  chair  carousing, 
They  do  the  country  service.     If  you  meet 
One  that  eats  bread,  a  child  of  ignorance, 
And  bred  up  in  darkness  of  no  drinking, 
Against  his  will  you  may  initiate  him 
In  the  true  posture  ;  though  he  die  in  the  taking 
His  drench.it  skills  notf:  what's  a  private  man, 
For  the  public  honour  1     We've  nought  else  to  think 
And  so,  dear  friends,  copartners  in  my  travails,  [on. 
Drink  hard  ;  and  let  the  health  run  through  the  city, 
Until  it  reel  again,  and  with  me  cry, 
Long  live  the  dutchess  ! 

Enter  TIBERIO  and  STEPHANO. 

Jul.  Here  are  two  lords  ; — what  think  you  ? 
Shall  we  give  the  oath  to  them  1 

Grac.  Fie  !  no  :  1  know  them, 

You  need  not  swear  them  ;  your  lord,  by  his  patent, 

Stands   bound    to  take   his   rouse}.     Long  live  the 

dutchess  !  [Exeunt  Grac.  Jul.  and  Gio. 


•  /  dare  not  say  distemper'd,]  i.  e   intoxicated  :  so 

the  word  if  frequently  used  by  our  old  writers.  Thus  Shirley  : 
"  Clear.  My  lord,  he's  gone, 
"  Lod.  How  I 
"  Clear.  Distemper'd. 

"  Lod.  Not  witlr  wine  t"      The  Grateful  Servant. 
It  occurs  also  in  Hamlet. 

t  though  he  die  in  the  taking 

His  drench,  it  skills  not :  &c.]  It  matters  or  signifies  not. 
So  in  the  Gamester  : 

"  JVeph.  I  desire  no  man's  privilege:  it  skills  not  whether 
I  be  kin  to  any  mm  living." 

}     -  your  lord,  by  his  patent, 

Stands  bound  fo  take  his  rouse.]  This  word  his  never  been 
properly  explained.  It  occur*  in  Hamlet,  wheie  it  is  sail1  by 
Steevcn*,  as  well  as  Johnson,  to  mean  a  quantity  of  liquor 
rather  too  larce  :  the  latter  drrivcs  it  from  rusch,  li  ill  drunk, 
Germ,  while  he  brings  carouse  from  yar  ausz,  all  out!  Roust 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


63 


Steph.  The  cause  of  this  ?  but  yesterday  the  court 
Wore  rhe  sad  livery  of  distrust  and  fear  ; 
No  smile,  not  in  a  buffoon  to  be  seen, 
Or  common  jester  :  the  Great  Duke  himself 
Had  sorrow  in  his  face;  which,  waited  on 
By  his  mother,  sister,  nnil  his  fairest  dutchess, 
Dispersed  a  silent  mourning  through  all  Milan  ; 
As  if  some  great  blow  had  been  given  the  state, 
Or  were  at  least  expected. 

Tib.  Stephano, 

know  as  you  are  noble,  you  are  honest, 
And  capable  of  secrets  of  more  weight 
Than  now  I  shall  deliver.     Ift':at  Sforza. 
The  present  duke,  (though  his  whole  life  hath  been 
But  one  continued  pilgrimage  through  dangers. 
Affrights,  and  horrors,  which  his  fortune  guided 
By  his  strong  judgment,  still  hath  overcome,) 
Appears  now  shaken,  it  deserves  no  wonder  : 
All  that  his  youth  hath  labour'd  for,  the  harvest 
Sown  by  his  industry  readv  to  be  reap'd  too, 
Being  now  at  stake  ;  and  all  his  hopes  confirm'd, 
Or  lost  for  ever. 

Steph.  I  know  no  such  hazard  : 
His  guards  are  strong  and  sure,  his  coffers  full; 
The  people  well  affected;  and  so  wisely 
His  provident  care   hath  wrought,  that  though  war 

rages 

In  most  parts  of  our  western  world,  there  is 
No  enemy  near  us. 

Tib.  Dangers,  that  we  see 
To  threaten  ruin,  are  with  ease  prevented  ; 
But  those  strike  deadly,  that  coTie  unexpected  : 
The  lightning  is  far  off,  yet,  soon  as  seen, 
We  may  behold  the  teriible  effects 
That  it  produceth.     But  I'll  help  your  knowledge, 

and  carouse,  however,  like  vye  and  revye,  are  but  the  reci- 
procation of  tile  same  action,  and  iiui.M  therefore  be  derived 
from  the  same  sou  ice.  A  rouse  was  a  large  gla^s  (•'  not  past 
a  pint,"  as  lago  says)  in  which  a  health  was  given, the  drink- 
ing of  which  by  the  rest  of  the  company  formed  a  carouse. 
fiarnaby  Rich  is  exceedingly  angry  with  the  inventor  of  this 
cusiom,  which,  however,  with  a  laudable  zeal  for  the  honour 
of  his  country,  he  attributes  to  an  Englishman,  who,  it  seems 
"  had  his  brains  beat  out  with  a  pottlepot"  for  his  ingenuity. 
"  ID  former  ages,"  says  he,  "they  had  no  conceit  whereby 
to  draw  on  drnnkene^se,"  (Barnaby  wa»  n»  treat  historian.) 
"  their  best  was,  I  drinke  to  you,  and  I  pledge  yon,  till  at 
length  some  shallow-wilted  drunkard  found  out  the  carouse, 
an  invention  ot  that  worth  and  \v<»t!iine<M-  as  it  is  pitie  the 
first  founder  was  not  hanged,  that  we  might  have  found  out 
bis  name  in  the  antient  lecurd  of  the  hangman's  register." 
English  Hue  and  Cry,  1617,  p.  24.  It  is  iiecrssary  "to  add, 
that  there  could  be  no  rouse  or  carouse,  unless  the  classes 
were  emptied  :  "  The  leader,"  continues  honest  Barnaby, 
"  soupes  up  his  bromh,  lurries  the  bottom  of  the  cnppe  up- 
ward, and  in  ostentation  of  his  dexteritie,  gives  it  a  phjlip, 
to  make  it  cry  tynge"  !  id. 

In  process  of  time,  both  these  words  were  used  in  a  laxer 
sense  ;  but  I  believe  that  what  is  here  advanced,  will  serve 
to  explain  many  passsages  of  our  old   dramatists,  in  which 
they  occur  in  their  primal  and  appropriate  signification  : 
"  A'or.  I've  ta'en,  since  supper, 
A  route  or  two  too  much,  and  by  the  gods 
It  warms  my  blood."  Kniyht  of  Malta. 

This  proves  that  Johnson  and  Steevens  are  wroiig  :  a  route 
has  here  a  fixed  and  determinate  sense.    In  the  language  of 
the  present  day  it  would  be,  a  bumper  or  two  too  much" 
Again  : 

"  Dulte.  Come,  bring  some  wine.    Here's  to  my  sister, 
gentlemen, 

A  health,  and  mirth  to  all ! 

"  Archas.   Vr;\\  fill  it  full,  sir; 

Tis  a  high  health  to  virtue.     Here,  lord  Bnrris, 

A  mai'len  health  ! — 

"  Dukf,  Go  to,  no  more  of  this. 

"  Archat.  Take  the  rouse  freely,  sir, 

'Twill  warm  your  blood,  and  make  yon  fit  for  jollity." 

The  Loyal  Subject     \ 


And  make  his  cause  of  fear  familiar  to  you. 

The  wars  so  long  continued  between 

The  emperor  Charles,  and  Francis  the  French  king, 

Have  interess'd,  in  cither's  cause,  the  most 

Of  the  Italian  princes  *  ;  aiuong  which,  Sforza, 

As  one  of  greatest  power,  was  sought  by  both  ; 

But  with  assurance,  having  one  his  friend, 

The  other  lived  his  enemy. 

Steph.  'Tis  true : 
And  'twas  a  doubtful  choice. 

Tib.  But  he,  well  knowing, 
And  hating  too,  it  seems,  the  Spanish  pride, 
Lent  his  assistance  to  the  King  of  France  : 
Which  hath  so  far  incensed  the  emperor, 
That  all  his  hopes  and  honours  are  embark'd 
With  his  great  patron's  fortune. 

Steph.  Which  stands  fair, 
For  aught  I  yet  can  hear. 

Tib.  But  should  it  change, 

The  duke's  undone.     They  have  drawn  to  the  field 
Two  royal  armies,  full  of  fiery  youth  ; 
Of  equal  spirit  to  dare,  and  power  to  do  : 
So  near  intrench'd  t,  that  'tis  beyond  all  hope 
Of  hum;m  counsel  they  can  e'er  be  severed, 
Until  it  be  determined  by  the  sword, 
Who  hath  the  better  cause  :  for  the  success 
Concludes  the  victor  innocent,  and  the  vanquish'd 
Most  miserably  guilty.     How  uncertain 
The  fortune  of  the  war  is,  children  know  ; 
And,  it  being  in  suspense,  on  whose  fair  tent 
Wing'd  Victory  will  make  her  glorious  stand, 
You  cannot  blame  the  duke,  though  he  appear 
Perplex 'd  and  troubled. 

Steph.  But  why,  then, 

In  such  a  time,  when  every  knee  should  bend 
For  the  success  and  safety  of  his  person, 
Are  these  loud  triumphs?  in  my  weak  opinion, 
They  are  unseasonable. 

Tib.  I  judge  so  too  ; 
But  only  in  the  cause  to  be  excused. 
It  is  the  dutchess'  birthday,  once  a  year 
Solemnized  with  all  pomp  and  ceremony  ; 
In  which  the  duke  is  not  his  own,  but  hers  : 
Nay,  every  day,  indeed,  he  is  her  creature, 
For  never  man  so  doated  ; — but  to  tell 
The  tenth  part  of  his  fondness  to  a  stranger, 
Would  argue  me  of  fiction. 

Steph.  She's,  indeed, 
A  lady  of  most  exquisite  form. 

Tib.  She  knows  it, 
And  how  to  prize  it. 

•  Have  interess'd  in  eitlier's  cause  the  mntt 
Of  the  Italian  princes ;  &c.]     So  the  old  copies.     The 
modern  editors,  much  to  the  advantage  of  the  rhythm,  read. 

'•  Have  interested  in  either's  cause,  the  most,  &c." 
Probably  they  were  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  such  a  word 
a-  inltress,  which  occurs,  however,  pretty  frequently  in  our 
old  writers.  Johnson  considers  it  as  synonymous  with  inter- 
est, but  in  some  of  the  examples  which  he  gives,  and  in 
many  others  which  I  could  produce,  it  seems  to  convey  an  idea 
of  a  more  intimate  connexion  than  is  usually  understood  by 
that  term  ;  somewhat,  for  instance,  like  implicate,  involve, 
inweave,  &c.  in  which  case,  it  must  be  derived  from  intreccio, 
through  the  medium  of  the  French.  (A*,  one  example  for  all, 
I  may  refer  the  reader  to  Ben  Jonson'sSejanus,  Act  III.sc.1. 
"  Tib.  By  the  Capitoll 

And  all' our  Gods,  but  that  the  deare  Republick 
Our  sacred  lawes,  and  just  authorise 
Are  interessed  therein,  I  should  be  silent." — ED.) 
+  So  near  intrench'd,  &c.]    The  French  army  was  at  this 
lime  engaged  in  the  sie«e  of  Pavia.undei  the  walls  of  which 
the  decisive  battle  was  fuught,  on  the  24th  of  February,  15M 


64 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[Act  I. 


Steph.  I  ne'er  heard  her  tainted 
"n  any  point  of  honour. 

7'ifr.  On  my  life, 

She's  constant  to  his  bed,  and  well  deserves 
His  largest  favours.     But,  when  beauty  is 
Stamp'il  on  great  women,  great  in  birth  and  fortune, 
And  blown  by  flatterers  greater  than  it  is, 
'Tis  seldom  unaccompanied  with  pride  ; 
dor  is  she  that  way  free  :  presuming  on 
The  duke's  affection,  and  her  own  desert, 
She  bears  herself  with  such  a  m:ijesty. 
Looking  with  scorn  on  all  as  things  beneath  her, 
That  Sforza's  mother,  that  would  lose  no  part 
Of  what  was  once  her  own,  nor  his  fair  sister 
A  lady  too  acquainted  wilh  her  worth, 
Will  brook  it  well  ;  and  howsoe'er  their  hate 
Is  smother 'd  for  a  time,  'tis  more  than  fear'd 
It  will  at  length  break  out. 

Steph.  He  in  whose  power  it  is, 
Turn  all  to  the  best ! 

Tib.  Come,  let  us  to  the  court ; 
We  there  shall  see  all  bravery  and  cost, 
That  art  can  boast  of. 

Steph.  I'll  bear  you  company.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — Another   Room  in   the  same. 
Enter   FRANCISCO,  ISABELLA,  and  MARIANA. 

Mart.  I  will  not  go ;  I  scorn  to  be  a  spot 
In  her  proud  train. 

Isab.  Shall  I,  that  am  his  mother, 
Be  so  indulgent,  as  to  wait  on  her 
That  owes  me  duty  ? 

Fran.  Tis  done  to  the  duke, 
And  vjt  to  her  :  and,  my  sweet  wife,  remember, 
And,  madam,  if  you  please,  receive  my  counsel, 
As  Sforza  is  your  son,  you  may  comrmind  him  ; 
And,  as  a  sister,  you  may  challenge  from  him 
A  brother's  love  and  favour:  but,  this  granted, 
Consider  he's  the  prince,  and  you  his  subjects, 
And  not  to  question  or  contend  with  her 
Whom  he  is  pleased  to  honour.     Private  men 
Prefer  their  wives  ;  and  shall  he,  being  a  prince, 
And  blest  with  one  that  is  the  paradise 
Of  sweetness,  and  of  beauty,  to  whose  charge 
The  stock  of  women's  goodness  is  given  up, 
Not  use  her  like  herself? 

Isab.  You  are  ever  forward 
To  sing  her  praises. 

Mart.  Others  are  as  fair  ; 
I  am  sure,  as  noble. 

Fran.  I  detract  from  none, 
In  giving  her  what's  due.     Were  she  deform'd, 
Yet  being  the  dutchess,  I  stand  bound  to  serve  her ; 
But,  as  she  is,  to  admire  her.     Never  wife 
Met  with  a  purer  heat  her  husband's  fervour  ; 
A  happy  pair,  one  in  the  other  blest ! 
She  confident  in  herself  he's  wholly  hers, 
And  cannot  seek  for  change  ;  and  he  secure 
That  'tis  not  in  the  power  of  man  to  tempt  her. 
And  therefore  to  contest  with  her,  that  is 
The  stronger  and  the  better  part  of  him, 
Is  more  than  folly  :  you  know  him  of  a  nature 
Not  to  be  play'd  with  ;  and,  should  you  forget 
To  obey  him  as  your  prince,  he'll  not  remember 
The  duty  that  he  owes  you. 

Isab.  Tis  but  truth  : 

Come,  clear  our  brows,  and  let  us  to  the  banquet ; 
But  not  to  serve  his  idol. 


Ma*-i.  I  shall  do 

What  may  become  the  sister  of  a  prince ; 
But  will  not  stoop  beneath  it. 

Fran.  Yet,  be  wise  ; 
Soar  not  too  high  to  fall  ;  but  stoop  to  rise. 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— A  State  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  three  Gentlemen,  setting  forth  a  banquet. 

1  Gent.    Quick,   quick,  for   love's  sake  !    let  the 
court  put  on 

Her  choicest  outside  :  cost  and  bravery 
Be  only  thought  of. 

2  Cent.  All  that  may  he  had 

To  please  the  eye,  the  ear,  taste,  touch,  or  smell, 
Are  carefully  provided. 

3  Gent.  There's  a  mask  : 

Have  you  heard  what's  the  invention  ? 

1  Gent.  No  matter  : 

It  is  intended  for  the  dutchess'  honour  ; 
And  if  it  give  her  glorious  attributes, 
As  the  most  fair,  most  virtuous,  and  the  rest, 
Twill  please  the  duke.     They  come. 

3  Gent.  All  is  in  order. 

Enter    TIBEIUO,    STEPHANO,    FRANCISCO,    SFORZA, 
MARCELIA,  ISABELLA,  MARIANA,  and  Attendants. 
Sfor.  You  are  the  mistress  of  the  feast — sit  here, 
O  my  soul's  comfort !  and  when  Sforza  bows 
Thus  low  to  do  you  honour,  let  none  think 
The  meanest  service  they  can  pay  my  love, 
But  as  a  fair  addition  to  those  titles 
They  stand  possest  of.     Let  me  glory  in 
My  happiness,  and  mighty  kings  look  pale 
With  envy,  while  1  triumph  in  mine  own. 
O  mother,  look  on  her !  sister,  admire  her  ! 
And,  since  this  present  age  yields  not  a  woman 
Worthy  to  be  her  second,  borrow  of 
Times  past,  and  let  imagination  help, 
Of  those  canonized  ladies  Sparta  boasts  of, 
And,  in  her  greatness,  Rome  was  proud  to  owe, 
To  fashion  one  ;  yet  still  you  must  confess, 
The  phornix  of  perfection  ne'er  was  seen, 
But  in  my  fair  Murcelia. 

Fran.  She's,  indeed, 
The  wonder  of  all  times. 
Tib.  Your  excellence, 

Though  I  confess,  you  give  her  but  her  own. 
Forces  *  her  modesty  to  the  defence 
Of  a  sweet  blush. 

Sfor.  It  need  not,  my  Marcelia  ; 
When  most  I  strive  to  praise  thee,  I  appear 
A  poor  detractor  :  for  thou  art,  indeed, 
So  absolute  t  in  body  and  in  mind, 
That,  but  to  speak  the  least  part  to  the  height, 
Would  ask  an  angel's  tongue,  and  yet  then  end 
In  silent  admiration  ! 

Isab.  You  still  court  her, 
As  if  she  were  a  mistress,  not  your  wife. 

Sfor.  A  mistress,  mother  !  She  is  more  to  me, 
And  every  day  deserves  more  to  be  sued  to. 


•  Forces  her  modesty]  So  the  edition  1623,  which  Coxete 
docs  not  appear  to  have  often  consulted.  He  reads,  alter  that 
of  163S,  enforcet,  though  it  destroys  Ihe  metre.  Mr.  M. 
Alason,  of  course,  fellows  him. 

t  A'o  absolute  in  body  and  in  mind,]  For  this  fpiritcd 
reading,  which  is  that  of  the  first  edition,  the  second  has,  St 
periec.t  both  in  body  and  in  mind,  and  thus  it  stands  in 
Coxeter  and  M.  Mason  1 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


65 


Such  as  are  cloy'd  with  those  they  have  embraced. 

May  think  their  wooing  done  :  no  night  to  me 

But  is  a  bridal  one,  where  Hymen  lights 

His  torches  fresh  and  new  ;  and  those  delights, 

Which  are  not  to  he  clothed  in  airy  sounds, 

Enjoy'd,  beget  desires  as  full  of  heat 

And  jovial  fervour,  as  when  first  I  tasted 

Her  virgin  fruit. — Blest  night !  and  be  it  number'd 

Amongst  those  happy  ones,  in  which  a  blessing 

Was,  by  the  full  consent  of  all  the  stars, 

Conferr'd  upon  mankind. 

Marc.  My  worthiest  lord  ! 
The  only  object  I  behold  with  pleasure, — 
My  pride,  my  glory,  in  a  word,  my  all ! 
Bear  witness,  heaven,  that  I  esteem  myself 
In  nothing  worthy  of  the  meanest  praise 
You  can  bestow,  unless  it  be  in  this, 
That  in  my  heart  I  love  and  honour  you. 
And,  but  that  it  would  smell  of  arrogance, 
To  speak  my  strong  desire  and  zeal  to  serve  you, 
I  then  could  say,  these  eyes  yet  never  saw 
The  rising  sun,  but  that  my  vows  and  prayers 
Were  sent  to  heaven  for  the  prosperity 
And  safety  of  my  lord  :  nor  have  I  ever 
Had  other  studv,  but  how  to  appear 
Worthy  your  favour  ;  and  that  my  embraces 
Might  yield  a  fruitful  harvest  of  content 
For  all  your  noble  travail,  in  the  purchase 
Of  her  that's  still  your  servant  ;  by  these  lips, 
Which,  pardon  me,  that  I  presume  to  kiss 

Sfor.  O  swear,  for  ever  swear  *  ! 

Marc.  I  ne'er  will  seek 
Delight  but  in  your  pleasure  ;  and  desire, 
When  you  are  sated  with  all  earthly  glories, 
And  age  and  honours  make  you  fit  for  heaven, 
That  one  grave  may  receive  us. 

Sfor.  'Tis  believed, 
Believed,  my  blest  one. 

Mori.  How  she  winds  herself 
Into  his  soul ! 

Sfor.  Sit  all. — Let  others  feed 
On  shore  gross  cates,  while  Sforza  banquets  with 
Immortal  viands  ia'en  in  at  his  eyes. 
I  could  live  ever  thus.     Command  the  eunuch 
To  sing  the  ditty  that  1  last  composed, 

Enter  a  Courier. 

In  praise  of  my  Marcelia. From  whence  ? 

Cour.  From  Pavia,  my  dread  lord. 

Sfor.  Speak,  is  all  lost  ? 

Cour.    [Delivers  a  letter.]  The  letter  will  inform 
you.  [Exit. 

Fran.  How  his  hand  shakes, 
As  he  receives  it ! 

Mari.  This  is  some  allay 
To  his  hot  passion. 

Sfor.  Though  it  bring  death,  I'll  read  it  • 

May  it  please  your  excellence  to  understand,  that  the 
very  hour  I  wrote  this,  I  heard  a  bold  defiance  delivered 
by  a  herald  from  the  emperor,  which  was  cheerfully 
received  by  the  King  of  France.  The  battailes  being 
ready  to  join,  and  the  vanguard  committed  to  my  charge, 
eiijorces  me  to  end  abruptly. 

Your  highne$t's  humble  servant, 

GASPERO. 


•  Sfor.  O  swear,  for  ever  twear .']  This  is  the  lection  of 
the  first  quarto  ;  the  second  poorly  reads,  O  sweet,  for  ever 
ttetarl  and  ij  followed  by  Coxeter  and  M.  Mason. 


Ready  to  join  ! — By  this,  then,  I  am  nothing, 
Or  my  estate  secure. 

Marc.  My  lord. 

Sfor.  To  doubt, 

Is  worse  than  to  have  lost ;  and  to  despair, 
Is  but  to  antedate  those  miseries 
That  must  fall  on  us  ;  all  my  hopes  depending 
Upon  this  battle's  fortune.     In  my  soul, 
Methinks,  there  should  be  that  imperious  power, 
By  supernatural,  not  usual  means, 
T'  inform  me  what  I  am.     The  cause  consider'd, 
Why  should  I  fear  ?  The  French  are  bold  and  strong. 
Their  numbers  full,  and  in  their  councils  wise  ; 
But  then,  the  haughty  Spaniard  is  all  fire, 
Hot  in  his  executions  ;  fortunate 
In  his  attempts  ;  married  to  victory  : — 
Ay,  there  it  is  that  shakes  me. 

Fran.  Excellent  lady 
This  day  was  dedicated  to  your  honour ; 
One  gale  of  your  sweet  breath  will  easily          [none 
Disperse  these  clouds  ;   and,  but  yourself,  there's 
That  dare  speak  to  him. 

Marc.  I  will  run  the  hazard. 
My  lord  ! 

Sfor.  Ha  ! — pardon  me,  Marcelia,  I  am  troubled  ; 
And  stand  uncertain,  whether  I  am  master 
Of  aught  that's  worth  the  owning. 

Marc.  I  am  yours,  sir ; 
And  I  have  heard  you  swear,  I  being  safe, 
There  was  no  loss  could  move  you.     This  day,  sir, 
Is  by  your  gift  made  mine.     Can  you  revoke 
A  grant  made  to  Marcelia  ?  your  Marcelia  ? — 
For  whose  love,  nay,  whose  honour,  gentle  sir, 
All  deep  designs,  and  state-affairs  deferr'd, 
Be,  as  you  purposed,  merry. 

Sfor.  Out  of  my  sight!        [Throws  away  the  letter 
And  all  thoughts  that  may  strangle  mirth  forsake  me. 
Fall  what  can  fall,  I  dare  the  worst  of  fate  : 
Though  the  foundation  of  the  earth  should  shrink 
The  glorious  eye  of  heaven  lose  his  splendour, 
Supported  thus,  I'll  stand  upon  the  ruins, 
And  seek  for  new  life  here.     Why  are  you  sad  ? 
No  other  sports  !  by  heaven,  he's  not  my  friend, 
That  wears  one  furrow  in  his  face.     I  was  told 
There  was  a  mask. 

Fran.  They  wait  your  highness'  pleasure, 
And  when  you  please  to  have  it. 

Sfor.  Bid  them  enter  : 

Come,  make  me  happy  once  again.     I  am  rapt — 
'Tis  not  to  day,  to  morrow,  or  the  next, 
But  all  my  days,  and  years   shall  be  employ'd 
To  do  thee  honor. 

Marc.  And  my  life  to  serve  you. 

[A  horn  sounded. 

Sfor.  Another  post !  Go  hang  him,  hang  him,  I 

say : 

I  will  not  interrupt  my  present  pleasures, 
Although  his  message  should  import  my  head  : 
Hang  him,  I  say. 

Marc.  Nay,  good  sir,  I  am  pleased 
To  grant  a  little  intermission  to  you  ; 
Who  knows  but  he  brings  news  we  wish  to  hear, 
To  heighten  our  delights. 

Sfor,  As  wise  as  fair  ! 

Enter  another  Courier. 
From  Gaspero  ? 

Cour.  That  was,  my  lord. 

Sfor.  How  !  dead  ? 

Cour.  [Delivers  a  Utter.']   With   the  delivery  of 
this,  and  prayers, 


66 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[Acrl 


To  guard  your  excellency  from  certain  dangers, 
lie  ceased  to  be  a  man.  [Exit. 

Sfor.  All  that  my  fears 
Could  fashion  to  me,  or  my  enemies  wish, 
Is  fallen  upon  me.     Silence  that  harsh  music; 
'Tis  now  unseasonable  :  a  tolling  bell, 
Asa  sad  harbinger  to  tell  me,  that 
This  pamper'd  lump  of  fiesh  must  feast  the  worms, 
Is  fitter  for  me : — 1  am  sick. 

Mure.  My  lord  ! 

Sfor.  Sick  to  the  death  *,  Marcelia.     Remove 
These   signs  of   mirth;    they   were   ominous,  and 

but  usher'd 
Sorrow  and  ruin. 

Marc.  Bless  us,  heaven  ! 

hub.  My  son. 

Marc.  YVhat  sudden  change  is  this? 

Sfor.  All  leave  the  room  ; 
I'll  bear  alone  the  burden  of  my  grief, 
And  must  admit  no  partner.     I  am  yet 
Your  prince,  where's  your  obedience?  Stay, 

Marcelia  ; 

1  cannot  be  so  greedy  of  a  sorrow, 
In  which  you  must  not  share. 

Exeunt  Tiberio,  Stephana,  Francisco,  Isabella,  Mariana, 
and  Attendants. 

Marc.  And  cheerfully 

I  will  sustain  my  part.     Why  look  you  pale ? 
Where  is  that  wonted  constancy,  and  courage, 
•That  dared  the  worst  of  fortune  ?  where  is  Sforza, 
.To  whom  all  dangers,  that  fright  common  men, 
Appear'd  but  panic  terrors?  why  do  you  eye  me 
With  such  fix'd  looks?  love,  counsel,  duty,  service, 
May  flow  from  me,  not  danger. 

Sfor.  O,  Marcelia! 

It  is  for  tliee  1  fear  ;  for  thee,  thy  Sforza 
Shakes  like  a  coward  ;  for  myself,  unmoved 
I  could  have  heard  my  troops  were  cut  in  pieces, 
My  general  slain,  and  he,  on  whom  my  hopes 
Of  rule,  of  state,  of  life,  had  their  dependence,          ' 
The  King  of  France,  my  greatest  friend,  made  pri- 
soner 
To  so  proud  enemies  f.  * 

Marc.  Then  you  have  just  cause 
To  shew  you  are  a  man. 

Sfor.  All  this  were  nothing, 
Though  I  add  to  it,  that  I  am  assured, 
For  giving  aid  to  this  unfortunate  king, 
The  emperor,  incens'd,  lays  his  command 
On  his  victorious  army,  flesh'd  with  spoil, 
And  bold  of  conquest,  to  march  up  against  me, 
And  seize  on  my  estates :  suppose  that  done  too, 
The  city  ta'en,  the  kennels  running  blood, 
The  ransack'd  temples  falling  on  their  saints ; 
My  mother,  in  my  sight,  toss'd  on  their  pikes, 
And  sister  ravish'd  ;  and  myself  bound  fast 
la  chains,  to  grace  their  triumph  ;  or  what  else 


*  Sick  fa  the  death,}  The  modern  editors  omit  the  nrticlo, 
no  less  to  the  injury  of  the  metre  than  of  the  language  of  the 
poet,  which  wa*,  indeed,  thit  of  the  lime. 

t  There  is  a  striking  simil.irity  (as  Mr.  Gilclirist  observes 
to  me)  between  this  passage,  and  the  parting  speech  of 
Hector  and  Andromache : 

AXX'  8  (toi  Tptitttiv  roffffov  [if\ti  aXyoc  OTTIOVTW, 

OUT'  awrije  'Eica£i}£(  art  ITpta/jot 

Ovrt  Kairiyvt)Tuiv,  01  Ktv  iro\ti£  TI 

Ev  Kovtytri  irtffouv  vir'  avcpatri  Svtrptvtamv, 

Oatrov  an,  K.  T.  a.  II.  vi,  450. 


An  enemy's  insolence  could  load  me  with, 
I  would  be  Sforza  still.     But,  when  1  think 
That  my  Marcelia,  to  whom  all  thrse 
Are  but  as  atoms  to  the  greatest  hill, 
Must  suffer  in  my  cause,  and  for  me  suffer  ! 
All  earthly  torments,  nay,  even  those  the  damn'd 
Howl  for  in  hell,  are  gentle  strokes,  compared 
To  what  I  feel.  Marcelia. 

Marc.  Good  sir,  have  patience  : 
I  can  as  well  partake  your  adverse  fortune, 
As  I  thus  long  have  had  -an  ample  share 
In  your  prosperity.     'Tis  not  in  the  power 
Of  fate  to  alter  me  :  for  while  I  arn, 
In  spite  of  it,  I'm  yours. 

Sfor.  But  should  that  will 
To  be  so,  be  forced*,  Marcelia  ;  and  I  live 
To  see  those  eyes  I  prize  above  my  own, 
Dart  favours,  though  compell'd,  upon  another; 
Or  those  sweet  lips,  yielding  immortal  nectar, 
Be  gently  touch'd  by  any  but  myself; 
Think,  think,  Marcelia,  what  a  cursed  thing 
I  were,  beyond  expression  ! 

Marc.  Do  not  feed 

Those  jealous  thoughts  ;  the  only  blessing  that 
Heaven  hath  bestow'd  on  us,  more  than  on  beasts, 
Is,  that  'tis  in  our  pleasure  when  to  die. 
Besides,  where  I  now  in  another's  power, 
There  are  so  many  ways  to  let  out  life, 
I  would  not  live,  for  one  short  minute,  his; 
J  was  born  only  yours,  and  I  will  die  so. 

Sfor.  Angels  reward  the  goodness  of  this  woman' 
Enter  FRANCISCO. 

All  I  can  pay  is  nothing. — Why,  uncall'd  for? 

Fran.  It  is  of  weight,  sir,  that  makes  me  thus 

press 

Upon  your  privacies.     Your  constant  friend, 
The  marquis  of  Pescara,  tired  with  haste, 
Hath  business  that  concerns  your  life  and  fortunes, 
And  with  speed,  to  impart. 

Sfnr.  Wait  on  him  hither :  [Exit  Francisco 

And,  dearest,  to  thy  closet.  Let  thy  prayers 
Assist  my  councils. 

Marc.  To  spare  imprecations 
Against  myself,  without  you  I  am  nothing.       [Exit. 

Sfor.  The  marquis  of  Pescara !  a  «reat  soldierf ; 
And,  though  he  serv'd  upon  the  adverse  party, 
Ever  my  constant  friend. 

Enter  FRANCISCO  and  PESCARA, 

Fran.  Yonder  he  walks, 
Full  of  sad  thoughts, 

Pesc.  Blame  him  not,  good  Francisco, 
He  hath  much  cause  to  grieve  ;  would  I  ir.ight 

end  so, 
And  not  add  this, — to  fear. 

Sfor.  My  dear  Pescara ; 

A  miracle  in  these  times  !  a  friend,  and  happy, 
Cleaves  to  a  falling  fortune  ! 

•  ii  >it  should  that  mill 

To  be  so,  be  forced  ]  I  have  venti  red  to  insert  be,  which 
was  prob.ibly  dropl  at  the  press,  betbie  forced,  (la  the  Edit, 
of  ISKi,  Mr  Gilford  being  diffident  of  (he  correctness  of  his 
emendation,  has  supplied  the  place  of  the  inserted  be,  by 
spaces,  thus  -  -  -.  I  have  however  retained  his  original 
correction,  \\lfich  I  think  superior  to  the  subsequent  one, 
although  unnecessary  to  the  rhythm  and  perhaps  rendering  tbf 
verse  rattier  harsh. —  Eu.) 

t  Stbr.  The  marguit  of  Petcara  !  a  great  soldier;]  Thn 
duke  does  not  exaggerate  the  merits  of  1'escara :  he  was,  iu- 
deed,  a  great  siildier,  a  fortunate  coniii.ainkr,  an  able  4ieto- 
ciator,  in  a  word,  one  of  the  greatest  ornaments  of  a  peril  $ 
which  abounded  in  extraordinary  characters. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


6? 


Peso.  If  it  were 

As  well  in  my  weak  power,  in  act,  to  raise  it, 
As  'tis  to  hear  a  part  of  sorrow  with  you, 
You  then  should  have  just  cause  to  say,  Pescara 
Look'd  not  upon  your  state,  hut  on  your  virtues, 
When  he  made  suit  to  be  writ  in  the  list 

Of  those  you  favour'd. But  my  haste  forbids 

All  compliment ;  thus,  then   sir,  to  the  purpose  : 
flie  cause  that,  unattended,  brought  me  hither, 
Was  not  to  tell  you  of  your  loss,  or  danger; 
For  fame  hath  many  wings  to  bring  ill  tidings, 
And  I  presume  you've  heard  it  ;  but  to  give  yon 
Such  friendly  counsel,  as,  perhaps,  may  make 
Your  sad  disaster  less. 

Sfor.  Your  are  all  goodness  : 
And  I  give  up  myself  to  be  disposed  of, 
As  in  your  wisdom  you  think  fit. 

Pesc.  Thus,  then,  sir  : 

To  hope  you  can  hold  out  against  the  emperor, 
Were  flattery  in  yourself*,  to  your  undoing : 
Therefore,  the  safest  course  that  you  can  take, 
Is,  to  give  up  yourself  to  his  discretion, 
Before  you  be  compell'd  ;  for,  rest  assured, 
A  voluntary  yielding  may  find  grace, 
And  will  admit  defence,  at  least  excuse  : 
But,  should  you  linger  doubtful,  till  his  powers 
Have  seized  your  person  and  estates  perforce, 
You  must  expect  extremes. 

Sfor.  I  understand  you  ; 
And  I  will  put  your  counsel  into  act, 
And  speedily.     I  only  will  take  order 
For  some  domestical  affairs,  that  do 
Concern  me  nearly,  and  with  the  next  sun 
Ride  with  you  :  in  the  mean  time,  my  best  friend, 
Pr;iy  take  your  rest. 

Prec.  Indeed,  I  have  travell'd  hard  ; 
And  will  embrace  your  counsel.  [Erif. 

Sfor.   U'ith  all  care, 

Attend  my  noble  friend.     Stay  you,  Francisco. 
\  ou  see  how  things  stand  with  me  ? 

Fran.  To  mv  grief: 

And  if  the  loss  of  my  poor  life  could  be 
A  sacrifice  to  restore  them  as  they  were, 
1  willingly  would  lay  it  down. 

Sfor.  1  think  so  ; 

For  I  have  ever  found  you  true  and  thankful, 
Which  makes  me  love  the  building  I  have  raised 
In  your  advancement ;  and  repent  no  grace 
I  have  conferr'd  upon  you.     And,  believe  me, 
Though  now  I  should  repeat  my  favours  to  you, 
The  titles  1  have  given  \ou,  and  the  means 
Suitable  to  your  honours ;  that  I  thought  you 
Worthy  my  sister  and  my  family, 
And  in  my  dukedom  made  you  next  myself; 
It  is  not  to  upbraid  you  ;  but  to  tell  you 
I  find  you  are  worthy  of  them,  in  your  love 
And  service  to  me. 

Fran.  Sir,  I  am  your  creature  ; 
And  any  shape,  that  you  would  have  me  wear, 
I  gladly  will  put  on. 

Sfor.  Thus,  then,  Francisco: 
I  now  am  to  deliver  to  your  trust 
A  weighty  secret ;  of  so  strange  a  nature, 
And  'twill,  I  know,  appear  so  monstrous  to  you, 
That  you  will  tremble  in  the  execution, 
As  much  as  1  am  tortured  to  command  it : 


•    fl'ere  flattery   in  yourself,]    So,  both  the  quartos;  the 
modern  editors  read,  Were  flattering  yourtelf. 


For  'tis  a  deed  so  horrid,  that,  but  to  hear  it, 
Would  strike  into  a  ruffian  flesh 'd  in  murders, 
Or  an  obdurate  hangman,  soft  compassion  ; 
And  yet,  Francisco,  of  all  men  the  dearest, 
And  from  me  most  deserving,  such  my  state 
And  strange  condition  is,  that  thou  alone 
Must  know  the  fatal  service,  and  perform  it.  . 

Fran.  These  preparations,  sir,  to  work  a  stranger, 
Or  to  one  unacquainted  with  your  bounties, 
M  ight  appear  useful  ;  but  to  me  they  are 
Needless  impertinencies  :  for  I  dare  do 
Whate'er  you  dare  command. 

Sfor.  But  you  must  swear  it ; 
And  put  into  the  oath  all  joys  or  torments 
That  fright  the  wicked,  or  confirm  the  good  ; 
Not  to  conceal  it  only,  that  is  nothing, 
But,  whensoe'er  mv  will  shall  speak,  Strike  now  ! 
To  fall  upon't  like  thunder. 

Fran.  Minister 

The  oath  in  any  way  or  form  you  please, 
I  stand  resolved  to  take  it. 

Sfor.  Thou  must  do,  then, 
What  no  malevolent  star  will  dare  to  look  on, 
It  is  so  wicked  :   for  which  men  will  curse  thee 
For  being  the  instrument ;  and  the  blest  angels 
Forsake  me  at  my  need,  for  being  the  author  : 
For  'tis  a  deed  of  night,  of  night,  Francisco  ! 
In  which  the  memory  of  all  good  actions 
We  can  pretend  to,  shall  be  buried  quick  : 
Or,  if  we  be  remember'd,  it  shall  be 
To  fright  posterity  by  our  example, 
That  have  outgone  all  precedents  of  villains 
That  were  before  us  ;  and  such  as  succeed, 
Though  taught  in  hell's  black  school,   shall   ne'er 
Art  thou  not  shaken  yet  ?  [come  near  us. 

Fran.  I  grant  you  move  me  : 
But  to  a  man  confirm 'd 

Sfor.  I'll  try  your  temper  : 
What  think  you  of  my  wife  ? 

Fran.  As  a  thing  sacred  ; 
To  whose  fair  name  and  memory  I  pay  gladly 
These  signs  of  duty. 

Sfor.  Is  she  no/  the  abstract 
Of  all  that's  rare,  or  to  be  wish'd  in  woman? 

Fran.  It  were  a  kind  of  blasphemy  to  dispute  it: 
But  to  the  purpose,  sir. 

Sfor.  Add  too,  her  goodness, 
Her  tenderness  of  me,  her  care  to  please  me, 
Her  unsuspected  chastity,  ne'er  equall'd  ; 
Her  innocence,  her  honour  : — 0,  I  am  lost 
In  the  ocean  of  her  virtues  and  her  graces, 
When  I  think  of  them  ! 

Fran.  Now  I  find  the  end 
Of  all  your  conjurations  ;  there's  some  service 
To  be  done  for  this  sweet  lady.    If  she  have  enemies 
That  she  would  have  removed 

Sfor.  Alas !   Francisco, 
Her  greatest  enemy  is  her  greatest  lover ; 
Yet,  in  that  hatred,  her  idolater. 
One  smile  of  her's  would  make  a  savage  tame ; 
One  accent  of  that  tongue  would  calm  the  seas, 
Though    all  the  winds   at   once     strove   there   fo 

empire. 

Yet  I,  for  whom  she  thinks  all  this  too  little, 
Should  I  miscarry  in  this  present  journey, 
From  whence  it  is  all  number  to  a  cipher, 
I  ne'er  return  with  honour,  by  thy  hand 
Must  have  her  murder'd. 

Fran.  Murder'd  '. — She  that  loves  so, 
And  so  deserves  to  be  beloved  again ! 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[AciII 


And  I,  who  sometimes  you  were  pleased  to  favour, 
Pick'd  out  the  intrument! 

Sfffr.  Do  not  fly  off: 
What  is  decreed  can  never  be  recall'd  ; 
'Tis  more  than  love  to  her,  that  marks  her  out 
A  wish'd  companion  to  me  in  both  fortunes  : 
And  strong  assurance  of  thy  zealous  faith, 
That  gives  up  to  thy  trust  a  secret,  that 
Racks  should  not  have  forced  from  me.  O,  Francisco  ! 
There  is  no  heaven  without  her  ;  nor  a  hell, 
Where  she  resides.     I  ask  from  her  but  justice, 
And  what  I  would  have  paid  to  her,  had  sickness, 
Or  any  other  accident,  divorced 
Her  purer  soul  from  her  unspotted  body*. 
The  slavish  Indian  princes,  when  they  die, 
Are  cheerfully  attended  to  the  fire, 
By  the  wife  and  slave  that,  living,  they  loved  best, 
To  do  them  service  in  another  world  : 
Nor  will  I  be  less  honour'd,  that  love  more. 
And  therefore  trifle  not,  but  in  thy  looks 


Express  a  ready  purpose  to  perform 
What  I  command;  or,  by  Alarcelia's  soul, 
This  is  thy  latest  minute. 

Fran.  'Tis  not  fear 

Of  death,  but  love  to  you,  makes  me  embrace  it : 
But  for  mine  own  security,  when  'tis  done, 
What  warrant  have  I  ?  If  you  please  to  sign  one. 
I  shall,  though  with  unwillingness  and  horror, 
Perform  your  dreadful  charge. 

Sfor.  I  will,  Francisco  : 
But  still  remember,  that  a  prince's  secrets 
Are  balm,  conceal'd  ;  but  poison,  if  discover 'd. 
I  may  come  back  ;  then  this  is  but  a  trial 
To  purchase  thee,  if  it  were  possible, 
A  nearer  place  in  my  affection  : — but 
I  know  thee  honest. 

Fran.  'Tis  a  character 
I  will  not  part  with. 

Sj'ar.  I  may  live  to  reward  it  *.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I. — The  same.     An  open  Space  before  the 
Castle. 

Enter  TIBERIO  and  STEPHANO. 

Steph.  How,  left  the  court ! 

Tib.  Without  guard  or  retinue 
Fitting  a  prince. 

Steph.  No  enemy  near,  to  force  him 
To  leave  his  own  strengths,  yet  deliver  up 
Himself,  as  'twere,  in  bonds,  to  the  discretion 
Of  him  that  hates  him  !   'tis  beyond  example. 
You  never  heard  the  motives  that  induced  him 
To  this  strange  course  ? 

Tib.  No,  those  are  cabinet  councils, 
And  not  to  be  communicated,  but 
To  such  as  are  his  own,  and  sure.    Alas ! 
We  fill  up  empty  places,  and  in  public 
Are  taught  to  give  our  suffrages  to  that 
Which  was  before  determined  ;  and  are  safe  so. 
Signior  Francisco  (upon  whom  alone 
His  absolute  power  is  with  all  strength  conferr'd, 
During  his  absence)  can  with  ease  resolve  you  : 
To  me  they  are  riddles. 

Steph,  Well,  he  shall  not  be 
My  QEdipus  ;  I'll  rather  dwell  in  darkness. 
But,  my  good  lord  Tiberio,  this  Francisco 
Is,  on  the  sudden,  strangely  raised. 

Tib.  O  sir 

He  took  the  tnriving  course  :  he  had  a  sisterf, 
A  fair  one  too,  with  whom,  as  it  is  rumour'd, 
The  duke  was  too  familiar  ;  but  she,  cast  off 
(What  promises  soever  past  between  them) 


•  Her  purer  soul  from  her  unnpotted  body.]  .Purer  is  used 
in  perfect  concurrence  with  the  practice  of  Massinger's  con- 
temporaries, for  pure,  the  comparative  for  the  positive.  See 
the  Unnatural  Combat. 

+  He  had  a  sister,  &c.]  There  is  great  art  in  this 

introduction  of  the  sister.  In  the  management  of  these  pre- 
paratory liints,  Massinger  surpasses  all  his  contemporaries. 
In  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  "  ilie  end  sometimes  forgets  the 
beginning ;"  and  even  Shakspeare  is  not  entirely  free  from 
inattentions  of  a  similar  nature.  I  will  not  here  praise  the 
general  felicity  of  our  author's  plots ;  but  whatever  they 
were,  he  seems  to  have  minutely  arranged  all  the  component 
parts  before  a  line  of  the  dialogue  was  written. 


Upon  the  sight  of thisf,  forsook  the  court, 
And  since  was  never  seen.     To  smother  this, 
As  honours  never  fail  to  purchase  silence, 
Francisco  first  was  graced,  and,  step  by  step, 
Is  raised  up  to  this  height. 

Steph.  But  how  is 
His  absence  born  ? 

Tib.  Sadly,  it  seems,  by  the  dutchess ; 
For  since  he  left  the  court, 

For  the  most  part  she  hath  kept  her  private  chamber, 
No  visitants  admitted.     In  the  church, 
She  hath  been  seen  to  pay  her  pure  devotions 
Season'd  with  tears  ;  and  sure  her  sorrow's  true, 
Or  deeply  counterfeited  ;  pomp,  and  state, 
And  bravery  cast  of :  and  she,  that  lately 
Rivall'd  Poppaea  in  her  varied  shapes, 
Or  the  Egyptian  queen,  now,  widow-like, 
In  sable  colours,  as  her  husband's  dangers 
Strangled  in  her  the  use  of  any  pleasure, 
Mourns  for  his  absence. 

Steph.  It  becomes  her  virtue, 
And  does  confirm  what  was  reported  of  her. 

Tib.  You  take  it  right :  but,  on  the  other  side, 
The  darling  of  his  mother,  Mariana, 
As  there  were  an  antipathy  between 
Her  and  the  dutchess'  passions  ;  and  as 
She'd  no  dependence  on  her  brother's  fortune, 
She  ne'er  appear'd  so  full  of  mirth. 

Steph.  'Tis  strange. 

Enter  GRACCHO  with  Fiddlers. 

But  see !  her  favourite,  and  accompanied. 
To  your  report. 

Grac.  You  shall  scrape,  and  I  will  sing 
A  scurvy  ditty  to  a  scurvy  tune, 
Repine  who  dares. 

•  The  observations  in  the  Essay  prefixed  to  this  Volume, 
preclude  the  necessity  of  any  remarks  from  me,  on  this  ad- 
mirable scene  :  as  it  seems,  however,  to  have  engrossed  the 
critic's  attention,  (to  the  manifest  neglect  of  the  rest,)  let  me 
suggi-st,  in  justice  to  the  author,  that  it  is  equalled,  if  not 
surpassed,  by  some  of  the  succeeding  ones,  and.  among  the 
rest,  by  that  which  concludes  the  second  act. 

t  Upon  tht  sight  of  this,  &c.J  i.  e.  of  the  present  dutcbci*. 
M.  MASON. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


69 


1  Fid.  But,  if  we  should  offend, 
The  dutchess  having  silenced  us;  — and  these  lords 
Stand  by  to  hear  us. 

Grac.  They  in  name  are  lords, 
But  I  am  one  in  power  :  and,  for  the  dutchess, 
But  yesterday  we  were  merry  for  her  pleasure, 
We  now'll  be  for  my  lady's. 
Tib.  Signior  Graccho. 

Grac.  A  poor  man,  sir,  a  servant  to  the  princess  ; 
But  you,  great  lords*  and  counsellors  of  state, 
Whom  I  stand  bound  to  reverence. 

Tib.  Come  ;  we  know 
You  are  a  man  in  grace. 

Grac.  Fie  !  no  :  I  grant, 

I  bear  my  fortunes  patiently  ;  serve  the  princess, 
And  have  access  at  all  times  to  her  closet, 
Such  is  my  impudence  !  when  your  grave  lordships 
Are  masters  of  the  modesty  to  attend 
Three  hours,  nay   sometimes  four ;    and  then  bid 
Upon  her  the  next  morning.  [wait 

Steph.  lie  derides  us. 

Tib.  Pray  you,  what  news  is  stirring  ?  you  know 
Grac.  Who,  I  ?  alas  !  I've  no  intelligence        [all. 
At  home  nor  abroad  ;  I  only  sometimes  guess 
The  change  of  the  times  :  1  should  ask  of  your  lord- 
ships 

Who  are  to  keep  their  honours,  who  to  lose  them  : 
Who  the  dutchess  smiled  on  last,  or  on  whom  frown'd, 
You  only  can  resolve  me ;  we  poor  waiters 
Deal,  as  you  see,  in  mirth,  and  foolish  fiddles  : 
It  is  our  element  ?  and — could  you  tell  me 
What  point  of  state  'tis  that  I  am  commanded 
To  muster  up  this  music,  on  mine  honesty, 
You  should  much  befriend  me. 
Steph.  Sirrah,  you  grow  saucy. 
Tib.  And  would  be  laid  by  the  heels. 
Grac.  Not  by  your  lordships, 

Without  a  special  warrant  ;  look  to  your  own  stakes  ; 
Were  I  committed,  here  come  those  would  bail  me  : 
Perhaps,  we  might  change  places  too. 

Enter  ISABELLA,  and  MARIANA. 

Tib.  The  princess  ! 
We  must  be  patient. 

Steph.  There  is  no  contending. 

Tib.  See,  the  informing  rogue  ! 

Steph.  That  we  should  stoop 
To  such  a  mushroom  ! 

Mart.  Thou  dost  mistake  ;  they  durst  not 
Use  the  least  word  of  scorn,  although  provoked, 
To  any  thing  of  mine.     Go,  get  you  home, 
And  to  your  servants,  friends,  and  flatterers  number 
How  many  descents  you're  noble  : — look  to  your 

wives  too : 
The  smooth-chinn'd  courtiers  are  abroad. 

Tib.  No  way  to  be  a  freeman  ! 

Exeunt  Tiberio  and  Stephana. 

Grac.  Your  excellence  hath  the  best  gift  to  dispatch 
These  arras  pictures  of  nobility, 
I  ever  read  of. 

Mari.  I  can  speak  sometimes. 

Grac.  And  cover  so  your  bitter  pills,  with  sweet- 
Of  princely  language  to  forbid  reply,  [ness, 

They  are  greedily  swallowed. 

Isab.  But  to  the  purpose,  daughter, 
That  brings  us  hither.     Is  it  to  bestow 


*  But  you,  great  lords,  &c.]  So  the  old  copies.  Mr.  M. 
Mason  chooses  to  deviate  from  them,  and  read  But  you  are 
grant  lords,  &c.  Never  was  alti.'Wioi>  more  unnecessary. 


I    A  visit  on  this  woman,  that,  because 
She  only  would  be  thought  truly  to  grieve 
The  absence  and  the  dangers  of  mv  son, 
j    Proclaims  a  general  sadness? 

Alan.  If  to  vex  her 
May  be  interpreted  to  do  her  honour, 
She  shall  have  many  of  them.     I'll  make  use 
Of  my  short  reign  :  my  lord  now  governs  all  ; 
And  she  shall  know  that  her  idolater, 
My  brother,  being  not  by  now  to  protect  her, 
I  am  her  equal. 

Grac.  Ofa  little  thing, 
It  is  so  full  of  gall*  !   A  devil  of  this  size, 
Should  they  run  for  a  wager  to  be  spiteful. 
Gets  not  a  horse-head  of  her.  [Asith 

Mari.     On  her  birthday, 

We  were  forced  to  be  merry,  and  now  she's  musty. 
We  must  be  sad,  on  pain  of  her  displeasure  : 
We  will,  we  will !  this  is  her  private  chamber, 
U  here,  like  an  hypocrite,  not  a  true,  turtle, 
She  seems  to  mourn  her  absent  mate  ;  her  servants 
Attending  her  like  mutes  :  but  I'll  speak  to  her. 
And  in  a  high  key  too.     Play  any  thing 
That's  light  and  loud  enough  but  to  torment  her, 
And  we  will  have  rare  sport.         [Music  and  a  songf. 

MAHCELIA  appears  at  a  Window  above,  in  black. 

Isab.  She  frowns  as  if 
Her  looks  cou'd  fright  us. 

Mari.  May  it  please  your  grea'ness, 
We  heard  that  your  late  physic  hath  not  work'd; 
And  that  breeds  melancholy,  as  your  doctor  tells  us. 
To  purge  which,  we,  that  are  born  your  highness 

vassals, 

And  are  to  play  the  fool  to  do  you  service, 
Present  you  with  a  fit  of  mirth.     What  think  you 
Ofa  new  antic? 

Isab.  ''I  would  show  rare  in  ladies. 

Mari.  Being  intended  for  so  sweet  a  creature, 
Were  she  but  pleased  to  grace  it. 

Isab.  Fie  !  she  will, 
Be  it  ne'er  so  mean  ;  she's  made  of  courtesy. 

Mari.  The  mistress  of  all  hearts.     One   smile,  I 

pray  you, 

On  your  poor  servants,  or  a  fiddler's  fee  ; 
Coming  from  those  fair  hands,  though  but  a  ducat, 
We  will  inshrine  it  as  a  holy  relic. 

Isab.  Tis  wormwood,  and  it  works. 

Marc.  If  I  lay  by 

My  feurs  and  griefs,  in  which  you  should  be  sharera. 
If  doting  age  could  let  you  but  remember, 
You  have  a  son  ;  or  frontless  impudence, 
You  are  a  sister  ;  and  in  making  answer, 


•  Grac.  Ofa  lilllc  thing, 

It  is  so  full  of  yall !]  Nothing  more  strongh  murks  the 
poi  erty  of  the  Mage  ill  those  times,  than  the  frequent  allusions 
we  rind  to  the  size  of  the  actors,  which  may  he  considered 
as  a  kind  of  apology  to  the  audience.  It  i>  noi  possible  to 
ascertain  who  played  the  part  of  Mari.tii.t,  hut  it  was,  not 
improbably,  Theophilus  Bonnie,  who  acted  I  anlina  in  (fit 
Rewgado,  where  an  expression  nf  the  saiiie  natnie  (/c*cnrg. 
Domitill.i,  in  the  Roman  victor,  is  also  little  ;  flic-  w.is  played 
by  John  Hunnieman.  1  do  not  condemn  these  indirect  apo- 
logies ;  indeed,  litre  appears  to  he  s>  meihi  g  of  auixt  sens* 
in  them,  and  of  proper  deference  to  'he  undi  rsiandiniis  of  thk 
audience.  At  present,  we  run  in.trepi.IIy  into  exery  specie* 
of  absurdity,  men  and  women  unwieldly  <tt  once  from  agt 
and  fatness,  take  upon  themthe  parts  of  active  bujs  ai.d  girljs 
and  it  is  not  only  in  a  pantomime  thai  we  are  accutomcrj 
to  see  children  of  six  feet  high  in  leading  strings  ! 

+  A  song]  This,  like  many  otheis,  does  not  appear  ;  it  wai 
probably  supplied  at  pleasure,  by  the  acturi 


ro 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


To  what  was  most  unfit  for  you  to  speak, 
Or  me  to  hear,  borrow  of  my  just  anger 

Isab.  A  set  speech,  on  my  life. 

Marl.  Penn'd  by  her  chaplain.  [speak, 

Marc.   Yes,   it*    can    speak,  without  instruction 
And  tell  your  want  of  manners,  that  you  are  rude, 
And  saucily  rude,  too. 

Grac.  Now  the  game  begins. 

Marc.  You  durst  not,  else,  on  any  hire  or  hope, 
Remembering  what  I  am,  and  whose  I  am, 
Put  on  the  desperate  boldness,  to  disturb 
The  least  of  my  retirements. 

Muri.  Note  her,  now.  [presume 

Marc.  For  both  shall  understand,  though  the  one 
Upon  the  privilege  due  to  a  mother, 
The  duke  stands  now  on  his  own  legs,  and  needs 
No  nurse  to  lead  him. 

Isab.  How,  a  nurse  ! 

Mare.  A  dry  one, 

And  useless  too  : — but  I  am  merciful, 
And  dotage  signs  your  pardon. 

Isab.  I  defy  thee  ; 
Thee,  and  thy  pardons,  proud  one. 

Marc.  For  you,  puppet 

Mari.  What  of  me,  pine-treef  ! 

Marc.  Little  you  are,  I  grant, 
And  have  as  little  worth,  but  much  less  wit ; 
You  durst  not  else,  the  duke  being  wholly  mine, 
His  power  and  honour  mine,  and  the  allegiance, 
You  owe  him,  as  a  subject,  due  to  me 

Mari.  To  you  ? 

Marc.  To  me :  and  therefore,  as  a  vassal, 
From  this  hour  lear<j  to  serve  me,  or  you'll  fee. 
I  must  make  use  of  my  authority, 
And,  as  a  princess,  punish  it. 

Isab.  A  princess ! 

Mart.  I  had  rather  be  a  slave  unto  a  Moor, 
Than  know  thee  for  my  equal. 

Isab.  Scornful  thing! 
Proud  of  a  white  face. 

Mori.  Let  her  but  rememberj 
The  issue  in  her  leg. 

Isab.  The  charge  she  puts 
The  state  to,  for  perfumes. 

Muri.  And  howsoe'er 

She  seems  when  she's  made  up,  as  she's  herself, 
She  stinks  above  the  ground.     O  that  I  could  reach 
The  little  one  you  scorn  so,  with  her  nails       [you  ! 


*  Marc.  Yea,  it  can  speak,]    So  the  old  copies :  the  modern 
rlit ions,  Yet,  I  can  speak  ! 

t  Marc.  For  you,  puppet 

Man.    What  of  me,  pine  tree?] 
"  Now  I  perceive  that  she  hath  made  compare 

Between  our  statures" 

Puppet  and  may-pole,  and  many  other  terms  of  equal  elegance 
are  bandied  about  between  Herniia  arid  Helena,  in  Mid- 
iwnmer- Night's  Dream,  which  is  ht-re  too  closely  imitated. 
I  forbear  to  quote  the  passages,  which  are  familiar  to  every 
reader  of  Shakspeare. 

t  Mari.  Let  her  but  remember,  &c.]  For  this,  Massinger 
a  indebted  to  less  respectable  authority,  to  the  treacherous 
loquacity  of  the  dutchess's  waiting  woman,  in  her  midnight 
conference  with  Don  Quixote.  These  traits,  however  dis- 
gusting, are  not  without  their  value ;  they  strongly  mark  the 
prevailing  features  of  the  times,  which  are  universally  coarse 
and  indelicate  :  they  exhibit  also  a  circumstance  worthy  of 
partic-ilar  notice,  namely,  that  tho<e  vigorous  powers  of  genius 
which  carry  men  far  beyond  (he  literary  state  of  their  age, 
do  not  enable  them  to  outgo  that  ot  its  manners.  This  must 
tervc  as  an  apology  for  our  author ;  indeed,  it  is  the  only 
one  that  can  be  ottered  tor  many  who  stand  higher  in  the 
rank»  of  fame  than  Massinger,  and  who  have  still  more  need 
jt  it. 


Would  tear   your  painted  face,  and  scratch   those 
Do  but  come  down.  [eyes  out 

Marc.  Were  there  no  other  way, 
But  leaping  on  thy  neck,  to  break  mine  own, 
Rather  than  be  outbraved  thus.  [She  retires. 

Grac.  Forty  ducats 

Upon  the  little  h>/n  :  she's  of  the  kind, 
And  will  not  leave  the  pit.  [Aside. 

Mari.  That  it  were  lawful 
To  meet  her  with  a  poniard  and  a  pistol ! 
But  these  weak  hands  shall  shew  my  spleen, 

Re-enter  MARCELIA  below. 

Marc.  Where  are  you  ? 
You  modicum,  you  dwarf ! 

Mari.  Here,  giantess,  here. 

Enter  FRANCISCO,  TIBERIO,  and  STEPHANO. 

Fran.  A  tumult  in  the  court ! 

Mari.  Let  her  come  on. 

.Fran.  What  wind  hath  raised  this  tempest  ? 
Sever  them,  I  command  you.     What's  the  cause  ? 
Speak,  Mariana. 

Mari.  I  am  out  of  breath  ; 

But  we  shall  meet,  we  shall. — And  do  you  hear  sir  ! 
Or  right  me  on  this  monster,  (she's  three  feet 
Too  high  for  a  woman,)  or  ne'er  look  to  have 
A  quiet  hour  with  me. 

Isab.  If  my  son  were  here, 
And  would  endure  this,  may  a  mother's  curse 
Pursue  and  overtake  him  ! 

F ran.  O  forbear : 

In  me  he's  present,  both  in  power  and  will ; 
And,  madam.  I  much  grieve  that,  in  his  absence, 
There  should  arise  the  least  distaste  to  move  you  : 
It  being  his  principal,  nay,  only  charge, 
To  have  you,  in  his  absence,  served  and  honour'd, 
As  when  himself  perform 'd  the  willing  office. 

Mari.  This  is  fine,  i'faith. 

Grae.  I  would  I  were  well  off!  [not, 

fra«.  And  therefore,  I  beseech  you,  madam,  frown. 
Till  most  unwittingly  he  hath  deserved  it, 
On  your  poor  servant ;  to  your  excellence 
I  ever  was  and  will  be  such ;  and  lay 
The  duke's  authority,  trusted  to  me, 
With  willingness  at  your  feet. 

Marl.  O  base  ! 

Isab.  We  are  like 
To  have  an  equal  judge! 

Fran.  But,  should  I  find 
That  you  are  touch'd  in  anv  point  of  honour 
Or  that  the  least  neglect  is  fall'n  upon  you, 
I  then  stand  up  a  prince. 

1   Fid.  Without  reward, 
Prav  you  dismiss  us 

Grac.  Would  I  were  five  leagues  hence ! 

Fran.  1  will  be  partial 
To  none,  not  to  myself; 
Be  you  but  pleased  to  shew  me  my  offence, 
Or  if  you  hold  me  in  your  good  opinion, 
Name  those  that  have  offended  you. 

Isab.  I  am  one, 
And  I  will  justify  it. 

Mart.  Thou  art  a  base  fellow, 
To  take  her  part. 

Fran.  Remember,  she's  the  dutchess. 

Marc.  But  used  with  more  contempt,  than  if  I  were 
A  peasant's  daughter;  baited,  and  hooted  at, 
Like  to  a  common  strumpet ;  with  loud  noises 
Forced  from  my  pravers ;  and  my  private  chamber, 
Which,  with  all  willingness,  I  would  make  my  prison 


CENE    I.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


During  the  absence  of  my  lord,  denied  me  : 
But  it  he  e'er  return 

Fran.  Were  you  an  actor 
In  this  lewd  comedy  ? 

Mart.  Ay,  marrv  was  I  j 
And  will  be  one  again. 

[tab.  I'll  join  with  her, 
Though  you  repine  at  it. 

Fran.  Think  not,  then,  I  speak, 
For  I  stand  bound  to  honour,  and  to  serve  you, 
But  that  the  duke,  that  lives  in  this  great  lady, 
For  the  contempt  of  him  in  her,  commands  you 
To  be  close  prisoners. 

I  sab.  Mart.  Prisoners  ! 

Frati.  Bear  them  hence ; 
This  is  your  charge,  my  lord  Tiberio, 
And.  Stephano,  this  is  yours. 

Marc.  I  am  not  cruel, 
But  pleased  thev  may  have  liberty. 

Isab.  Pleased,  with  a  mischief ! 

Mari.  I'll  rather  live  in  any  loathsome  dungeon, 
Than  in  a  paradise  at  her  entreaty  : 
And,  for  you,  upstart 

Steph.  There  is  no  contending. 

Tib.  What  shall  become  of  these  ? 

Fran.  See  them  well  whipp'd, 
As  you  will  answer  it. 

fib.  Now,  signior  Graccho, 
What  think  you*  of  your  greatness  ? 

Grac.  I  preach  patience, 
And  must  endure  my  fortune. 

1  Fid.  1  was  never  yet 
At  such  a  hunt's-upt,  nor  was  so  rewarded. 

[Eieunt  all  but  Francisco  and  Marcelia. 

Fran.  Let  them  first  know  themselves,  and  how 

you  are 

To  be  served  and  honour'd  ;  which,  when  they  con- 
fess, 

You  may  again  receive  them  to  your  favour : 
And  then  it  will  shew  nobly. 

Marc.   With  my  thanks 
The  duke  shall  pay  you  his,  if  he  return 
To  bless  us  with  his  presence. 

Fran.  There  is  nothing 
That  can  be  added  to  your  fair  acceptance  ; 
That  is  the  prize,  indeed ;  all  else  are  blanks. 
And  of  no  value.     As,  in  virtuous  actions, 
The  undertaker  finds  a  full  reward, 
Although  conferr'd  upon  unthankful  men ; 

•  Tib.  \ow  Siynior  Graccho, 

H'hat  think  you  of  your  yreatnest  J]  So  the  first  qnarto. 
Coxeter  anil  Mr.  W.  Mason  IV,lluw  the  second,  which  reads, 
What's  hfcome  of  your  yreattiets  ? 

t  1  Fill    /  lias  nt rer  yet 

At  *uch  a  hunt's  -up,]  The  hunt't-ttp  was  a  lesson  on  the 
horn,  played  under  the  windows  of  sportsmen,  to  call  them 
np  in  the  morning.  It  was,  probably,  sufficiently  obstrepe- 
rous, tor  it  is  irequentl)  applied  by  our  rid  writers,  as  in  this 
place,  to  any  noise  or  clamour  of  an  awakening  or  alarming 
natme.  The  tune,  or  rather,  perhaps,  the  words  to  it,  was 
compos  d  by  oi.e  Gray,  in  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.  who,  as 
Puttenham  tills  us,  to  lib  Art  of  Enylish  Poesy,  WMS  much 
pleased  with  it.  Of  its  popularity  there  can  be  no  doubt,  for 
it  w.is  01. e  of  the  songs  travestied  by  the  Scotch  Reformers 
into  "  ane  glide  and  gully  ballale,"  for  the  edification  of  the 
elect.  The  first  stanza  of  (he  original  is  come  down  to  us: 
"  The  hnnte  is  np,  the  hnn'e  is  up,  » 

And  umvt  it  is  almost  dayc  ; 
And  he  that's  in  bed  with  another  man's  wife, 

It  is  time  to  get  awaye." 

The  tune,  I  suppose,  is  lost;  but  we  have  a  hant's-iipof  our 
own,  which  is  still  played  under  the  window*  of  the -lug^ish 
sportsman,  and  consists  of  a  chorus  of  men,  dogi,  and  burns, 
not  a  little  alarming. 


So.  any  service  done  to  so  much  sweetness. 
However  dangerous,  and  subject  to 
An  ill  construction,  in  your  favour  finds 
A  wish'd,  and  glorious  end. 

Marc.  From  you,  I  take  this 
As  loyal  duty  ;  but,  in  any  other, 
It  would  appear  gross  flattery. 

Fran.  Flattery,  madam  ! 
You  are  so  rare  and  excellent  in  all  things, 
And  raised  so  high  upon  a  rock  of  goodness, 
As  that  vice  cannot  reach  you*  ;  who  but  looks  on 
This  temple,  built  by  nature  to  perfection, 
But  must  bow  to  it ;  and  out  of  that  zeal, 
Not  only  learn  to  adore  it,  but  to  love  it  ? 

Marc.  Whither  will  this  fellow?  [Asidt 

Fran.  Pardon,  therefore,  madam, 
If  an  excess  in  me  of  humble  duty, 
Teach  me  to  hope,  and  though  it  be  not  in 
The  power  of  man  to  merit  such  a  blessing, 
My  piety,  for  it  is  more  than  love, 
May  find  reward. 

Marc.  You  have  it  in  my  thanks  ; 
And,  on  my  hand,  I  am  pleased  that  you  shall  take 
A  full  possession  of  it ;  but,  take  heed 
That  you  fix  here,  and  feed  no  hope  beyond  it ; 
If  you  do,  it  will  prove  fatal. 

Fran.  Be  it  death, 

And  death  with  torments  tyrants  ne'er  found  out, 
Yet  I  must  say,  I  love  you. 

Marc.  As  a  subject ; 
And  'twill  become  you. 

Fran.  Farewell  circumstance ! 
And  since  you  are  not  pleased  to  understand  me, 
But  by  a  plain  and  usual  form  of  speech ; 
All  superstitious  reverence  laid  by, 
I  love  you  as  a  man,  and,  as  a  man, 
I  would  enjoy  you.     Why  do  you  start,  and  fly  met 
I  am  no  monster,  and  you  but  a  woman, 
A  woman  made  to  yield,  and  by  example 
Told  it  is  lawful :  favours  of  this  nature, 
Are,  in  our  age,  no  miracles  in  the  greatest ; 
And,  therefore,  lady 

Marc.  Keep  off.     O  you  Powers  ! 

Libidinous  beast !  and,  add  to  that,  unthankful ! 

A  crime,  which  creatures  wanting  reason,1  fly  from  ; 

Are  all  the  princely  bounties,  favours,  honours, 

Which,  with  some  prejudice  to  his  own  wisdom, 

Thy  lord  and  raiser  hath  conferr'd  upon  thee, 

In  three  days  absence  buried  !  Hath  he  made  thee, 

A  thing  obscure,  almost  without  a  name, 

The  envy  of  great  fortunes  ?     Have  I  graced  thee, 

Beyond  thy  rank,  and  entertain 'd  thee,  as 

A  friend,  and  not  a  servant  ?  and  is  this, 

This  impudent  attempt  to  taint  mine  honour, 

The  fair  return  of  both  our  ventured  favours ! 

Fran.  Hear  my  excuse. 

Marc.  The  devil  may  plead  mercy, 
And  with  as  much  assurance,  as  thou  yield  one, 
Burns  lust  so  hot  in  thee  1  or  is  thy  pride 
Grown  up  to  such  a  height,  that,  but  a  princess, 
No  woman  can  content  thee  ;  and,  add  to  it, 
His  wife  and  princess,  to  whom  thou  art  tied 
In  all  the  bonds  of  duty  ? — Read  my  life, 
And  find  one  act  of  mine  so  loosely  carried 
That  could  invite  a  most  self-loving  fool, 

•  At  that  vice  cannot  reach  you;]  i.  e.  flattery  :  Coxi-ter 
deserts  the  old  copies  here,  and  reads,  I  know  not  for  what 
reason, 

Th'it  vice  can  never  reach  you! 
His  Achates  follows  him   a<  usual. 


72 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


a 


Set  off  with  all  that  fortune  could  throw  on  him, 
To  the  least  hope  to  find  way  to  my  favour ; 
And,  what's  the  worst  mine  enemies  could  wish  me, 
I'll  be  thy  strumpet. 

Fran.  'Tis  acknowledged,  madam, 
That  your  whole  course  of  life  hath  been  a  pattern 
For  chaste  and  virtuous  women.     In  your  beauty, 
Which  I  first  saw,  and  loved,  as  a  fair  crystal, 
I  read  your  heavenly  mind,  clear  and  untainted  ; 
And  while  the  duke  did  prize  you  to  your  value, 
Could  it  have  been  in  man  to  pay  that  duty, 
I  well  might  envy  him,  but  durst  not  hope 
To  stop  you  in  your  full  career  of  goodness  : 
But  now"  I  find  that  he's  fall'n  from  his  fortune, 
And,  howsoever  he  would  appear  doting, 
Grown  cold  in  his  affection  ;  I  presume, 
Frbm  his  most  barbarous  neglect  of  you, 
To  offer  my  true  service.    Nor  stand  I  bound, 
To  look  back  ou  the  courtesies  of  him, 
That,  of  all  living  men,  is  most  unthankful. 

Marc,  Unheard-of  impudence  ! 

Fran.  You'll  say  I  am  modest, 
When  I  have  told  the  story.     Can  he  tax  me. 
That  have  received  some  worldly  trifles  from  him, 
For  being  ungrateful ;  when  he,  that  first  tasted, 
And  bath  so  long  enjoy 'd,  your  sweet  embraces. 
In  which  all  blessings  that  our  frail  condition 
Is  capable  of,  are  wholly  comprehended, 
As  cloy'dwith  happiness,  contemns  the  giver 
Of  his  felicity  !  and,  as  he  reach'd  not 
The  masterpiece  of  mischief  which  he  aims  at, 
Unless  he  pay  those  favours  he  stands  bound  to, 
With  fell  and  deadly  hate  !— You  think  he  loves  you 
With  unexampled  fervour  ;  nay,  dotes  on  you, 
As  there  were  something  in  you  more  than  woman: 
When,  on  my  knowledge,  he  long  since  hath  wish'd 
You  were  among  the  dead  ; — and  I,  you  scorn  so, 
Perhaps,  am  your  preserver. 

Marc.  Bless  me,  good  angels, 
Or  I  am  blasted  !  Lies  so  false  and  wicked, 
And  fashion'd  to  so  damnable  a  purpose. 
Cannot  be  spoken  by  a  human  tongue. 
My  husband  hate  me  !  give  thyself  the  lie, 
False  and  accurs'd  !  Thy  soul,  if  thou  hast  any. 
Can  witness,  never  lady  stood  so  bound 
To  the  unfeign'd  affection  of  her  lord. 
As  I  do  to  my  Sforza.    If  thou  wouldst  work 
Upon  my  weak  credulity,  tell  me,  rather, 
That  the  earth  moves  ;  the  sun  and  stars  stand  still ; 
The  ocean  keeps  nor  floods  nor  ebbs  ;  or  that 
There's  peace  between  the  lion  and  the  lamb  ; 
Or  that  the  ravenous  eagle  and  the  dove 
Keep  in  one  aerie*,  and  bring  up  their  young ; 
Or  any  thing  that  is  averse  to  nature  : 
And  1  will  sooner  credit  it,  than  that 
My  lord  can  think  of  me,  but  as  a  jewel, 
He  loves  more  than  himself,  and  all  the  world. 

F ran.  O  innocence  abused  !  simplicity  cozen'd ! 
It  were  a  sin,  for  which  we  have  no  name, 
To  keep  you  longer  in  this  wilful  error. 
Read  his  affection  here  ; — [Gives  her  a  paper.] — and 

then  observe 

How  dear  he  holds  you  !  'Tis  his  character, 
Which  cunning  yet  could  never  counterfeit. 


•  Or  that  the  ravenous  eayle  and  the  dove 

Krpt  in  one  aerie,)  i.  e.  in  one  nest.  Mr.  M.  Mason 
degrades  \fas?inger  and  himself,  by  reading,  Keep  in  one 
aviary  !  Such  rashness,  and  such  incompetence,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  do  not  often  meet  in  one  person. 


Marc.  Tis  his  hand,  I'm  resolved*  of  it.     I'll  try 
What  the  inscription  is. 
Fran.  Pray  you,  do  so. 

Marc,  [reads.]  You  know  my  pleasure,  and  the  how 
of  Marcetia's  death,  which  Jail  not  to  eiecute,  as  i/»« 
wilt  answer  the  contrary,  not  with  your  head  alone,  but 
with  the  ruin  of  your  whole  family.  And  this,  written 
with  mine  own  hand,  and  signed  with  my  privy  signet, 
shall  be  your  sufficient  warrant. 

LODOVICO  SFORZA. 

I  do  obey  it ;  every  word's  a  poniard, 

And  reaches  to  my  heart.  [S/ie  swoons. 

Fran.  What  have  I  done  ! 

Madam  !  for  heaven's  sake,  madam  ! — 0  my  fate! 
I'll  bend  her  body*  :  this  is,  yet,  some  pleasure  : 
I'll  kiss  her  into  a  new  life.     Dear  lady  ! — 
She  stirs.     For  the  duke's  sake,  for  Sforza's  sake — 

Marc.  Sforza's !    stand  off' ;  though  dead,   1   will 

be  his, 

And  even  my  ashes  shall  abhor  the  touch, 
Of  any  other. — 0  unkind,  and  cruel  ! 
Learn,  women,  learn  to  trust  in  one  another  ; 
There  is  no  faith  in  man  :  Sforza  is  false, 
False  to  Marcelia  ! 

Fran.  But  I  am  true, 

And  live  to  make  you  happy.     All  the  pomp, 
State,  and  observance  you  had,  being  his, 
Compared  to  what  you  shall  enjoy,  when  mine, 
Shall  be  no  more  remember'd.     Lose  his  memory, 
And  look  with  cheerful  beams  on  your  new  creature , 
And  know,  what  he  hath  plotted  for  your  good, 
Fate  cannot  alter.     ]f  the  emperor 
Take  not  his  life,  at  his  return  he  dies, 
And  by  my  hand  ;  my  wife,  that  is  his  heir, 
Shall  quickly  follow  : — then  we  reign  alone! 
For  with  this  arm  I'll  swim  through  seas  of  blood, 
Or  make  a  bridge,  arch'd  with  the  bones  of  men, 
But  1  will  grasp  my  aims  in  you,  my  dearest, 
Dearest,  and  best  of  women  $! 

Marc.  Thou  art  a  villain  ! 
All  attributes  of  arch  villains  made  into  one, 
Cannot  express  thee.     I  prefer  the  hate 
Of  Sforza   though  it  mark  me  for  the  grave, 
Before  thy  base  affection.  1  am  yet 
Pure  and  unspotted  in  my  true  love  to  him  ; 
Nor  shall  it  be  corrupted,  though  he's  tainted  : 
Nor  will  1  part  with  innocence,  because 
He  is  found  guilty.     For  thyself,  thou  art 
A  thing,  that,  equal  with  the  devil  himself, 
I  do  detest  and  scorn. 

Fran.  Thou,  then,  art  nothing  : 


•  'Til  his  hand,  I'm  resolved  of  it.]      I  am  convinced  of 
it :  so  the  word   is   frequently  used    by  Massinger's  cuntem 
poraries.     Thus  Fletcher,  in  the  Faithful  Shepherdess  : 
"  But  be  they  t'.tr  from  me  with  ihfir  fond  lertoi  I — 

1  am  resolved  my  Chloe  yet  is  true." 
And  Webster,  in  the  »/  kite  Devil: 
"  I  am  resolved, 

Were  there  a  second  paradise  to  lose, 
This  devil  would  betray  it." 

t  fit  bend   her  bo<ly  :]  —  to  try  if  there  be  any  life  in  i 
Thus,  in  the  Maid  «  Tragedy  : 

"  I've  heard,  if  there  be  any  life,  but  bow 

The  body  thus,  and  it  will  show  it*t-li." 

J  But  J  wilt  era«p  my  aims  in  yon,  my  dearest, 

Dearest,  and  best  of  women .']  It  would  scarcely  be  ere 
dited,  if  we  had  not  the  proof  before  us,  that  for  this  bold  and 
animated  expression,  which  is  lhat  of  both  ill--  qiurios,  Mr. 
M.  Mason  should  presume  to  print,  Rut  I  will  grasp  you  in 
my  arms,  in  the  tame  rant  of  modern  comedy.  C»xeter'a 
reading  u  simple  nonsense,  which  i.-.  better  than  specious 
sophistication,  as  it  excites  suspicion. 


SCENE  1-1 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


73 


Thy  life  is  in  my  power,  disdainful  woman  ! 
Think  on't,  and  tremble. 

Marc.  No,  though  thou  wert  now 
To  play  thy  hangman's  part. — Thou  well  may'st  be 
My  executioner,  and  art  only  fit 
For  such  employment ;  but  ne'er  hope  to  have 
The  least  grace  from  me.     I  will  never  see  thee, 
Hut  as  the  shame  of  men  :  so,  with  my  curses 
Of  horror  to  thv  conscience  in  this  life, 
And  pains  in  hell  hereafter,  I  spit  at  thee  ; 
And,  making  haste  to  make  my  peace  with  heaven, 
Expect  thee  as  my  hangman.  [Exit. 


Fran.  I  am  lost 

In  the  discovery  of  this  fatal  secret. 

Curs'd  hope,  that  flatter 'd  me,  that  wrongs  could 
make  her 

A  stranger  to  her  goodness  !  all  my  plots 

Turn  back  upon  myself;  but  I  am  in, 

And  must  go  on  :  and,  since  I  have  put  off 

From  the  shore  of  innocence,  guilt  be  now  my  pilot ! 

Revenge  first  wrought  me  * ;  murder's  his  twin- 
brother  : 

One  deadly  sin,  then,  help  to  cure  another  ;       [Eiii 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — The  Imperial  Camp,  Before  Pavia. 
Enter  MEDINA,  HERNAVDO,  and  ALPHONSO, 

Med.  The  spoil,  the   spoil  ?  'tis  that  the    soldier 

fights  for. 

Our  victory,  as  yet,  affords  us  nothing 
But  wounds  and  empty  honour.     Wf  have  pass'd 
The  hazard  of  a  dreadful  day,  and  forced 
A  passage  with  our  swords  through  all  the  dangers 
That,  page-like,  wait  on  the  success  of  war  ; 
And  now  expect  reward. 

Hern.  Hell  put  it  in 

The  enemy's  mind  to  be  desperate,  and  hold  out ! 
Yielding:*  and  compositions  will  undo  us; 
And  what  is  that  way  given,  for  the  most  part, 
Comes  to  the  emperor's  coffers,  to  defray 
Thf-  charge  of  the  great  action,  as  'tis  rumour'd  ; 
When,    usually,    some   thing  in   grace,    that   ne'er 

heard 

The  cannon's  roaring  tongue,  but  at  a  triumph, 
Puts  in,  and  for  his  intercession  shares 
All  that  we  fought  for  :  the  poor  soldier  left 
To  stirve,  or  fill  up  hospitals. 

Alph.  But,  when 

We  enter  towns  \>y  force,  and  carve  ourselves, 
Pleasure  with  pillage,  and  the  richest  wines, 
Open  our  shrunk-up  veins,  and  pour  into  them 
New  blood  and  fervour 

Med,  1  long  to  be  at  it ; 

To  see  these  chuffs*,  that  every  day  may  spend 
A  soldier's  entertainment  for  a  year, 
Yet  make  a  third  meal  of  a  bunch  of  raisinsf  : 

•  To  see  these  chuffs,]  So  it  stood  in  every  edition  before 
Mr.  M.  Mason's,  when  it  was  altered  to  chotiyhs,  and  ex- 
plained in  a  note,  to  mean  maypieg  !  What  magpie*  could 
have  to  do  here,  it  would,  perhaps,  have  puttied  Uic  editor, 
had  he  thought  at  all  on  tlie  subject,  to  discover  The  truth 
is,  that  chuff  is  the  genuine  word  :  it  is  always  used  in  a  had 
ten  e,  an  I  means  a  coarse  uninannered  clown,  at  once  sordid 
and  wealthy. 

t  Yet  make  a  third  meal  of  a  lunch  ofraix'ns:]  So  all  the 
old  copies:  and  so,  indeed,  Coxeter ;  but  Mr.  M.  Mason, 
•whose  si<;acitj  nothing  escapes,  detected  the  poet's  blunder, 
and  for  third  suggested,  nay,  actually  printed,  thin.  "  This 
passage,"  quoth  i,e,  "  appears  to  be  erroneous  :  the  making 
a  third  meal  of  raisin-,  if  they  made  two  good  meals  be  ore, 
•would  be  no  proof  of  penurionsness.  I  therefoie  lead  th  n." 

Serioujly,  was  ever  alteration  so  capricious,  was  ever  rea- 
soning so  absurd  ?  Where  is  it  said  that  these  chuffs  '•  had 
made  two  good  meals  before?"  Is  not  the  whole  tend  my 
of  the  spe.-ch  to  shew  that  they  siaivrd  themselves  m  tie 
midst  of  abundance  >  and  are  not  the  reproaches  such,  as  have 
been  cast,  in  all  ayes,  by  men  of  Medina's  stamp,  on  the 


These  sponges,  that  suck  up  a  kingdom's  fat, 
Battening  like  scarabs  t  in  the  dunir  of  peace, 
To  be  squeezed  out  by  the  rough  hand  of  war ; 
And  all  that  their  whole  lives  have  heap'd  together  ; 
By  cozenage,  perjury,  or  sordid  thrift, 
With  one  gripe  to  be  ravish'd. 

Hern.   I  would  be  tousing 
Their  fair  madonas,  that  in  little  dogs, 
Monkeys,  and  paraquittos,  consume  thousands: 
Yet,  for  the  advancement  of  a  noble  action, 
Repine  to  part  with  a  poor  piece  of  eight : 
War's  plagues  upon  them  !  I  have  seen  them  stop 
Their  scornful  noses  first,  then  seem  to  swoon, 
At  sight  of  a  buff  jerkin,  if  it  were  not 
Perfumed,  and  hid  with  gold  :  yet  these  nice  wantons, 
Spurr'd  on  by  lust,  cover'd  in  some  disguise, 
To  meet  some  rough  court-stallion,  and  be  leap'd 
Durst  enter  into  any  common  brothel, 
Though  all  varieties  of  stink  contend  there; 
Yet  praise  the  entertainment. 

Med.  I  may  live 

To  see  the  tatter'd'st  rascals  of  my  troop 
Drag  them  out  of  their  closets  with  a  vengeance ; 
When  neither  threatening,  flattering,  kneeling,  how- 
ling. 

Can  ransome  one  poor  jewel,  or  redeem 
Themselves,  from  their  blunt  wooing. 

Hern.  My  main  hope  is, 
To  begin  the  sport  at  Milan  :  there's  enough, 
And  of  all  kinds  of  pleasure  we  can  wish  for, 
To  satisfy  the  most  covetous. 

Alpli.  Every  day, 
We  look  for  a  remove. 

Med.  For  Lodowick  Sforza, 
The  duke  of  Milan,  I,  on  mine  own  knowledge, 


sober   and    frugal  citi/en,   who    lived   within   his  income  t 
"  Surely."  says  I'lotwtll,  in  tlte  City  Match, 
"  Surfly,  myself, 

Cipher  his  factor,  and  an  ancient  cat, 
Did  keep  strict  diet,  h.id  our  Spanish  fare, 
Four  olives  among  three!     My  uncle  would 
Lock  fat  with  fasting;  I  have  known  him  surfeit 
C'pon  a  bunch  of  raisins,  swoon  at  sight 
Ol  a  whole  joint,  and  rise  an  epicure 
From  half  an  orange." 

*  Becenye  first  wrought  me,  &c.]  The  reader  should  not 
suffer  these  hints,  of  whicn  he  will  find  several  in  the  suc- 
ceeding pages,  to  esc-ipe  him  :  they  are  not  thrown  out  at 
landom  by  Malinger,  but  intended  to  prepare  the  mind  for 
the  dreadful  retaliation  which  follows. 

t  fattening  like  scarabs  I  Scarabs  mears  beetles.  M. 
MASON.  Very  true;  and  beetles  means  scarabs  1 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


Can  say  thus  much  :  he  is  too  much  a  soldier, 
Too  confident  of  his  own  worth,  too  rich  too, 
And  understands  too  well  the  emperor  hates  him, 
To  hope  for  composition. 

Alph.  On  my  life, 
We  need  not  fear  his  coming  in  *. 

Hern.  On  mine, 

I  do  not  wish  it :  I  had  rather  that, 
To  shew  his  valour,  he'd  put  us  to  the  trouble 
To  fetch  him  in  by  the  ears. 

Med.  The  emperor. 

Flimrish.     Enter  CHARLES,  PESCARA.  and  Attendants 

Churl.  You   make    me    wonder: — nay,   it   is   no 

counsel  t, 

You  may  partake  it,  gentlemen :  who'd  have  thought, 
That  he,  that  scorn 'd  our  proft'er'd  amity 
When  he  was  sued  to,  should,  ere  he  be  summon'd 
(Whether persuaded  to  it  by  base  fear. 
Or  flatter'd  by  false  hope,  which,  'tis  uncertain,) 
First  kneel  for  mercy  ? 

Med.  When  your  majesty 
Shall  please  to  instruct  us  who  it  is,  we  may 
Admire  it  with  you 

Chart.  Who.  but  the  duke  of  Milan, 
The  right  hand  of  the  French  !  of  all  that  stand 
]n  our  displeasure,  whom  necessity 
Compels  to  seek  our  favour,  I  would  have  sworn 
Sforza  had  been  the  last. 

Hern.  And  should  be  writ  so, 
In  the  list  of  those  you  pardon.     Would  his  city 
Had  rather  held  us  out  a  siege,  like  Troy, 
Than,  by  a  feign'd  submission,  he  should  cheat  you 
Of  a  just  revenge  ;  or  us,  of  those  fair  glories 
We  have  sweat  blood  to  purchase ! 

Med.  With  your  honour 
You  cannot  hear  him. 

Alph.  The  sack  alone  of  Milan 
Will  pay  the  army. 

Churl.  1  am  not  so  weak, 
To  be  wrought  on,  as  you  fear;  nor  ignorant 
That  motiey  is  the  sinew  of  the  war : 
And  on  what  terms  soever  he  seek  peace, 
'Tis  in  our  power  to  grant  it,  or  deny  it : 
Yet,  for  our  glory,  and  to  shew  him  that 
We've  brought  him  on  his  knees,  it  is  resolved 
To  hear  him  as  a  suppliant.     Bring  him  in ; 
But  let  him  see  the  eflvcts  of  our  just  anger, 
In  the  guard  that  you  make  for  him. 

[Exit  Pescara. 

Hem.  I  am  now 

Familiar  with  the  issue ;  all  plagues  on  it ! 
He  will  appear  in  some  dejected  habit, 
His  countenance  suitable,  and,  for  his  order, 
A  rope  about  his  neck  :  then  kneel,  and  tell 
Old  stories,  what  a  worthy  thing  it  is 
To  have  power,  and  not  to  use  it ;  then  add  to  that, 
A  tale  of  king  Tigrane?,  and  great  Pompey, 
Who  said,  forsooth,  and  wisely  !  'Twasmore  honour 
To  make  a  king,  than  kill  one  ;  which,  applied 
To  the  emperor,  and  himself,  a  pardon's  granted 
To  him,  an  enemy  ;  and  we,  his  servants, 
Condemn'd  to  beggary. 

•        Alph.  On  my  life 

We  need,  not.  fear  hir  coining  in.l  His  surrender  of  himself. 
Hernamlu,  in  the  nt- it  sr-erch,  plnys  upon  the  word. 

nay,  it  is  no  counsel, |    i.  e.  no  secret:   »o 

in  Cupid' t  lievenye : 

1  would  worry  her, 

As  never  cur  was  worried,  I  would,  neighbonr, 

Till  my  teeth  met  I  know  where  ;  but  that  is  counsel." 


Med.  Yonder  he  comes  ; 
But  not  as  you  expected. 

Re-enter  PESCARA  with  SFORZA. 

Alph.  He  looks  as  if 
He  would  out  face  his  dangers. 

Hern.  I  am  cozen'd  : 
A  suitor,  in  the  devil's  name  ! 

Med.  Hear  him  speak. 

Sfor.  I  come  not,  emperor,  to  invade  thy  mercy, 
By  fawning  on  thy  fortune  ;  nor  bring  with  me 
Excuses,  or  denials.     I  profess, 
And  with  a  good  man's  confidence,  even  this  instant 
That  I  am  in  thy  power,  I  was  thine  enemy ; 
Thy  deadly  and  vow'dj  enemy  :  one  that  wish'd 
Confusion  to  thy  person  and  estates  ; 
And  with  my  utmost  powers,  and  deepest  counsels, 
Hud  they  been  truly  follow'd,  further'd  it. 
Nor  will  I  now,  although  my  neck  were  under 
The  hangman's  axe,  with  one  poor  syllable 
Confess,  but  that  I  honour'd  the  French  king, 
More  than  thyself,  and  all  men, 

Med.  By  saint  Jaques, 
This  is  no  flattery 

Hern.  There  is  fire  and  spirit  in't ; 
But  not  long-lived,  I  hope. 

Sj'or.  Now  give  me  leave, 
My  hate  against  thyself,  and  love  to  him 
Freely  acknowledged,  to  give  up  the  reasons 
That  made  me  so  affected  :   In  my  wants 
I  ever  found  him  faithful  ;  had  supplies 
Of  men  and  monies  from  him  ;  and  my  hopes, 
Quite  sunk,  were,  by  his  grace,  buoy'd  up  again : 
He  was,  indeed,  to  me,  as  my  good  angel, 
To  guard  me  from  all  dangers.     I  dare  speak, 
Nay,  must  and  will,  his  praise  now,  in  as  high 
And  loud  a  key,  as  when  he  was  thy  equal. 
The  benefits  he  sow'd  in  me,  met  not 
Unthankful  ground,  but  yielded  him  his  own 
With  fair  increase,  and  I  still  glory  in  it. 
And,  though  my  fortunes,  poor,  compared  to  his, 
And  Milan,  weigh 'd  with  France,  appear  as  nothing, 
Are  in  thy  fury  burnt,  let  it  be  mention'd, 
They  served  but  as  small  tapers  to  attend 
The  solemn  flame  at  this  great  funeral  *  : 
And  with  them  I  will  gladly  waste  myself, 
Rather  than  undergo  the  imputation 
Of  being  base,  or  unthankful. 

Alph.  Nobly  spoken ! 

Hern.  I  do  begin,  I  know  not  why,  to  hate  him 
Less  than  I  did. 

Sfcr.  If  that,  then,  to  be  grateful 
For  courtesies  received,  or  not  to  leave 
A  friend  in  his  necessities,  be  a  crime 
Amongst  you  Spaniards,  which  other  nations 
That,  like  you,  aim'd  at  empire,  loved,  and  cherish'd 
Where'er  they  found  it,  Sforza  brings  his  head 
To  pay  the  forfeit.     Nor  come  I  as  a  slave, 
Piniori'd  and  fetter'd,  in  a  squalid  weed, 
Falling  before  thy  feet,  kneeling  and  howling, 
For  a  forestall'd  remission  :  that  were  poor, 
And  would  but  shame  thy  victory  ;  for  conquest 
Over  base  foes,  is  a  captivity, 
And  not  a  triumph.     I  ne'er  fear'd  to  die, 
More  than  1  wish'd  to  live.     When  I  had  reach'd 
My  ends  in  being  a  duke,  1  wore  these  robes, 


* at  this  great  funeral  .•]    Mr.  M.  Mason. 

whether  by  design  or  not,  I  will  not  say,  read?,  his  great 
funeral :  meaning,  perhaps,  the  French  kind's;  but  'he  oW 
reading  is  better  in  every  respect- 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN.' 


75 


This  crown  upon  my  head,  and  to  my  side 

This  sword  was  girt ;  and  witness  truth,  that,  now 

'Tis  in  another's  power  when  1  shall  part 

With  them  and  life  together,  I'm  the  same  : 

My  veins  then  did  not  swell  with  pride ;  nor  now 

Shrink  they  for  tear.     Know,  sir,  that  Sforza  stands 

Prepared  for  either  fortune. 

Hern.  As  I  live, 

I  do  begin  strangely  to  love  this  fellow  ; 
And  could  part  with  three  quarters  of  my  share  in 
The  promised  spoil,  to  save  him. 

Sjor.  But,  if  example 

Of  mv  fidelity  to  the  French,  whose  honours, 
Titles,  and  glories,  are  now  mix'd  with  yours, 
As  brooks,  devour'd  by  rivers,  lose  their  names, 
Has  power  to  invite  you  to  make  him  a  friend, 
That  hath  given  evident  proof,  he  knows  to  love, 
And  to  be  thankful  ;  this  my  crown,  now  yours, 
You  may  restore  me,  and  in  me  instruct      [change, 
These    brave    commanders,    should    your   fortune 
Which  now  I  wish  nut,  what  they  may  expect 
From  noble  enemies,  for  being  faithful. 
The  charges  of  the  war  I  will  defray. 
And,  what  you  may,  not  without  hazard,  force, 
Bring  freely  to  you  :   I'll  prevent  the  cries 
Ofmurderd  infants,  and  of  ravish'd  maids, 
Which,  in  a  city  sack'd,  call  on  heaven's  justice, 
And  stop  the  course  of  glorious  victories: 
And,  when  I  know  the  captains  and  the  soldiers, 
That  have  in  the  late  battle  done  be=t  service, 
And  are  to  be  rewarded,  I  myself, 
According  to  their  quality  and  merits, 
\\ill  see  them  largely  recompensed. — I  have  said, 
And  now  expect  my  sentence. 

Aiph.  By  this  light, 
Tis  a  brave  gentleman. 

Merl.  How  like  a.  block 
The  emperor  sits ! 

Hern.  He  hath  deliver'd  reasons*, 
Especially  in  his  purpose  to  enrich 
Such  as  fought  bravely,  I  myself  am  one, 
I  care  not  who  knows  it,  as  I  wonder  that 
He  can  be  so  stupid.     Now  he  begins  to  stir : 
Mercy,  an't  be  thy  will ! 

Churl.  Thou  hast  so  far 
Outgone  my  expectation,  noble  Sforza, 
For  such  I  hold  thee  ; — and  true  constancy, 
Raised  on  a  brave  foundation,  bears  such  palm 
And  privilege' with  it,  that  where  we  behold  it, 
Though  in  an  enemy,  it  does  command  us 
To  love  and  honour  it.     By  my  future  hopes, 
I  am  glad,  for  thy  sake,  that,  in  seeking  favour, 
Thou  didst  not  borrow  of  vice  her  indirect, 
Crooked,  and  abject  means  ;  and  for  mine  own, 
That  since  my  purposes  must  now  be  changed, 
Touching  thy  life  a^d  fortunes,  the  world  cannot 
Tax  me  of  levity  in  my  settled  compels  ; 
I  being  neither  wrought  bv  tempting  bribes, 
Nor  servile  flattery  ;  but  forced  into  it 
By  a  fair  war  of  virtue. 


*  He  hath  deliver'd  reasons,'  Hernando  evidently  means 
to  say  that  Stor/..i  IMS  >poki>n  rati»nall\,  especially  in  ex- 
pressing liis  purpose  of  enriching  those  who  (ought  bravely  : 
the  word  reasons  in  the  plural  will  not  express  that  sense. 
M.  MASON. 

He  therefore  alters  it  to  reason  !  To  attempt  lo  prove  that 
the  old  copies  are  right,  wonM  be  superflnoii- :—  but  I  c.miiot 
reflect,  without  some  indignation,  on  the  scandalous  manner 
in  which  Mr.  41.  Mason  has  given  this  speech.  He  first 
deprives  it  "f  metre  and  sense,  ami  then  bin'-ls  up  new  read- 
ings OD  his  own  blunders. 


Hern.  This  sounds  well. 

Chart.  All  former  passages  of  hate  be  buried  : 
For  thus  with  open  arms  I  meet  thy  love, 
And  as  a  friend  embrace  it ;  and  so  far 
I  am  from  robbing  thee  of  the  least  honour, 
That  with  my  hands,  to  make  it  sit  the  faster, 
I  set  thy  crown  once  more  upon  thy  head  ; 
And  do  not  only  style  thee,  Duke  of  Milan, 
But  vow  to  keep  thee  so.     Yet,  not  to  take 
From  others  to  uive  only  to  myself*, 
I  will  not  hinder  your  magnificence 
To  my  commanders,  neither  will  1  urge  it  ; 
But  in  that,  as  in  all  things  else,  I  leave  you 
To  be  your  own  disposer. 

[Flourish.  Exit  ti-ith  Attendants. 

Sfor.  May  I  live 

To  seal  my  loyalty,  though  with  loss  of  life, 
In  some  brave  service  worthy  Cwsar's  favour, 
And  I  shall  die  most  happy  !  Gentlemen, 
Receive  me  to  your  loves  ;  and  if  henceforth 
There  can  arise  a  difference  between  us, 
It  shall  be  in  a  noble  emulation 
Who  hath  the  fairest  sword,  or  dare  go  farthest, 
To  fight  for  Charles  the  emperor. 

Hern.  We  embrace  you, 
As  one  well  read  in  all  the  points  of  honour* 
And  there  we  are  your  scholars. 

Sjor.  True  ;  but  such 
As  far  outstrip  the  master.     We'll  contend 
In  love  hereafter ;  in  the  mean  time,  pray  you, 
Let  me  discharge  my  debt,  and,  as  an  earnest  % 

Of  what's  to  come,  divide  this  cabinet : 
In  the  small  body  of  it  there  are  jewels 
Will  yield  a  hundred  thousand  pistolets, 
Which  honour  me  to  receive. 

J\Ied.  You  bind  us  to  you.  [his  presence, 

Sjor.  And  when  great  Charles  commands  me  to 
If  you  will  please  to  excuse  my  abrupt  departure, 
Designs  that  most  concern  me,  next  this  mercy, 
Calling  me  home,  I  shall  hereafter  meet  you, 
And  gratify  the  favour. 

Hern.  In  this,  and  all  things, 
W7e  are  your  servants. 

Sfor.  A  name  I  ever  owe  you. 

[Exeunt  Medina,  Hernando,  and  Alphonso. 

Pesc.  So,  sir  ;  this  tempest  is  well  overblown, 
And  all  tilings  fall  out  to  our  wishes :  but, 
In  my  opinion,  this  quick  return, 
Before  you've  made  a  party  in  the  court 
Among  the  great  ones,  (for  these  needy  captains 
Have  little  power  in  peace,)  may  beget  danger, 
At  least  suspicion. 

Sfor.  Where  true  honour  lives, 
Doubt  hath  no  being  :  I  desire  no  pawn 
Beyond  an  emperor's  word,  for  my  assurance. 
Besides,  Pescara,  to  thyself,  of  all  men, 
I  will  confess  my  weakness  : — though  my  state 
And  crown's  restored  me,  though  1  am  in  grace, 
And  that  a  little  stay  might  be  a  step 
To  greater  honours,  1  must  hence.     Alas  ! 
I  live  not  here  ;  my  wife,  my  wife  Pesiaraf, 

«  —    Yet,  not  to  take 

From  others,  tn  give  only  to  myself.l  This  is  the  reading 
of  all  the  old  copies,  and  nothing  can  be  clearer  than  that  it 
is  perfectly  proper.  The  modern  editors,  however,  choose 
to  weaken  both  the  sense  and  the  sentiment,  by  a  conceit  of 
their  own  :  they  print, toyiveimly  lo  thyself! 

t — —my  wife,  my  wife,  Pescara,]  Mr.  M.  Mason 

feebly  and  immetrically  reads, mywife.Pescara.  Th«re 

is  great  beauty  in  the  repetition  ;  it  is,  besides,  perfectly  IB 
character. 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[Acr  III 


Being  absent,  I  am  dead.     Prithee,  excuse. 
And  do  not  chide,  for  friendship's  sake,  my  fondness, 
Hut  ride  along  with  me  ;  I'll  give  you  reasons, 
And  strong  ones,  to  plead  for  me. 

Pesc.   Use  your  own  pleasure  ; 
I'll  bear  you  company. 

Sjbr.  Farewell,  grief!  I  am  stored  with 
Two  blessings  most  desired  in  human  life, 
A  constant  friend,  an  unsuspected  wife.  [Eieunl, 


SCENE   II.— Milan.— A  Room  in  the  Castle*. 
Enter  an  Officer  with  GUACCHO. 

Offic.  What  I  did,  I  had  warrant  for ;  you  have 

tasted 

My  office  gently,  and  for  those  soft  strokes, 
Flea-bitings  to  the  jerks  I  could  have  lent  you, 
There  Goes  belong  a  feeling. 

Graf.  Must  I  pay 
For  being  tormented,  and  dishonour'd  ? 

Offic.  Fie  !  no,  [out 

Your  honour's  not  impair'd  in't,     What's  the  letting 
Of  a  little  corrupt  bloodt,  and  the  next  way  too? 
There  is  no  surgeon  like  me,  to  take  off 
A  courtier's  itch  that's  rampant  at  great  ladies, 
Or  turns  knave  for  preferment,  or  grows  proud 
Of  his  rich  cloaks  and  suits,  though  got  by  brokage, 
And  so  forgets  his  betters. 

Graff.  Very  good,  sir : 
But  am  I  the  first  man  of  quality 
That  e'er  came  under  your  fingers  ? 

Offic.  Not  by  a  thousand ; 
And  they  have  said  1  have  a  lucky  hand  too : 
Both  men  and  women  of  all  sorts  have  bow'd 
Under  this  sceptre.     I  have  had  a  fellow 
That  could  endite,  forsooth,  and  make  fine  metres 
To  tinkle  in  the  ears  of  ignorant  madams, 
That,  for  defaming  of  great  men,  was  sent  me 
Threadbare  and  lousy,  and  in  three  days  after, 
Discharged  by  another  that  set  him  on,  I  have  seen 
Cap  a  pie  gallant,  and  his  stripes  wash'd  off      [him 
With  oil  of  angels.J 

Grac.  'Twas  a  sovereign  cure. 

Offic.  There  was  a  sectary  too,  that  would  not  be 
Conformable  to  the  orders  of  the  church, 
Nor  yield  to  any  argument  of  reason, 
But  still  rail  at  authority,  brought  to  me, 
When  I   had  worm'd  his  tongue,  and  truss'd  his 

haunches, 

Grew  a  fine  pulpitman,  and  was  beneficed : 
Had  he  not  cause  to  thank  me  ? 

Grac.  There  was  physic 
Was  to  the  purpose. 

Offic.  Now,  for  women,  sir, 
For  your  more  consolation,  I  could  tell  you 
Twenty  fine  stories,  but  I'll  end  in  one, 
And  'tis  the  last  that's  memorable. 

Grac.  Prithee,  do ; 
For  I  grow  weary  of  thee. 


•  Milan.  A  Room  in  the  Castle.']  Here  too  Coxeter  prints, 
•*  Scene  chani/et  t o  Pita  f"  and  here  too  lie  is  followed  by 
die  "  most  accurate  of  editors,"  Mr.  M.  Mason. 

t  Of  a  little  corrupt  blood,]  So  the  old  copies  ;  the  modern 
editors  read,  Of  a  little  corrupted  blood.'  This  reduces  the 
line  to  very  ^ood  prose,  which  is  indeed  its  only  merit. 

J  With  oil  <2/"angeU  ]  It  may  be  just  necessary  to  observe, 
Uut  this  it  a  pleasant  allusion  to  the  gold  coin  of  that  name. 


Offic.  There  was  lately* 
A  fine  she-waiter  in  the  court,  that  doted 
Extremely  of  a  gentleman,  that  had 
His  main  dependence  on  a  signior's  favour 
I  will  not  name,  but  could  not  compass  him 
On  any  terms.     This  wanton  at  dead  midnight, 
Was  found  at  the  exercise  behind  the  arras, 
With  the  'foresaid  signior  :  he  got  clear  off, 
But  she  was  seined  on,  and,  to  save  his  honoui, 
Endured  the  lash  ;  and,  though  I  made  her  often 
Curvet  and  caper,  she  would  never  tell 
Wlio  play'd  at  pushpin  with  her. 

Grac.  But  what  follow'd  ? 
Prithee  be  brief. 

Offic.  Why  this,  sir  :  She,  deliver'd, 
Had  store  of  crowns  assign'  her  by  her  patron, 
Who  forced  the  gentleman,  to  save  her  credit, 
To  marry  her,  and  say  he  was  the  party 
Found  in  lob's  pound  :  so  she,  that,  before,  gladly 
Would  have  been  his  whore,  reigns  o'er  him  as  his 

wife ; 

Nor  dares  he  grumble  at  it.     Speak  but  truth,  then, 
Is  not  my  office  lucky? 

Grac.  Go,  there's  for  thee; 
But  what  will  be  my  fortune  ? 

Ojfic  If  you  thrive  not 
After  that  soft  correction,  come  again. 

Grac.  I  thank  you,  knave. 

Offic.  And  then,  knave,  I  will  fit  you.  [Ea'K. 

Grac.  Whipt  like  a  rogue!  DO  lighter  punishment 

serve 

To  balance  with  a  little  mirth  :  't  is  well. 
My  credit  sunk  forever,  I  am  now 
Fit  company  only  for  pages  and  for  footboys, 
That  have  perused  the  porter's  lodgef. 

F.nter  JULIO  and  GIOVANNI}:. 

Giov.  See,  Julio, 

Yonder  the  proud  slave  is  ;  how  he  looks  now, 
After  his  castigation  ! 

Jul.  As  he  came 

From  a  close  fight§  at  sea  under  the  hatches, 
With  a  she-Dunkirk,  that  was  shot  before 


•  Offic.  There  wat  lately,  &C.1  I  have  little  doubt  but  that 
this  lively  story  was  founded  in  fact, and  well  mnlrrstood  by 
the  pott's  contemporaries.  The  courtiers  were  not  slow  in 
indemnifying  themselves  for  the  morose  and  gloomy  hours 
which  they  had  passed  (luring  ihe  last  iwo  or  three  >ears  of 
Elizabeth;  and  the  course  ami  inelegant  manners  of  James, 
which  bordered  closely  on  licentiousness,  affoided  them 
ample  opportunities. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  inform  the  reader,  that  wher- 
ever our  old  dramatists  laid  the  scene  of  tlu-ir  plays,  the 
habits  and  manners  of  them  are,  generally  speaking,  as  truly 
English  as  the  language. 

t  fit  company  for  page*  and  for  footboys, 

That  have  perused  the  portei's  lodge.]  i.  e.  that  have 
been  whip  there.  The  porter's  lodge,  in  our  author's  days, 
when  the  great  claimed,  and,  indeed,  frequently  exercised, 
the  right  of  chastising  their  servants,  was  the  usual  place  of 

punishment.    Thus  Shirley,  in  the  Grateful  Servant : 

"  My  friend,  what  make  you  here'?  Bi-gone,  begone,  I  say : 
— there  is  a  porter's  lodge  else,  where  you  may  have  due 
chastisement.*' 

J  Enter  JULIO  and  GIOVANNI.]  This  has  been  hitherto 
printed,  Enter  two  Gentlemen,  though  one  of  them  is  imme- 
diately named.  Not  to  multiply  characters  unnecessarily,  I 
have  supposed  them  to  be  the  same  that  appear  with  Graccho, 
in  the  first  scene  of  the  first  act. 

§  Jul.  As  fie  came 

from  a  close  fiyht,  &c.1  Our  old  poets  made  very  free 
with  one  another's  property  :  it  must  be  confe>sed,  however, 
that  their  literary  lapine  dH  not  originate  in  poverty,  for 
they  gave  as  liberally  as  they  took.  This  speech  has  been 
"  ronveyrd"  by  Fletcher  into  his  excellent  comedy  of  tht 
Elder  Urother: 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


Between  wind  and  water ;  and  he  hath  sprung  a  leak 
Or  I  am  cozen 'd.  [too, 

Giov.  Let's  be  merry  with  him. 

Grac.  How  they  stare  at  me !  am  I  turn'd  to  an 
The  wonder,  gentlemen  ?  [owl  ? 

Jul.  I  read  this  morning1, 
Strange  stones  of  the  passive  fortitude 
Of  men  in  former  ages,  which  I  thought 
Impossible,  and  not  to  be  believed  : 
But,  now  1  look  on  you  my  wonder  ceases. 

Grac.  The  reason,  sir  ? 

Jul.   VVIiy,  sir  you  have  been  whipt, 
Wliipt,  signior  Graccho  ;  and  the  whip,  I  take  it, 
Is,  to  a  gentleman,  the  greatest  trial 
That  may  be  of  his  patience. 

Grac.  Sir,  I'll  call  you 
To  a  strict  account  for  this. 

Giov.  I'll  nut  deal  with  you, 
Unless  I  have  a  beadle  for  my  second ; 
And  then  I'll  answer  you. 

Jul.  Farewell,  poor  Graccho. 

[E.ieunt  Julio  and  Giovanni. 

Grac.  Better  and  better  still.     If  ever  wrongs 
Could  teach  a  wretch  to  find  the  way  to  vengeance, 

Enter  FKANCISCO  and  a  Servant. 

Hell  now  inspire  me !     How,  the  lord  protector  ! 
My  judge  ;  1  thank  him  !     Whither  thus  in  private? 
I  will  not  see  him.  [Stands  aside. 

Fran,  If  I  am  sought  for, 
Say  1  am  indisposed,  and  will  not  hear 
Or  suits,  or  suitors. 

Serv.  But,  sir,  if  the  princess 
Enquire,  what  shall  1  answer? 

Fran.  Say,  I  am  rid* 
Abroad  to  take  the  air  ;  but  by  no  means 
Let  her  know  I'm  in  court. 

Serv.  So  I  shall  tell  her.  [Exit. 

Fian-  Within  there,  ladies ! 

Enter  a  Gentlewoman. 

Gentlew.  My  good  lord,  your  pleasure? 

Fran.   Prithee,  let  me  beg  thy  favour  for  access 
To  the  dutchess. 

Gentlew.  In  good  sooth,  my  lord,  I  dare  not  ; 
She's  very  private. 

Fran.  Come,  there's  gold  to  buy  thee 
A  new  gown,  and  a  ricli  one. 

Gentlew.  I  once  sworef 
If  e'er  1  lost  my  maidenhead,  it  should  be 
With  a  great  lord,  as  you  are  ;  and  1  know  not  how, 
I  feel  a  yielding  inclinHtion  in  me, 
If  you  have  appetite. 


-They  lnok  ruefully, 


As  they  had  newly  come  from  a  vaulting  house, 
Ami  had  been  quite  shoi  through  between  wind  and  water 
By  a  she-Dunkirk,  ami  had  ;>prm>s;  a  leak,  fir." 
I  charge  the  pi  tty  depredation  on  Fletcher,  because  the  pub- 
lication of  the   Uuke  of  Milan  preceded  that  of  the  Eider 
Brother,  bv  many  years 
*  Fran,  fiay  /  am  rid 

Abroad,  &c.]  So  the  rid  copies:  the  modern  editors,  wilh 
equal  accuracy  ar.d  elegance, 

.Nay  I'm  rode 
Abroad,  \v. 

•f  /  once ,worel  Both  the  quartos  have  a  marginal  hcmis 
tichhere  ;  they  read,  Thvt  will  tetnpt  tr.e ;  an  addition  of  the 
prompier,  or  :<n  unnecessary  intei  -polation  ol  the  copyist, 
which  spoils  the  metre.  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  IMVC 
advanced  it  into  the  text 


Fran.  Pox  on  thy  maidenhead  ! 
Where  is  thy  lady  ? 

Gentlevf-    If  \ou  venture  on  her. 
She's  walking  in  the  gallery  ;  perhaps, 
You  will  rind  her  less  tractable. 

Fran.  Bring  me  to  her. 

Gentlew.  I  fear  you'll    have   cold  entertainment, 
when  [tion 

You  are  at  your  journey's  end  ;  and   'twere  discre- 
To  take  a  snatch  by  the  way. 

Fran.  Pi  ithee,  leave  fooling  : 

My  page  waits  in  the  lobby  ;   give  him  sweetmeats  ; 
He  is  train'd  up*  for  his  master's  ease, 
And  he  will  cool  thee.     [Exeunt  Fran,  and  Gentleu 

Grac.  A  brave  discovery  beyond  my  hope, 
A  plot  even  ofl'er'd  to  my  hand  to  \vork  on  ! 
If  I  am  dull  now,  may  1  live  and  die 
'1  he  scorn  of  worms  and  slaves  ! — Let  me  consider ; 
My  lady  and  her  mother  first  committed, 
In  the  favour  of  the  dulchess,  and  I  whipt ! 
That,  with  an  iron  pen.  is  writ  in  brass 
On  my  tough  heart,  now  grown  a  harder  metal. — 
And  all  !>is  bribed  approaches  to  the  du'.chcss 
To  be  conceal'd  !   good,  good.     This  to  my  lady 
Deliver'd,  as  I'll  order  it,  runs  her  mad. 
But  this  may  prove  but  courtship  f  ;  let  it  be, 
I  care  not,  so  it  feed  her  jealousy.  [Exii. 


SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  MAHCELIA  and  FRANCISCO. 

Marc.  Believe  thy  tears  or  oaths  !  can  it  be  hoped, 
After  a  practice  so  abhorr'd  and  horrid, 
Repentance  e'er  can  find  thee  ] 

Fran.  Dearest  lady, 

Great  in  your  fortune,  greater  in  your  goodness, 
Make  a  superlative  of  excellence, 
In  being  greatest  in  your  saving  mercy. 
1  do  confess,  humbly  confess  rny  fault, 
To  be  beyond  all  pity  ;  my  attempt 
So  barbarously  nidi-,  that  it  would  turn 
A  saint-like  patience  into  savage  fury. 
But  you.  that  are  all  innocence  and  virtue, 
No  spleen  or  anger  in  yon  of  a  woman. 
But  when  a  holy  zeal  to  piety  fires  you, 
May,  if  you  please,  impute  the  fault  to  love, 
Or  call  it  beastly  lust,  for  'tis  no  better  ; 
A  sin,  a  monstrous  sin  !  jet  with  it  many 
That  did  prove  good  men  after,  have  been  tempted; 
And,  though  I'm  crooked  now,   tis  in  your  power 
To  make  me  straight  again. 

Marc.  Is  t  possible 
This  can  be  cunning ! 

Fran.  But,  if  no  submission, 
Nor  prayers  can  appease  you,  that  you  may  know 
'Tis  not  the  fear  of  death  that  makes  me  sue  thus, 
But  a  loath'd  detestation  of  my  madness, 
Which  makes  me  wish  to  live  to  have  your  pardon; 
I  will  not  wait  the  sentence  of  the  duke. 
Since  his  return  is  doubtful,  but  I  myself 
Will  do  a  fearful  justice  on  myself, 
No  witness  by  but  you,  th<  re  being  no  more, 


*  lie  in  train'd  up,  &c.]  A  hemistich,  or  more,  is  lost  here, 
or,  not  improbably,  purposely  omiiled.  1  only  mention  it 
to  account  lor  the  defect  of  mttre  ;  for  the  circumstance  itself 
is  not  worth  regretting. 

+  Hut  tliis  may  prove  but  courtship  :  &C.J  That  is,  merely 
puyiug  ins  court  to  her  a»  duuhcss.  M  MASON. 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[Acr  III 


When  I  offended.     Yet,  before  I  do  it, 
For  1  perceive  in  you  no  signs  of  mercy, 
I  will  disclose  a  secret,  which,  dying  with  me, 
May  prove  your  ruin. 

Marc.  Speak  it ;  it  will  take  from 
The  burthen  of  thy  conscience. 

Fran.  Thus,  then,  madam  : 
The  warrant  by  my  lord  sign'd  for  your  death, 
Was  but  conditional  ;  but  you  must  swear 
By  your  unspotted  truth,  not  to  reveal  it, 
Or  I  end  here  abruptly. 

Marc.  By  my  hopes 
Of  joys  hereafter.     On. 

Fran.  Nor  was  it  hate 

That  forced  him  to  it,  but  excess  of  love  :     • 
And,  if  I  ne'er  return,  (so  said  great  Sforza,) 
No  living  man  deserving  to  enjoy 
Mi/  best  Marcelia,  with  the  first  news 
That  I  am  dead,  (for  no  man  after  me 
Must  e'er  enjoy  her)  fail  not  to  kill  her, 
But  till  certain  proof 

Assure  thee  I  am  lost  (these  were  his  words,) 
Observe  and  honour  her,  as  if  the  snul 
Of  woman's  goodness  only  dwelt  in  her's. 
This  trust  1  have  abused,  and  basely  wrong'd  ; 
And,  if  the  excelling  pity  of  your  mind 
Cannot  forgive  it,  as  1  dare  not  hope  it, 
Rather  than  look  on  my  offended  lord, 
I  stand  resolved  to  punish  it. 

Marc.  Hold  !  'tis  forgiven, 
And  by  me  freely  pardon'd.     In  thy  fair  life 
Hereafter,  study  to  deserve  this  bounty, 
Which  thy  true  penitence,  such  1  believe  it, 
Against  my  resolution  hath  forced  from  me. — 
But  that  my  lord,  my  Sforza,  should  esteem 
My  life  tit  only  as  a  page,  to  wait  on 
The  various  course  of  his  uncertain  fortunes ; 
Or  cherish  in  himself  that  sensual  hope, 
In  death  to  know  me  as  a  wife,  afflicts  me  ; 
Nor  does  his  envy  less  deserve  mine  anger, 
Which,  though,  such  is  my  love,  I  would  not  nourish, 
Will  slack  the  ardour  that  1  had  to  see  him 
Return  in  safety. 

Fran.  But  if  your  entertainment 
Should  give  the  least  ground  to  his  jealousy, 
To  raise  up  an  opinion  I  am  false, 
You  then  destroy  your  mercy.     Therefore,  madam, 
(Though  I  shall  ever  look  on  you  as  on 
My  life's  preserver,  and  the  miracle 
Of  human  pity,)  would  you  but  vouchsafe, 
In  company,  to  do  me  those  fair  graces, 
And  favours,  which  your  innocence  and  honour 
May  safely  warrant,  it  would  to  the  duke, 
I  being  to  your  best  self  alone  known  guilty, 
Make  me  appear  most  innocent. 

Marc.  Have  your  wishes, 
And  something  1  may  do  to  try  his  temper, 
At  least,  to  make  him  know  a  constant  wife 
Is  not  so  slaved  to  her  husband's  doting  humours, 
But  ;hat  she  may  deserve  to  live  a  widow, 
Her  fate  appointing  it. 

Fran.  It  is  enough  ;  • 
Nay,  all  I  could  desire,  and  will  make  way 
To  my  reven'ge,  which  shall  disperse  itself 
On  him,  on  her,  and  all.  [57tout  and  flourish. 

Marc.  What  shout  is  that  ? 

Enter  TIBERIO  and  STEPHANO. 

,  Tib.  All  happiness  to  the  dutchess.  that  may  flow 
From  the  duke's  new  and  wish'd  return  ! 


Marc.  He's  welcome. 

Steph.  How  coldly  she  receives  it ! 

Tib.  Observe  the  encounter. 

Flourish.     Enter    SFORZA,    PESPARA,    ISABELLA. 
MARIAN*,  GRACCIIO,  and  Attendants. 

Mari.  What  you  have  told  me,   Graccho,  is  be- 
And  I'll  find  time  to  stir  in't.  [Ueved, 

(irac.  As  you  see  cause  ; 
I  will  not  do  ill  offices. 

Sfor.  I  have  stood 

Silent  thus  long,  Marcelia,  expecting 
When,  with  more  than  a  greedy  haste,  thou  wouldst 
Have  flown  into  my  arms,  and  on  my  lips 
Have  printed  a  deep  welcome.     My  desires 
To  glass  myself  in  these  fair  eyes,  have  borne  me 
With  more  than  human  speed  :  nor  durst  I  stay 
In  any  temple,  or  to  any  saint 
To  pay  my  vows  and  thanks  for  my  return, 
Till  I  had  seen  thee. 

Marc.  Sir,  I  am  most  happy 
To  look  upon  you  safe,  and  would  express 
My  love  and  duty  in  a  modest  fashion, 
Such  as  might  suit  with  the  behaviour 
Of  one  that  knows  herst-lf  a  wife,  and  how 
To  temper  her  desires,  not  like  a  wanton 
Fired  with  hot  appetite;  nor  can  it  wrong  me 
To  love  discreetlv. 

Si  or.  How  !  why,  can  there  be 
A  mean  in  your  affections  to  Sforza  ? 
Or  any  act,  though  ne'er  so  loose,  that  may 
Invite  or  heighten  appetite,  appear 
Immodest  or  uncomely  ?     Do  not  move  me  , 
My  passions  to  you  are  in  extremes, 
And  know  no  bounds  : — come  ;  kiss  me. 

Mure.  1  obey  you. 

Sfar.  By  all  the  joys  of  love,  she  does  salute  me 
As  if  I  were  her  grandfather  !      What  witch, 
With  cursed  spells,  hath  quench'd  the  amorous  heat 
That  lived  upon  these  lips  ?     Tell  me,  Marcelia, 
And  truly  tell  me,  is't  a  fault  of  mine 
That  hath  begot  this  coldness?  or  neglect 
Of  others,  iv»  my  absence? 

Marc.  Neither,  sir : 
1  stand  indebted  to  your  substitute, 
Noble  and  good  Francisco,  for  his  care 
And  fair  observance  of  me  :  there  was  nothing 
With  which  you,  being  present,  could  supply  me, 
That  I  dare  say  1  wanted. 

Sfor.  How! 

Marc.  The  pleasures 

That  sacred  Hymen  warrants  us,  excepted, 
Of  which,  in  troth,  you  are  too  great  a  doter  ; 
And  there  is  more  of  beast  in  it  than  man. 
Let  us  love  temperately  ;  things  violent  last  not, 
A  nd  too  much  dotage  rather  argues  folly 
Than  true  affection. 

Grac.  Observe  but  this, 

And  how  she  praised  my  lord's  care  and  observance  j 
And  then  judge,  madam,  if  my  intelligence  ' 
Have  anv  ground  of  truth. 

Mari.  No  more  ;  I  mark  it. 

Steph.  How  the  duke  stands ! 

Til>.  As  he  were  rooted  there, 
And  had  no  motion. 

Pesc.  My  lord,  from  whence 
Grows  this  amazement.' 

Sjor.  It  is  more,  dear  my  fnend  ; 
For  I  am  doubtful  whether  I've  a  being. 


I.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


But  certain  that  my  life's  a  burrben  to  me. 
Take  me  back,  good  Pescara,  shew  me  to  Ca?sar 
Jn  all  his  rage  and  fury  ;  1  disclaim 
His  mercy  :  to  live  now,  which  is  his  gift, 
Is  worse  than  death  and  with  all  studied  torments. 
Marcelia  is  unkind,  nay,  worse,  grown  cold 
In  her  affection  ;  my  excess  of  fervour, 
Which  yet  was  never  equall'd,  grown  distasteful. 
— But  have  thy  wishes,  woman  ;  thou  shall  know 
That  1  can  be  myself,  and  thus  shake  oft' 
The  fetters  of  fond  dotage,     rrom  my  sight, 
Without  reply  ;  for  I  am  apt  to  do 
Something  1  may  repent. — [Exit  Marc  ] — Oh  !  who 
would  place 


His  happiness  in  most  accursed  woman, 
In  whom  obsequiousness  engenders  pride  ; 
And  harshness  deadly  hatred  ! — From  this  hour 
I'll  labour  to  forget  there  are  such  creatures  ; 
True  friends  be  now   my  mistresses.      Clear  your 

brows, 

And,  though  mv  heart-strings  crack  for't,  I  will  be 
To  all  a  free  example  of  delight : 
We  will  have  sports  of  all  kinds,  and  propound 
Rewards  to  such  as  can  produce  us  new  : 
Unsatisfied,  though  we  surfeit  in  their  store, 
And  never  think  of  curs'd  Aiarcelia  more,    [/  ceunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.—  The  same.     A  Koom  in  the  Castle.       \ 


Enter  FRANCISCO  and  GRACCHO. 

Fran.  And  is  it  possible  thou  shouldst  forget 
A  wrong  of  such  a  nature,  and  then  study 
My  safety  and  content? 

Grac.  Sir,  but  allow  me 

Only  to  have  read  the  elements  of  courtship*, 
Not  the  abstruse  and  hidden  arts  to  thrive  there  ; 
And  von  ir.ay  please  to  grant  me  so  much  knowledge, 
That  injuries  from  one  in  grace,  like  you, 
Are  noble  favours      Is  it  not  grown  comnionf 
lu  every  sect,  for  those  that  want,  to  suffer 
From  such  as  have  to  give  ?   Your  captain  cast, 
If  poor,  though  not  thought  daring,  but  approved  so, 
To  raise  a  coward  into  name,  that's  rich, 
Suffers  disgraces  publicly  ;  but  receives 
Rewards  for  them  in  private. 

Fran.  Well  observed. 
Put  orij  ;  we'll  be  familiar,  and  discourse 
A  little  of  this  argument.     That  day, 
In  which  it  was  first  rumour'd,  then  confirm'd, 
Great  Sl'orza  thought  me  worthy  of  his  favour, 
I  found  myself  to  be  another  thing  ; 
Not  what  1  was  before.     I  passed  then 
For  a  pretty  fellow,  and  of  pretty  parts  too, 
And  was  perhaps  received  so  ;  but,  once  raised, 
The  liberal  courtier  made  me  master  of 
Those  virtues  which  I  ne'er  knew  in  myself: 
.  If  I  pretended  to  a  jest,  'twas  made  one 
By  their  iiiterpretaiion  ;  if  1  offer'd 
To  reason  of  philosophy,  though  absurdly, 
They  had  helps  to  save  me,  and  without  a  blush 
Would  swear  that  1,  by   nature,   had  more  know- 

ledge, 

Than  others  could  require  by  any  labour: 
Nay,  all  I  did,  indeed,  which  in  another 
Was  not  remarkable,  in  me  shew'd  larely. 

*  --  the  element*  of  courtship,]  i.  e.  of 

court-policy.  M.  MASON. 

t  -  J»  it  not  grown  common,  &c.]  Gracrlio  is  an  apt 
scholar  :  iho.*e  notable  observations  are  derived  I'ruiu  the  Its- 
sons  of  tlio  Ollicer,  in  the  Ust  act. 

1  Put  on  ;]  Be  covered  ;  a  frequent  expression  in  these 
play*. 


Grac.   But  then  they  tasted  of  your  bounty. 
Fran.  True  : 

They  cave  me  those  good  pj  rts  I  was  not  born  to. 
And,  oy  my  intercession,  they  got  that 
Which,  had  I  cross'd  them,  they  durst  not  have  hoped 

for. 

Grac.  All  this  is  oracle  :  and  shall  I,  then, 
For  a  foolish  whipping,  leave  to  honour  him, 
j   That  holds  the  wheel  of  fortune  f  no  ;  that  savours 
Too  much  of  the  ancient  freedom.     Since  great  mea 
Receive  disgraces  and  give  thanks,  poor  knaves 
Must  have  nor  spleen,  nor  anger.     '1  hough  1  love 
My  limbs  as  well  as  any  man,  if  you  had  now 
A  humour  to  kick  me  lame  into  an  office, 
Where  1  might  sit  in  state  and  undo  others, 
Stood  I  not  bound  to  kiss  the  foot  that  did  it  ? 
Though   it   seem   strange,  there   have   been    such 

things  seen 
In  the  memory  of  man. 

Fran.  But  to  the  purpose, 

And  then,  that  service  done,  make  thine  own  for- 
tunes. 

My  wife,  thou  say'st,  is  jealous  1  am  to« 
Familiar  with  the  dutchess. 

Grac    And  incensed 

For  her  commitment  in  her  brother's  absence  , 
And  by  her  mother's  anger  is  spurr'd  on 
To  make  discovery  of  it.     This  her  purpose 
Was  trusted  to  my  charge,  which  I  declined 
As  much  as  in  me  lay  ;  but,  finding  her 
Deterniinately  bent  to  undertake  it, 
Though  breaking  my  faith  to  her  may  destroy 
My  credit  with  your  lordship,  1  yet  thought, 
Though  at  my  peril,  I  stood  bound  to  reveal  it. 
Fran.  1  thank  thy  care,  and  will   deserve  this 

secret, 

In  making  thee  acquainted  with  a  greater, 
And  of  more  moment.     Come  into  my  bosom, 
And   take   it    from    me:    Canst   tho'u    think,    dul] 

Graccho, 

I   My  power  and  honours  were  conferr'd  upon  me, 
And,  add  to  them,  this  form,  to  have  my  pleasures 
Confined  and  limited  ?  1  delight  in  change, 
And  sweet  variety  ;  that's  my  heaven  on  earth. 
For  which  1  love  life  only.     1  confess. 


80 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[Acr  IV 


My  wife  pleased  me  a  day,  the  dutcliess,  two, 
(And  yet  I  must  not  say  1  have  enjoy 'd  her,) 
But  now  I  care  for  neither:  therefore,  Graccho, 
So  far  I  am  from  stopping  Mariana 
In  making  her  complaint,  that  I  desire  tliee 
To  urge  her  to  it. 

Grac.  That  may  prove  your  ruin  : 
The  duke  already  being,  as  'tis  reported, 
Doubtful  she  hath  play'd  false. 

Fian.  There  thou  art  cozen'd  ; 
His  dotage,  like  an  ague,  keeps  his  course, 
And  now  'tis  strongly  on  him.     But  I  lose  time, 
And  therefore  know,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no, 
Thou  art  to  be  my  instrument ;  and,  in  spite 
Of  the  old  saw,  that  says.  It  is  not  safe 
On  any  terms  to  trust  a  man  that's  wrong'd, 
I  dare  thee  to  be  false. 

Grac.  This  is  a  language, 
My  lord,  I  understand  not. 

Fran.  You  thought,  sirrah, 
To  put  a  trick  on  me  for  the  relation 
Of  what  1  knew  before,  and,  having  won 
Some  weighty  secret  from  me,  in  revenge 
To  play  the  traitor.     Know,  thou  wretched  thing, 
By  my  command  tbou  wert  whipt ;  and  every  day 
I'll  have  thee  freshly  tortured,  if  thou  miss 
In  the  least  charge  that  I  impose  upon  thee. 
Though  what  I  speak,  for  the  most  part,  is  true; 
Nay,  grant  thou  hadst  a  thousand  witnesses 
To  be  deposed  they  heard  it,  'tis  in  me, 
With  one  word,  such  is  Sforza's  confidence 
Of  my  fidelity  not  to  be  shaken, 
To  make  all  void,  and  ruin  my  accusers. 
Therefore  look  to't ;  bring  my  wife  hotly  on 
To  accuse  me  to  the  duke — 1  have  an  end  in't, 
Or  think  what  'tis  makes  man  most  miserable, 
And  that  shall  fall  upon  thee.     Thou  wert  a  fool 
To  hope,  by  being  acquainted  with  mv  courses, 
To  curb  and  awe  me  ;  or  that  I  should  live 
Thy  slave,  as  thou  didst  saucily  divine  : 
For  prying  in  my  counsels,  still  live  mine.        [Exit. 
Grac.  I  am  caught  on  both  sides.      This  'tis  for  a 

puisne 

In  policy's  Protean  school,  to  try  conclusions 
With  one  that  hath  commenced,  and  gone  out  doctor*. 
If  I  discover  what  but  now  he  bragg'd  of, 
I  shall  not  be  believed  :  if  I  fall  off 
From  him,  his  threats  and  actions  go  together, 
And  there's  no  hope  of  safety.     Till  I  get 
A  plummet  that  may  sound  his  deepest  counsels, 
I  must  obey  and  serve  him  :   Want  of  skill 
Now  makes  me  play  the  rogue  against  my  will. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  MARCELIA,  TIBERIO,  STEPHANO,  and 

Gentlewoman. 

Marc.  Command  me  from  his  sight,  and  with  such 

scorn 
As  he  would  rate  his  slave  ! 


-to  try  concisions 


ffith  one  that  hath  commenced,  and  gone  out  doctor.] 
To  try  conclutions,  a  very  common  u \-pirs-ioii,  is,  to  try 
experiments:  "  God  help  them,"  sax  s  Gabriel  Harvey,  in  his 
thin!  letter,  ''that  h.ive  neither  luMUty  t<i  helpe,  nor  wit  to 
pilie  themselves,  but  will  needs  t ry  conclusions  brt«een  their 
Leads  and  the  next  wall."  Commenced,  nnd  gone  out,  which 
occur  in  the  next  line,  are  University  terms,  aud  to  be  met 
with  in  most  of  our  old  dramas : 


Tib.  'Twas  in  his  fury. 
Steph.  And  he  repents  it,  madam. 
Marc.  Was  I  born 

To  observe  his  humours  ?  or,  because  he  dotes, 
Must  1  run  mad  ? 

Tib.  If  that  your  excellence 

Would  please  but  to  receive  a  feeling  knowledge 
Of  what  he  suffers,  and  how  deep  the  least 
Unkindness  wounds  from  you,  you  would  excuse 
His  hasty  language. 

Steph.  He  hath  paid  the  forfeit 
Of  his  offence,  I'm  sure,  with  such  a  sorrow, 
As,  if  it  had  been  greater,  would  deserve 
A  full  remission. 

Marc.  Why,  perhaps,  he  hath  it ; 
And  I  stand  more  afflicted  for  his  absence, 
Then  he  can  be  for  mine : — so,  pray  \ou,  tell  him. 
But,  till  I  have  digested  some  sad  thoughts, 
And  reconciled  passions  that  are  at  war 
Within  myself,  1  purpose  to  be  private. 
And  have  you  care,  unless  it  be  Francisco, 
That  no  man  be  admitted.  [Eiit  Gentlewoman. 

Tib.  How,  Francisco ! 

Steph.  He,  that  at  every  stage  keeps  livery  mis- 
The  stallion  of  the  state  !  [tresses; 

Tib.  They  are  things  above  us, 
And  so  no  way  concern  us. 

Steph.  If  I  were 
The  duke,  (I  freely  must  confess  my  weakness,) 

Enter  FRANCISCO. 
I  should  wear  yellow  breeches*.     Here  he  comes. 

Tib.  Nay,  spare  your  labour,  lady,  we  know  ou» 
And  quit  the  room.  [dutyt, 

Steph.  Is  this  her  privacy ! 
Though  with  the  hazard  of  a  check,  perhaps, 
This  may  go  to  the  duke. 

[Exeunt  Tiberioand  Stephano 

Marc.  Your  face  is  full 
Of  fears  and  doubts  :  the  reason  1 

Fran.  O  best  madam, 

They  are  not  counterfeit.     I,  your  poor  convert, 
That  only  wish  to  live  in  snd  repentance, 
To  mourn  my  desperate  attempt  of  you, 
That  have  no  ends  nor  aims,  but  that  your  goodness 
Might  be  a  witness  of  my  penitence, 
Which  seen,  would  teach  you  how  to  love  yourmercy, 
Am  robb'd  of  that  last  hope.     The  duke,  the  duke, 
I  more  than  fear,  hath  found  that  I  am  guilty. 

Marc.  By  my  unspotted  honour,  not  from  me; 
Nor  have  I  with  him  changed  one  syllable, 
Since  his  return,  but  what  you  heard. 

Fran.  Yet  malice 

Is  eagle-eyed,  and  would  see  that  which  is  not ; 
And  jealousy's  too  apt  to  build  upon 
Unsure  foundations. 

Marc.  Jealousy  ! 

Fran.  [Aside.]  It  takes. 


"  How  many  that  have  done  ill,  anil  proceed, 
Women  that  take  degrees  in  wantonness, 
Commence,  and  rise  in  rudiments  of  lnM,"  &c. 

The  Queen  of  ( 'orinih. 

•  / thotitd  wear  yellow  breeches.]  i.e.  Be  jealins ;  yellow, 
with  our  old  poets,  being  the  livery  of  jealousy :   this  needi 
DO  example. 
•t  Nay,  spare  your  labour,  lady,  we  know  our  du»y, 

And  quit  the  room.}     Duty  was  inserted   by  Co\eter 
:hat,  or  a  word  of  similar  import,  having  been  dropt  at  the 
pres*.     Both   the  quartos  have,  we  know  our  exit,  with  this 
difference,  that  the  l.-st  (1633)  exhibits  exit,  as  here,  in  italic 
characters . 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


Marc.     Who  dares  but  only  think  I  can  be  tainted  ? 
But  for  him,  though  almost  on  certain  proof, 
To  give  it  hearing,  not  belief,  deserves 
My  hate  for  ever. 

Fran.  Whether  grounded  on 
Your  noble,  yer  chaste  favours  shewn  unto  me  ; 
Or  her  imprisonment,  for  her  contempt 
To  you,  by  my  command,  my  frantic  wife 
Hath  put  it  in  his  head. 

Mai-c.  Have  I  then  lived 

So  long,  now  to  be  doubted  ?     Are  my  favours 
The  themes  of  her  discourse  ?  or  what  I  do, 
That  never  trod  in  a  suspected  path, 
Subject  to  base  construction  ?     Be  undaunted  ; 
For  now,  as  of  a  creature  that  is  mine, 
I  rise  up  your  protectress :  all  the  grace 
I  hitherto  have  done  you,  was  bestow'd 
With  a  shut  hand  ;  it  shall  be  now  more  free, 
Open,  and  liberal.     But  let  it  not. 
Though  counterfeited  to  the  life,  teach  you 
To  nourish  saucv  hopes. 

F ran.  May  I  be  blasted, 
When  I  prove  such  a  monster  ! 

Marc.  I  will  stand  then 

Between  you  and  all  danger.     He  shall  know, 
Suspicion  overturns  what  confidence  builds  ; 
And  he  that  dares  but  doubt  when  there's  no  ground, 
Is  neither  to  himself  nor  others  sound.  [Exit. 

Fran.  So,  let  it  work  !   If  er  goodness,  that  denied 
My  service,  branded  with  the  name  of  lust, 
Shall  now  destroy  itself ;  and  she  shall  find, 
When  he's  a  suitor,  that  brings  cunning  arm'd 
With  power,  to  be  his  advocates,  the  denial 
Is  a  disease  as  killing  as  the  plague, 
And  chastity  a  clue  that  leads  to  death. 
Hold  but  thy  nature,  duke,  and  be  but  rash 
And  violent  enough,  and  then  at  leisure, 
Repent ;  I  care  not. 

And  let  my  plots  produce  this  long'd-for  birth, 
In  my  revenge  I  have  my  heaven  on  earth.       [Exit. 


SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  tame. 
Enter  SFOHZA,  PESCARA,  and  three  Gentlemen, 

Pesc.  You  promised  to  be  merry. 

1  Gent.  There  are  pleasures, 

And  of  all  kinds,  to  entertain  the  time. 

2  Cent.    Your    excellence    vouchsafing  to   make 
Of  that  which  best  affects  you.  [choice 

Sfor.  Hold  your  prating. 
Learn  manners  too  ;  your  are  rude. 

3  Gent.  I  have  my  answer, 

Before  I  ask  the  question.  [Aside. 

Pesc.  I  must  borrow 

The  privilege  of  a  friend,  and  will ;  or  else 
I  am  like  these,  a  servant,  or,  what's  worse, 
A  parasite  to  the  sorrow  Sforza  worships 
In  spite  of  reason. 

fyor.  Pray  you,  use  your  freedom  ; 
And  so  far,  if  you  please,  allow  me  mine, 
To  hear  you  only  ;  not  to  be  compell'd 
To  take  your  moral  potions.     I  am  a  man, 
And,  though  philosophy,  your  mistress,  rage  for't, 
Now  1  have  cause  to  grieve,  I  must  be  sad  ; 
And  I  dare  shew  it. 

Pesc.  Would  it  were  bestow'd 
Upon  a  worthier  subject. 


Sfor.  Take  heed,  friend! 

You  rub  a  sore,  vv  hose  pain  -will  make  me  mad  ; 
And  I  shall  then  forget  myself  and  you. 
Lance  it  no  further. 

Pesc.     Have  you  s'ood  the  shock 
Of  thousand  enemies,  and  outfaced  the  anger 
Of  a  great  emperor,  that  vow'd  your  ruin. 
Though  by  a  desperate,  a  glorious  way, 
That  had  no  precedent  I  are  you  return'd  with  honour, 
Loved  by  your  subjects  ?  does  your  fortune  court 

you, 

Or  rather  say,  your  courage  does  command  it  ? 
Have  you  given  proof,  to  this  hour  of  your  life, 
Prosperity,  that  searches  the  best  temper, 
Could  never  puff  you  up,  nor  adverse  t'ate 
Deject  your  valour  ?  Shall,  I  say,  these  virtues, 
So  many  and  so  various  trials  of 
Your  constant  mind,  be  buried  in  the  frown 
(To  please  you,  I  will  say  so)  of  a  fair  woman; 
Yet  I  have  seen  her  equals. 

Sfor.  Good  Pescara, 
This  language  in  another  were  profane  ; 
In  you  it  is  unmannerly. — Her  equal ! 
I  tell  you  as  a  friend,  and  tell  you  plainly, 
(To  all  men  else  my  sword  should  make  reply,) 
Her  goodness  does  disdain  comparison, 
And,  but  herself,  admits  no  parallel*. 
But  you  will  say  she's  cross  ;  'tis  fit  she  should  be, 
When  I  am  foolish  ;  for  she's  wise,  Pescara, 
And  knows  how  far  she  may  dispose  her  bounties, 
Her  honour  safe  ;  or,  if  she  were  adverse, 
'Twas  a  prevention  of  a  greater  sin 
Beady  to  fall  upon  me ;  for  she's  not  ignorant, 
But  truly  understands  how  much  I  love  her, 
And  that  her  rare  parts  do  deserve  all  honour. 
Her  excellence  increasing  with  her  years  too, 
I  might  have  fallen  into  idolatry, 
And,  from  the  admiration  of  her  worth, 
Been  taught  to  think  there  is  no  Power  above  her ; 
And  yet  I  do  believe,  had  angels  sexes, 
The  most  would  be  such  women,  and  assume 
No  other  shape,  when  they  were  to  appear 
In  their  full  glory. 

Pesc.  Well,  sir,  I'll  not  cross  you, 
Nor  labour  to  diminish  your  esteem. 
Hereafter,  of  her.  Since  your  happiness, 


•  Her  goodness  does,  disdain  comparison, 

And,  but  herself,  admits  no  parallel.]  The  reader  who 
has  any  acquaintance  \viili  the  literary  squabbles  of  the  last 
century,  cannot  bul  recollect  how  Theobald  was  annoyed  bf 
the  jests  levelled  at  him  lor  this  Hue  in  the  Double  Faltt- 
hood : 

"  None  but  himself  can  be  his  parallel." 

He  justified  it.  indeed,  at  some  length  ;  but  "it  is  not  for 
gravity,"  as  Sir  Toby  well  observes,  "  lo  play  at  cherry-pit 
with  Satan  ;"  his  waggish  antagonists  drove  linn  out  of  hi» 
patience,  and  he,  who  had  every  thing  but  wit  on  his  side, 
is  at  this  moment  labouring  under  the  consequences  of  hU 
imagined  defeat.  With  re.-pect  to  the  phrase  in  question,  it 
is  sufficiently  common;  and  I  could  produce,  if  it  were  ne- 
cessary, twenty  instances  of  it  from  Massinger's  contempo- 
raries alone :  nor  is  it  peculiar  to  this  country,  but  exists  in 
every  language  with  which  1  am  acquainted.  Even  while  I 
am  writing  this  note,  the  following  pretty  example  lies 
before  me,  in  the  address  of  a  grateful  Hindoo  to  SirW'illiam 
Jones  : 

"  To  yon  there  are  many  like  me  :  yet  to  me  there  it  nont 
like  you,  but  yourself;  there  are  numerous  groves  of  night 
flowers;  yet  the  ni«ht  flower  sees  nothing  like  the  moon, but 
the  moon.  A  hundred  chiefs  rule  the  world,  but  thou  art  an 
ocean,  and  they  are  mere  welU;  many  luminaries  areawake 
in  the  sky,  but"  which  of  them  can  be  compared  to  the  ana  t" 
See  Metnoirs  of  his  life,  by  Lord  Teignmoulh. 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[Acr  IV 


As  you  will  have  it,  has  alone  dependence 
Upon  her  favour,  from  my  soul  1  wish  you 
A  fair  atonement*. 
Sfor.  Time,  and  my  submission, 

Enter  TIBERIO  and  STEPHANO. 

May  work  her  to  it. —  O  !  you  are  well  return 'd  ; 
Say.  am  I  blest  ?  hath  she  vouchsafed  to  hear  you  1 
Is  there  hope  left  that  she  may  be  appeased  ? 
Let  her  propound,  and  gladly  I'll  subscribe 
To  her  conditions. 

Tib.  She,  sir,  yet  is  froward, 
And  desires  respite,  and  some  privacy. 

Steph  She  was  harsh  at  first  j  but  ere  we  parted, 
Implacable.  [seem'd  not 

Sfor.  There's  comfort  yet :  I'll  ply  her 
Each  hour  with  new  ambassadors  of  more  honours, 
Titles,  and  eminence :  my  second  self, 
Francisco,  shall  solicit  her. 

Steph.  That  a  wise  man, 

And  what  is  more,  a  prince  that  may  command, 
Should  sue  thus  poorly,  and  treat  with  his  wife, 
As  she  were  a  victorious  enemy, 
At  whose  proud  feet,  himself,  his  state,  and  country, 
Basely  begg'd  mercy ! 

Sfor.  What  is  that  you  mutter? 
I'll  have  thy  thoughts. 

Steph.  You  shall.  You  are  too  fond, 
And  feed  a  pride  that's  swollen  too  big  already, 
And  surfeits  with  observance. 

Sfor.  O  my  patience ! 
My  vassal  speak  thus? 

Steph.  Let  my  head  answer  it, 
If  I  offend.  She,  that  you  think  a  saint, 
1  fear,  may  play  the  devil. 

Peso.  Well  said,  old  feilow. 

Steph.  And  he  that  hath  so  long  engross'd  your 

favours, 

Though  to  be  named  with  reverence  lord  Francisco, 
Who,  as  you  purpose,  shall  solicit  for  you, 
I  think's  too  near  her. 

Pesc.  Hold,  sir  !  this  is  madness. 

Steph.  It  may  be  they  confer  of  joining  lordships  ; 
I'm  sure  he's  private  with  her. 

Sfor.  Let  me  go, 

I  scorn  to  touch  him  ;  he  deserves  my  pity, 
And  not  my  anger.     Dotard  !  and  to  be  one 
Is  thy  protection,  else  thou  durst  not  think 
That  love  to  my  Marcelia  hath  left  room 
In  my  full  heart  for  any  jealous  thought : — 
That  idle  passion  dwell  with  thick-skmn'd  trades- 
men f. 

The  undeserving  lord,  or  the  unable  ! 
Lock  up  thy  own  wife,  fool,  that  must  take  physic 
From  her  young  doctor,  physic  upon  her  back  }, 
Because  thou  hast  the  palsv  in  that  part 
That  makes  her  active.     1  could  smile  to  think 
What  wretched  things  they  are  that  dare  be  jealous: 
Were  I  match'd  to  another  Messahne, 
While  I  found  merit  in  myself  to  please  her, 


*  A  fair  atonement.]  i.  e.  as  Mr.  M.  Mason  observes,  a 
reconciliation.  To  atone  has  orten  this  sense  in  our  old 
writers  :  so  SlukspiMre  : 

"  He  and  Ami  <ius  can  no  more  atone, 

Than  violentest  contrarieties."  Cariolanus. 

•f  That  idle  passion  dwell  with.  thick-Mnn'd  tradesmen.] 
7'AicA-skiiin  d  is  the  reading  of  both  ihcqiiHi  to?;  the  modern 
edit,  rs  w.mioiiK ,  and,  I  may  add,  ignorantly,  displaced  it 
for  //m'/i-skiuT'l.  It  is  not  to  a  want  of  understanding,  but 
to  a  bluiitncss  of  feeling,  that  the  speaker  alludes. 


In  this  your  studied  purpose  to  deprave  her  ; 
And  all  the  shot  made  by  v<>ur  foul  detraction, 
Falling  upon  her  .sure-arm'd  innocence, 
I  should  believe  her  chaste,  arid  would  not  seek 
To  fiud  out  my  own  torment ;  but,  alas ! 
Enjoying  one  that,  but  to  me,  's  a  Dian  *, 
1  am  too  secure. 

Tib.  This  is  a  confidence 
Beyond  example. 

Enter  GHACCIIO,  ISABELLA,  and  MARIANA. 

Grac.  There  he  is — nuw  speak, 
Or  be  for  ever  silent. 

Sjor.  If  you  come 

To  bring  me  comfort,  say  that  you  have  made 
Mv  peace  with  my  Marcelia. 

hub.  I  had  rather 
Wail  on  you  to  your  funeral. 

Sjor.  You  are  my  mother  : 
Or,  by  her  life,  you  were  dead  else. 

Mari.  Would  you  were, 

To  your  dishonour !  and,  since  dotage  makes  you 
Wilfully  blind,  burrow  of  me  my  eyes, 
Or  some  part  of  my  spirit.  Are  you  all  flesh  ? 
A  lump  of  patience  only  ?  no  fire  in  you  ! 
But  do  your  pleasure  : — here  your  mother  was 
Committed  by  vour  servant,  (for  1  scorn 
To  call  him  husband,)  ;md  myself,  your  sister, 
If  that  you  dare  remember  such  a  name. 
Mew'd  up,  to  make  the  way  open  and  free 
For  the  adultress,  I  am  unwilling 
To  say,  a  part  of  Sf.«r/a. 

Sjor.  'lake  her  head  off! 
She  hath  blasphemed  !  and  by  our  law  must  die 

I&ib.  BbspM&Md!  for  calling  of  a  whore,  a  whore? 

Sjor.  O  he!!,  what  do  1  suffer  ! 

Mari.  Or  is  it  treason 
For  me,  that  am  a  subject,  to  endeavour 
To  save  the  honour  of  the  duke,  and  that 
He  should  not  be  a  wiltol  on  record  ? 
For  by  posterity  'twill  be  believed, 
As  certainly  as  now  it  can  be  proved, 
Francisco,  the  great  minion  that  sways  all, 
To  meet  the  chaste  embraces  of  the  dutchess, 
Hath  leap'd  into  her  bed. 

Sjor.  Some  proof,  vile  creature ! 
Or  thou  hast  spoke  thy  last. 

Mari.  The  public  fame. 

Their  hourly  private  meetings;  rnd  e'en  now, 
When,  under  a  pretence  of  grief  or  anger, 
Y(,u  are  denied  the  joys  due  to  a  husband, 
And  made  a  stranger  to  her,  at  all  times 
The  door  stands  open  to  him.  To  a  Dutchman, 
This  were  enough,  but  to  a  right  Italian, 
A  hundred  thousand  witnesses. 

Isab.  Would  y<-u  have  us 

To  be  her  bawds? 

Sjor.  O  the  malice 

And  envy  of  base  women,  that,  with  horror, 
Knowing  their  own  defects  and  inward  guilt, 
Dare  lie.  and  swear,  and  damn,  for  what's  most  false, 
To  cast  aspersions  upon  one  untainted  ! 
Ye  are  in  your  nature's  devils,  aud  your  ends. 
Knowing  your  reputations  sunk  for  ever, 
And  not  to  be  recover'd,  to  have  all 
Wear  your  black  livery.  Wretches  ;  you  have  raised 
A  monumental  trophy  to  her  pureness, 

• that,  but  to  me,'ta  Dian,]  A  contrac- 
tion of  Diana.    M.  MASON.    And  K»  it  ii  I 


SONS  III.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


Returns  upon  yourselves  ;  and,  if  my  love 

Could  suffer  an  addition,  I'm  so  far 

From  giving  credit  to  you,  this  would  teach  me 

More  to  admire  and  serve  her.     You  are  not  worthy 

To  fall  as  sacrifices  to  appease  her  ; 

And  therefore  live  till  your  own  envy  burst  you. 

/safe.  All  is  in  vain  ;  he  is  not  to  be  moved. 

Man.  She  has  bewitch'd  him. 

Pesc.  'Tis  so  past  belief, 
To  me  it  shews  a  fable. 

Enter  FRANCISCO,  speaking  to  a  Servant  within. 

Fran.  On  thy  life, 

Provide  my  horses,  and  without  the  port 
With  care  attend  me. 

Serv.  [within.']  I  shall,  my  lord. 

Grac.  He's  cume. 
What  gimcrack  have  we  next*? 

Fran.  Great  sir. 

Sjor.  Francisco, 

Though  all  the  joys  in  women  are  fled  from  me, 
In  thee  1  do  embrace  the  full  delight 
That  I  can  hope  from  man. 

Fran.  I  wou'd  impart, 

Please  you  to  lend  your  ear,  a  weighty  secret, 
I  am  in  labour  to  deliver  to  you. 

Sfor.  All  leave  the  room.   Excuse  me,  good  Pescara, 
Ere  Ion?  I  will  wait  on  vou. 

Pesc.  You  speak,  sir. 
The  language  I  should  use. 

Sfor.  Be  within  call. 
Perhaps  we  may  have  use  of  yoo. 

Tib.  We  shall  sir. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Sfana  and  Francuco. 

Sfor.  Say  on,  my  comfort. 

Fran.  Comfort !  no,  your  torment, 
For  so  my  fate  appoints  me.  I  could  curse 
The  hour  that  pave  me  being. 

Sfor.  What  new  monsters 
Of  misery  stand  ready  to  devour  me  1 
Let  them  at  once  dispatch  me. 

Fran.  Draw  your  sword  then, 

And,  as  you  wish  your  own  peace,  quickly  kill  me  ; 
Consu.er  not,  but  do  it. 

f'f'r.  Ar   t.hou  mad  ? 

Fran.  Or.  if  to  take  my  life  be  too  much  mercy, 
As  death,  indeed,  concludes  all  human  sorrows, 
Cut  off  my  nose  and  ears  ;  pull  out  an  eye. 
The  other  only  left  to  lend  me  light 
To  see  my  own  deformities.     Why  was  I  born 
Without  some  mulct  imposed  on  me  by  nature  ? 
Would  from  my  youth  a  loathsome  leprosy 
Had  run  upon  this  face,  or  that  my  breath 
Had  been  infectious,  and  so  made  me  shunn'd 
Of  all  societies  !  curs'd  be  he  that  taught  me 
Discourse  or  manners,  or  lent  any  grace 
That  makes  the  owner  pleasing  in  the  eye 
Of  wanton  women  !  since  those  parts,  which  others 
Value  as  blessings,  are  to  me  afflictions, 
Such  mv  condition  is. 


•  IfTiat  gimcrack  have  we  nextf\  It  may  be  that  Coxeter 
has  hit  upon  the  right  word ;  but  tl>e  first  syllable  is  omitted 
in  the  old  copies;  (irobably  it  was  of  an  i  ttensive  tendency. 
Besides  the  terror  ol  the  law  tb.it  him;  over  the  poet's  head 
about  this  time,  the  Mast-r  of  the  Rcvrls  kept  a  scrutinizing 
ye  upon  every  passage  of  an  indecent  (indecent  for  the 
limes)  or  protanr  tendency  It  i*  Massinger's  peculiar  praise, 
that  he  is  altogether  free  from  the  latter. 


Sfor.  I  am  on  the  rack  : 
Dissolve  this  doubtful  riddle*. 

Fran.  That  1  alone, 

Of  all  mankind,  that  stand  most  bound  to  love  you, 
And  study  your  content,  should  be  appointed, 
Not  by  my  will,  but  forced  by  cruel  fate, 
To  be  your  greatest  enemy  ! — not  to  hold  you 
In  this  amazement  longer,  in  a  word, 
Your  dutchess  loves  me. 

Sfor.  Loves  thee  ? 

Fran.  Is  mad  for  me, 
Pursues  me  hourly. 

Sfor.  Oh  ! 

I- ran.  And  from  hence  grew 
Her  late  neglect  of  you. 

Sfor.  0  women !  women  ! 

y-ran.  I  labour'd  to  divert  her  by  persuasion, 
Then  urged  your  much  love  to  her,  and  the  danger ; 
Denied  her,  and  with  scorn. 

Sfor.  "Twas  like  thyself. 

Fran.     But  when  1  saw  her  smile,  then  heard  her 

say, 

Your  love  and  extreme  dotage  as  a  cloak, 
Should  cover  our  embraces,  and  your  power 
Fright  others  from  suspicion  ;  and  all  favours 
That  should  preserve  her  in  her  innocence, 
By  lust  inverted  to  be  used  as  bawds  ; 
I  could  not  but  in  duty  (though  I  know 
That  the  relation  kills  in  you  all  hope 
Of  peace  hereafter,  and  in  me  'twill  shew 
Both  base  and  poor  to  rise  up  her  accuser) 
Freely  discover  it. 

Sfor.  Eternal  plagues 
Pursue  and  overtake  her  !  for  her  sake, 
To  all  posterity  may  he  prove  a  cuckold, 
And,  like  to  me,  a  thing  so  miserable 
As  words  may  not  express  him,  that  gives  trust 
To  all  deceiving  women  !  Or,  since  it  is 
The  will  of  heaven,  to  preserve  mankind, 
That  we  must  know  and  couple  with  these  serpents, 
No  wise  man  ever,  taught  by  my  example, 
Hereafter  use  his  wife  with  more  respect 
Than  he  would  do  his  horse  that  does  him  service ; 
Base  woman  being  in  her  creation  made 
A  slave  to  man.     But,  like  a  village  nurse, 
Stand  I  now  cursing  and  considering,  when 
The  tamest  fool  would  do ! — VV  ithin  there !  Stephano, 

Tiberio,  and  the  rest. 1  will  be  sudden, 

And  she  shall  know  and  feel,  love  in  extremes 
Abused,  knows  no  degree  in  hatef. 

Enter  TIBERIO  and  STEPHANO. 

Tib.  My  lord. 

Sfor.  Go  to  the  chamber  of  that  wicked  woman— 

Steph,  What  wicked  woman,  sir? 

Sjor.  The  devil,  my  wife. 
Force  a  rude  entry,  and,  if  she  refuse 
To  follow  you,  drag  her  hither  by  the  hair, 
And  know  no  pity;  any  gentle  usage 
To  her  will  call  on  cruelty  from  me, 
To  such  as  show  it. — Stand  you  staring !  Go, 
And  put  my  will  in  act. 


•  Dittohe  this  doubtful  riddle.]  Our  old  writer*  nsed 
dissolve  and  tolvf  inilisciiminately ;  or,  if  they  made  any 
ditlerence,  it  was  in  favour  of  the  former : 

"  he  is  pointed  at 

For  the  fine  courtier,  the  woman's  man, 
Tlwt  tells  my  lady  stories,  dissolve*  riddle*." 

'I  he  Qtiern  of  Corinth. 
no  detjrre  in  hate.}    For  no  dryret  in  hate,  the 


modern  editor*  very  incorrectlv  lead,  no  degree  ol  hale. 


84 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[Acr  V 


S'eph.  There's  no  disputing. 

Tib.  But  'tis  a  tempest  on  the  sudden  raised, 
Who  durst  have  dream'd  of  ? 

\Exenut  Tiberio  and  Stephana. 

Sfor.  Nay,  since  she  dares  damnation, 
I'll  be  a  fury  to  her. 

Fran.  Yet,  great  sir, 

Kxceed  not  in  your  fury  ;  she's  yet  guilty 
Only  in  her  intent, 

Sfor.  Intent,  Francisco  ! 
It  does  include  all  fact ;  and  I  might  sooner 
Be  won  to  pardon  treason  to  my  crown, 
Or  one  that  kill'd  my  father. 

Fran.  You  are  wise, 

And  know  what's  best  to  do: — yet,  if  you  please, 
To  prove  her  temper  to  the  height,  say  only 
That  I  am  dead,  and  then  observe  how  far 
She'll  be  transported.     I'll  remove  a  little, 
But  be  within  your  call.     Now  to  the  upshot? 
Howe'er  I'll  shift  for  one.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  TIBEKIO,  STEPHANO,  and  Guard  with  MAR- 
CELI.A. 

Marc.  Where  is  this  monster, 
This  walking  tree  of  jealousy,  this  dreamer, 
This  horned  beast  that  would  be?  Oh!  are  you  here, 
Is  it  by  your  commandment,  or  allowance,  [sir, 

I  am  thus  basely  used  ?  Which  of  my  virtues, 
My  labours,  services,  and  cares  to  please  you, 
For,  to  a  man  suspicious  and  unthankful, 
Without  a  blush  I  may  be  mine  own  trumpet, 
Invites  this  barbarous  course?  dare  you  look  on  me 
Without  a  seal  of  shame? 

Sfor.  Impudence, 

How  ugly  thou  appear'st  now  !  thy  intent 
To  be  a  whore,  leaves  thee  not  blood  enough 
To  make  an  honest  blush  :  what  had  the  act  done? 

Marc.  Return'd  t  hee  the  dishonour  thou  deservest, 
Though  willingly  I  had  ^iven  up  myself 
To  every  common  letcher. 

Sfor,  Your  chief  minion, 
Your  chosen  favourite,  your  woo'd  Francisco, 
Has  dearly  paid  for't ;  for,  wretch !  know,  he's  dead, 
And  by  my  hand. 

Marc.  The  bloodier  villain  thou  ! 
But  'tis  not  to  be  wondered  at,  thy  love 
Does  know  no  other  object : — thou  hast  kill'd  then, 
A  man  I  do  profess  I  loved ;  a  man 


For  whom  a  thousand  queens  might  well  be  rivals. 
But  he,  I  speak  it  to  thy  teeth,  that  dares  be 
A  jealous  fool,  dares  be  a  murderer, 
And  knows  no  end  in  mischief. 

Sfor.   I  begin  now 
In  this  my  justice.  [Stabs  her. 

Marc.  Oh  !  I  have  fool'd  myself 
Into  my  grave,  and  only  grieve  for  that 
Which,  when  you  know  you've  slain  an  innocent, 
You  needs  must  suffer. 

Sfor.  An  innocent !     Let  one 
Call  in  Francisco,  for  he  lives,  vile  creature, 

[Eiit  Stephana. 

To  justify  thy  falsehood,  and  how  often, 
With  whorish  flatteries  thou  hast  tempted  him  ; 
I  being  only  fit  to  live  a  st<tle, 
A  bawd  and  property  to  your  wantonness. 

He-enter  STEPHANO. 

Steph.  Signior  Francisco,  sir,  but  even  now, 
Took  horse  without  the  ports. 

Marc.  We  are  botli  abused. 
And  both  by  him  undone.     Stay,  death,  a  little, 
Till  I  have  clear'd  me  to  my  lord,  and  then* 
I  willingly  obey  thee.     O  my  Sforza! 
Francisco  was  not  tempted,  but  the  tempter; 
And,  as  lie  thought  to  win  me,  shew'd  the  warrant 
That  you  sign'd  for  my  death. 

Sfor.  Then  I  believe  thee  ; 
Believe  thee  innocent  too. 

Marc.  But,  being  contemn'd, 
Upon  his  knees  with  tears  he  did  beseech  me, 
Not  to  reveal  it ;  I,  soft-hearted  fool, 
Judging  his  penitence  true,  was  won  unto  it : 
Indeed,  the  unkindness  to  be  sentenced  by  you, 
Before  that  I  was  guilty  in  a  thought, 
Made  me  put  on  a  seeming  anger  towards  you, 
And  now — behold  the  issue.     As  I  do, 
May  heaven  forgive  you  !  [Diet 

Tib.  Her  sweet  soul  has  left 
Her  beauteous  prison. 

Steph.  Look  to  the  duke;  he  stands 
As  if  he  wanted  motion. 

Tib.  Grief  hath  stopp'd 
The  orgiin  of  his  speech. 

Stefih.  Take  up  this  body, 
And  call  for  his  physicians. 

is/or,  0  my  heart-strings '  [Exeunt 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — The  Milanese.     A  Room  in  EUCZNIA'S 
House. 

Enter  FRANCISCO  and  EUGENIA  in  male  attire. 

Fran.  Why,    couldst  thou    think,  Eugenia    that 

rewards, 

Graces,  or  favours,  though  strew'd  thick  upon  me,  , 
Could  ever  bribe  me  to  forget  mine  honour? 
Or  that  I  tamely  would  sit  down,  before 
I  had  dried  these  eyes  still  wet  with  showers  of  tears, 
By  the  fire  of  my  revenge 7  look  up,  my  dearest ! 
For  that  proud  lair,  that,  thief-like,  stepp'd  between 
Thy  promised  hopes,  and  robb'd  thee  of  a  fortune 


Almost  in  thy  possession,  hath  found, 

With  horrid  proof,  his  love,  she  thought  her  glory, 

And  an  assurance  of  all  happiness, 

But  hastened  her  sad  ruin. 

Etig.  Do  not  natter 

A  grief  that  is  beneath  it ;  for,  however 
'I  he  credulous  duke  to  me  proved  false  and  cruel, 
It  is  impossible  he  could  be  wrought 

*  Till  J  have  clear'd  me  to  my  lurd,and  then]  Tliisisthe 
reading  of  the  first  quarto  :  Ilie  second,  whii-li  is  that  followed 
br  the  modern  edi.ors,  gives  the  line  iu  this  munetricaJ 
manner: 

Till  I  have  clear'd  myself  unto  my  lord,  and  then  t 


SCENE  I."| 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


83 


To  look  on  her,  but  with  the  eyes  of  dotage, 
And  so  to  serve  her. 

Fran.  Such,  indeed,  I  grant, 
The  stream  of  his  affection  was,  and  ran 
A  constant  course,  till  I,  with  cunning  malice, 
And  yet  I  wrong  my  act,  for  it  was  justice, 
Made  it  turn  backward  ;  and  hate,  in  extremes, — 
(Love  banish'd  from  his  heart,)  to  fill  the  room  : 
In  a  word,  know  the  fair  Marceiia's  dead*. 

Fug.  Dead !  [you  ? 

F>«n.  And  by  Sforza's  hand.     Does  it  not  move 
How  coldly  you  receive  it !     I  expected 
The  mere  relation  of  so  great  a  blessing, 
Born  proudly  on  the  wings  of  sweet  revenge, 
Would  have  call'd  on  a  sacrifice  of  thanks, 
And  joy  not  to  he  bounded  or  conceal'd. 
You  entertain  it  with  a  look,  as  if 
You  wish'd  it  were  undone. 

F.ug.  Indeed  I  do  : 

For,  if  my  sorrows  could  receive  addition, 
Her  sad  fate  would  increase,  not  lessen  them. 
She  never  injured  me,  but  entertain'd 
A  fortune  humbly  offer'd  to  her  hand, 
Which  a  wise  lady  gladly  would  have  kneel'd  for. 
Unless  you  would  impute  it  as  a  crime, 
She  was  more  fair  than  I,  and  had  discretion 
Not  to  deliver  up  her  virgin  fort,  [tears, 

Though  strait  besieged  with   flatteries,  vows,  and 
Until  the  church  had  made  it  safe  and  lawful. 
And  had  I  been  the  mistress  of  her  judgment 
And  constant  temper,  skilful  in  the  knowledge 
Of  man's  malicious  falsehood,  1  had  never, 
Upon  his  hell-deep  oaths  to  marry  me, 
Given  up  my  fair  name,  and  my  maiden  honour, 
To  his  foul  lust  ;  nor  lived  now,  being  branded 
In  the  forehead  for  his  whore,  the  scorn  and  shame 
Of  all  good  women. 

Fran.  Have  you  then  no  gall, 
Anger,  or  spleen,  familiar  to  your  sex  1 
Or  is  it  possible  that  you  could  see 
Another  to  possess  what  was  your  due, 
And  not  grow  pale  with  envy  ! 

Eug.  Yes,  of  him 

That  did  deceive  me.     There's  no  passion,  that 
A  maid  so  injured  ever  cculd  partake  of, 
But  1  have  dearly  suffer'd.     These  three  years, 
In  my  desire  and  labour  of  revenge, 
Trusted  to  you,  I  have  endured  the  throes 
Of  teeming  women  ;  and  will  hazard  all 
Fate  can  inflict  on  me,  but  I  will  reach 
Thy  heart,  false  Sforza  !   You  have  trifled  with  me, 
And  not  proceeded  with  that  fiery  zeal 
I  look'd  for  from  a  brother  of  your  spirit. 
Sorrow  forsake  me,  and  all  signs  of  grief 
Farewell  for  ever.     Vengeance,  arm'd  with  fury, 
Possess  me  wholly  now  ! 

Fran.  The  reason,  sister, 
Of  this  strange  metamorphosis  ? 

Eug.  Ask  thy  fears  : 

Thy  base,  unmanly  fears,  thy  poor  delays, 
Thy  dull  forgttfulness  equal  with  death  ; 
My  wrong,  else,  and  the  scandal  which  can  never 
Be  wash'd  oft'  from  our  house,  but  in  his  blood, 
Would  have  stirr'd  up  a  coward  to  a  deed 
In  which,  though  he  had  fallen,  the  brave  intent 
Had  crown'd  itself  with  a  fair  monument 


*  In  a  word,  know  l\\e  fair  HI  arc flia'i  dead.}  Coxeterand 
Mr.  M.  Ma.«on  omit  the  article,  which  uttedy  destroys  ilic 
rlij tliin  ui'  the  line. 


Of  noble  resolution.     In  this  shape 
1  hope  to  get  access  ;  and,  then,  with  shame, 
Hearing  my  sudden  execution,  judge 
What  honour  thou  hast  lost,  in  being  transcended 
I   By  a  weak  woman. 

Fran.  Still  mine  own,  and  dearer  ! 
And  yet  in  this  you  but  pour  oil  on  fire, 
And  offer  your  assistance  where  it  needs  not. 
And,  that  you  may  perceive  I  lay  not  fallow, 
But  had  your  wrongs  stamp'd  deeply  on  my  heart 
By  the  iron  pen  of  vengeance,  1  attempted, 
By  whoring  her,  to  cuckold  him  :  that  failing, 
I  did  begin  his  tragedy  in  her  death. 
To  which  it  served  as  prologue,  and  will  make 
A  memorable  story  of  your  fortunes 
In  my  assured  revenge  :  Only  best  sister, 
Let  us  not  lose  ourselves  in  the  performance, 
By  your  rash  undertaking  ;  we  will  be 
As  sudden  as  you  could  wish. 

£"£•   Upon  those  terms 
I  yield  myself  and  cause,  to  be  disposed  of 
As  you  think  fit. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Fran.  Thy  purpose  ? 

Serv.  There's  one  Graccho,  . 
That  follow'd  you,  it  seems,  upon  the  track, 
Since  you  left  .Milan,  that's  importunate 
To  have  access,  and  will  not  be  denied  ; 
His  haste,  he  says,  concerns  you. 

Fran.  Bring  him  to  me.  [E.n't  Servant, 

Though  he  hath  laid  an  ambush  for  my  life. 
Or  apprehension,  yet  1  will  prevent  him, 
And  work  mine  own  ends  out. 

Enter  GHACCHO. 

Grac.  Now  for  my  whipping  ! 
And  if  I  now  outstrip  him  not,  and  catch  him, 
And  by  a  new  and  strange  way  too,  hereafter 
I'll  swear  there  are  worms  in  my  brains.          [Asidt. 

Fran.  Now,  my  good  Graccho  ; 
We  meet  as  'twere  by  miracle. 

Grac.  Love,  and  duty, 
And  vigilance  in  me  tor  my  lord's  safety, 
First  taught  me  to  imagine  you  were  here, 
And  then  to  follow  you.    All's  come  forth,  my  lord, 
That    you   could    wish    conceal'd.      The  dutchess' 

wound , 

In  the  duke's  rage  put  home,  yet  gave  her  leave 
To  acquaint  him  with  your  practices,  which  vour 
Did  easily  confirm.  [flight 

Fran.  This  I  expected  : 

But  sure  you  come  provided  of  good  counsel. 
To  help  in  my  extremes. 

Grac.  I  would  not  hurt  you.  [death  ; 

Fran.  How!  hurt  me?  such  another  word's  thy 
Why,  dar'st  thou  think  it  can  fall  in  thy  will, 
To  outlive  what  I  determine  ? 

Grac.  How  he  awes  me  !  [Aside. 

Fran.  Be  brief;  what  brought  thee  hither  ? 

Grac.  Care  to  inform  you 

You  are  a  condemn 'd  man,  pursued  and  sought  for. 
And  your  head  rated  at  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  him  that  brings  it. 

Fran.  Very  good. 

Grac.  All  passages 

Are  intercepted,  and  choice  troops  of  horse 
Scour  o'er  the  neighbour  plains  ;  your  picture  sent 
To  every  stale  confederate  with  IViilan  : 
That,  though  I  grieve  to  speak  it,  in  my  judgment. 


86 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[Acr  V 


So  thick  your  dangers  meet,  and  run  upon  you, 
It  is  impossible  you  should  escape 
Their  curious  search. 

Eug.   Why,  let  us  then  turn  Romans, 
And,  falling  hy  our  own  hands,  mock  their  threats, 
And  dreadful  preparations. 

Fran.  'Twould  show  nobly  ; 
But  that  the  honour  of  our  full  revenge 
Were  lost  in  the  rash  action.     No,  Eugenia, 
Graccho  is  wise,  my  friend  too,  not  my  servant, 
And  I  dare  trust  him  with  my  latest  secret. 
We  would,  and  thou  must  help  us  to  perform  it, 
First  kill  the  duke — then,  full  what  can  upon  us  ! 
For  injuries  are  writ  in  brass,  kind  Graccho, 
And  not  to  be  forgotten. 

Grac.  He  instructs  me  [Aside. 

What  I  should  do. 

Fran.  What's  that? 

Grac.  I  labour  with 

A  strong  desire  to  assist  you  with  my  service  ; 
And  now  I  am  deliver'd  oft. 

Fran.  I  told  you. 
Speak,  my  oraculous  Graccho. 

Grac.  I  have  heard,  sir, 

Of  men  in  debt  that,  lay'd  for  by  their  creditors, 
In  all  such  places  where  it  could  be  thought 
They  would  take  shelter,  chose,  for  sanctuary, 
Their  lodgings  underneath  their  creditors'  noses, 
Or  near  that  prison  to  which  they  were  design'd, 
If  apprehended  ;  confident  that  there 
They  never  should  be  sought  for. 

Ettg.  'Ti.s  a  strange  one  ! 

Fran.  But  what  infer  you  from  it? 

Grac.  This,  my  lord  ; 

That,  since  all  ways  of  your  escape  are  stopp'd, 
In  Milan  only,  or,  what's  more,  in  the  court, 
Whither  it  is  presumed  you  dare  not  come 
Conceal'd  in  some  disguise,  you  may  live  safe. 

Fran.  And  not  to  be  discover'd  ? 

Grac.  But  by  myself.  [Graccho, 

F ran.  By   thee !     Alas !    I    know    tliee    honest 
And  1  will  put  thy  counsel  into  act, 
And  suddenly.     Yet,  not  to  be  ungrateful 
For  all  thy  loving  travail  to  preserve  me, 
What  bloody  end  soe'er  my  stars  appoint,      [there  ? 
Thou  shall  be  safe,  good  Graccho. — Who's  within 

Grac.  In  the  devil's  name,  what  means  he  *  ! 
Enter  Servants. 

Fran.  Take  my  friend 
Into  your  custody,  and  bind  him  fast ; 
I  would  not  part  with  him. 

Grac.  My  good  lord. 

Fran.  Dispatch  : 

'Tis  for  your  good,  to  keep  you  honest,  Graccho  : 
I  would  not  have  ten  thousand  ducats  tempt  you, 
Being  of  a  soft  and  wax -like  disposition, 
To  play  the  traitor  ;  nor  a  foolish  itch 
To  be  revenged  for  your  late  excellent  whipping 
Give  you  the  opportunity  to  offer 
My  head  for  satisfaction.     Why,  thou  fool ! 
I  can  look  through  and  through  thee ;  thy  intents 
Appear  to  me  as  written  in  thy  forehead 
In  plain  and  easy  characters  :  and  but  that 

•  Grac.  In  the  devil'*  namf,  what  meant  he .']  The  second 
quarto  omits  the  adjuration  anil  tamely  reads,— what  means 
net  Hie  licenser,  in  in.iny  cases,  si-ems  to  have  a<ti-d  ca- 
priciously :  here,  as  well  as  in  sever.il  other  places,  he  IMS 
itramed  at  a  gnat  and  swallowed  a  camel.  The  .-  ;pression 
tas  already  occurred  i«  tht  Unnatural  Combat. 


I  scorn  a  slave's  base  blood  should  rust  that  sword 
That  from  a  prince  expects  a  scarlet  die, 
Thou  no\v  wert  dead  ;  but  live,  only  to  pray 
For  good  success  to  crown  my  undertakings; 
And  then,  at  my  return,  perhaps  I'll  tree  thee, 
To  make  me  further  sport.     Away  with  him  ! 
I  will  not  hear  a  syllable. 

[\Ejtwti  Servants  with  Graccho. 

We  must  trust 

Ourselves,  Eugenia ;  and  though  we  make  use  of 
The  counsel  of  our  servants,  that  oil  spent, 
Like  snuffs  that  do  offend,  we  tread  them  o  t.— 
But  now  to  our  last  scene,  which  we'll  so  carry, 
That  few  shall  understand  how  'twas  begun, 
Till  all,  with  half  an  eve,  may  see  'tis  done. 

Exeunt, 


SCENE  IL— Milan.    A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  PESCARA,  TIBERIO,  and  STEPHANO. 

Pesc.  The  like  was  never  read  of. 

Steph.  In  my  judgement, 
To  all  that  shall  but  hear  it,  'twill  appear 
A  most  impossible  fable. 

Tib.  For  Francisco, 

My  wonder  is  the  less,  because  there  are 
Too  many  precedents  of  unthankful  men 
Raised  up  to  greatness,  which  have  al'ter  studied 
The  ruin  of  their  makers. 

Steph,  But  that  melancholy, 
Though  ending  in  distraction,  should  work 
So  far  upon  a  man,  as  to  compel  him 
To  court  a  thing  that  has  nor  sense  nor  being, 
Is  unto  me  a  miracle. 

Pesc.  Troth,  I'll  tell  you, 
And  briefly  as  I  can,  by  what  degrees 
He  fell  into  this  madness.     When,  by  the  care 
Of  his  physicians,  he  was  brought  to  life, 
As  he  had  only  pass'd  a  fearful  dream, 
And  had  not  acted  what  I  grieve  to  think  on, 
He  call'd  for  fair  Marcelia,  and  being  told 
That  she  was  dead,  he  broke  forth  in  extremes, 
(I    would    not    say   blasphemed.,)   and    cried  that 

heaven, 

For  all  the  offences  that  mankind  could  do, 
Would  never  be  so  cruel  as  to  rob  it 
Of  so  much  sweetness,  and  of  so  much  goodness  : 
That  not  alone  was  sacred  in  herself, 
But  did  preserve  all  others  innocent, 
That  had  hut  converse  with  her.     Then  it  came 
Into  his  fancy  that  she  was  accused 
By  his  mother  and  his  sister  ;  thrice  he  curs'd  them 
And  thrice  his  desperate  hand  was  on  his  sword 
T'have  kill'd  them  both  ;  but  he  restraiu'd,  and  they 
Shunning  his  fury,  spite  of  ail  prevention 
He  would  have  turii'd  his  rage  upon  himself; 
When  wisely  his  physicians  looking  on 
The  du'chess' wound,  to  stay  his  ready  hand, 
Cried  out,  it  was  not  mortal. 

Tib.  'Twas  well  thought  on. 

Pesc.  He  easily  believing  what  he  wish'd, 
More  than  a  perpetuity  of  pleasuro 
In  any  object  else  ;  flatter'd  by  hope, 
Forgetting  his  own  greatness,  he  fell  prostrate 
At  the  doctor's  feet,  implored  their  aid,  nod  swore, 
Provided  they  recover'd  her,  he  would  live 
A  private  man,  and  thev  should  share  his  dukedom. 
They  seem'd  to  promise  fair,  and  every  hour 
Vary  their  judgments,  as  they  find  his  fit 


SCENE  111.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


To  suffer  intermission  or  extremes  : 
For  his  behaviour  since 

Sfor.  [within.']  As  you  have  pity, 
Support  her  gently. 

Pesc.  Now,  be  your  own  witnesses  ; 
T  am  prevented. 

Enter    SFORZA,  ISABELLA,    MARIANA,    Doctors   and 
Servants  uith  the  Body  of  MARCELIA. 

Sfor.  Carefully,  I  beseech  you, 
The  gentlest  touch  torments  her  ;  and  then  think 
What  I  shall  suffer.     O  you  earthly  gods, 
You  second  natures,  that  from  your  great  master, 
Who  joiii'd  the  limbs  of  torn  Hippolitus, 
And  drew  upon  himself  the  Thunderer's  envy, 
Are  taught  those  hidden  secrets  that  restore 
To  life  death-wounded  men  !  you  have  a  patient, 
On  whom  to  express  the  excellence  of  art, 
Will  bind  even  heaven  your  debtor,  though  it  pleases 
To  make  your  hands  the  organs  ef  a  work 
The  saints  will  smile  to  look  on,  and  good  angels 
Clap  their  celestial  wings  to  give  it  plaudits. 
How  pale  and  wan  she  looks  !   O  pardon  me, 
That  I  presume  (died  o'er  with  bloody  guilt, 
Which  makes  me,  I  confess,  far,  far  unworthv) 
To  touch  this  snow-white  hand.     How  cold  it  is  ! 
This  once  was  Cupid's  fire-brand,  and  still 
'Tis  so  to  me.     How  slow  her  pulses  beat  too  ! 
Yet,  in  this  temper,  she  is  all  perfection, 
And  mistress  cf  a  heat  so  full  of  sweetness, 
The,  blood  of  virgins,  in  their  pride  of  youth, 
Are  balls  of  snow  or  ice  compared  unto  her. 

Mart.  Is  not  this  strange? 

hah.  Oh  !  cross  him  not,  dear  daughter  ; 
Our  conscience  tells  us  we  have  been  abused, 
W  rought  to  accuse  the  innocent,  and  with  him 
Are  guilty  of  a  fact 

Enter  a  Servant,  and  whispers  PESCARA. 

3fnri.  'Tis  now  past  help. 

Pesc.  With  me  ?    What  is  he  ? 

Serv.  He  lias  a  strange  aspect ; 
A  Jew  by  birth,  and  a  physician 
By  his  profession,  as  he  says,  who,  hearing 
Of  the  duke's  frenzy,  on  the  forfeit  of 
His  life  will  undertake  to  render  him 
Perfect  in  every  part : — provided  that 
Your  lordship's  favour  gain  him  free  access, 
And  your  power  with  the  duke  a  safe  protection, 
Till  the  great  work  be  ended. 

Pesc.  Bring  me  to  him  ; 
As  I  find  cause,  I'll  do.  [Exeunt  Pesc.  and  Serv, 

Sfor.  flow  sound  she  sleeps  ! 

Heaven  keep  her  from  a  lethargy ! How  long 

(But  answer  me  with  comfort,  I  beseech  you) 
Does  your  sure  judgment  tell  you,  that  these  lids, 
That  cover  richer  jewels  than  themselves, 
Like  envious  night,  will  bar  these  glorious  suns 
From  shining  on  me  ? 

1    Doct.   We  have  given  her,  sir, 
A  sleepy  potion,  that  will  hold  her  long, 
That  she  may  be  less  sensible  of  the  torment 
The  searching  of  her  wound  will  put  her  to. 

'2  Duct.  She  now  feels  little ;  but,  if  we  should 

wake  her, 

To  hear  her  speak  would  fright  both  us  and  you, 
And  therefore  dare  not  hasten  it. 

Sfor.  I  am  patient. 

You  see  I  do  not  rage,  but  wait  your  pleasure. 
What  do  you  think  she  dreams  of  now  1  for  sure, 


Although  her  body's  organs  are  bound  fast, 
Her  fancy  cannot  slumber. 

1  Doct.  That,  sir,  looks  on 
Your  sorrow  for  your  late  rash  act,  with  pity 
Of  what  you  suffer  for  it,  and  prepares 
To  meet  the  free  confession  of  your  guilt 
With  a  glad  pardon. 

Sfor.  She  was  ever  kind  ; 

And  her  displeasure,  though  call'd  on,  short-lived 
Upon  the  least  submission.     O  you  Powers, 
That  can  convey  our  thoughts  to  one  another 
Without  the  aid  of  eyes  or  ears,  assist,  me! 
Let  her  behold  me  in  a  pleasing  dream 
Tims,  on  my  knees  before  her  ;  (yet  that  duty 
In  me  is  not  sufficient ;)  let  her  see  me 
Compel  my  mother,  from  whom  I  took  life, 
And  this  my  sister,  partner  of  my  being, 
To  bow  thus  low  unto  her  ;  let  her  hear  us 
In  my  acknowledgment  freely  confess 
That  we  in  a  degree  as  high  are  guilty 
As  she  is  innocent.   Bite  your  tongues,  vile  creatures, 
And  let  your  inward  horrour  fright  your  souls, 
For  having  belied  that  pureness,  to  come  near  which 
All  women  that  posteriry  can  bring  forth 
Must  be,  though  striving  to  be  good,  poor  rivals. 
And  for  that  dog  Francisco,  that  seduced  me, 
In  wounding  her,  to  rase  a  temple  built 
To  chastity  and  sweetness,  let  her  know 
I'll  follow  him  to  hell,  but  I  will  find  him, 
And  there  live  a  fourth  fury  to  torment  him. 
Then,  for  this  cursed  hand  and  arm,  that  guided 
The  wicked  steel,  I'll  have  them,  joint  by  joint, 
With  burning  irons  sear'd  off,  which  I  will  eat, 
I  being  a  vulture  fit  to  taste  such  carrion  ; 
Lastly 

1  Doct.  You  are  too  loud,  sir  ;  you  disturb 
Her  sweet  repose. 

Sfor.  I  am  hush'd.     Yet  give  us  leave. 
Thus  prostrate  at  her  feet,  our  eyes  bent  downwards, 
Unworthy  and  ashamed,  to  look  upon  her, 
To  expect  her  gracious  sentence. 

2  Duct.  He's  past  hope. 

1  Doct.  The  body  too  will  putrify,  and  then 
We  can  no  longer  cover  the  imposture. 

Tib.  Which  in  his*  death  will  quickly  be  dis- 
I  can  but  weep  his  fortune.  [cover'd. 

Steph.  Yet  be  careful 

You  lose  no  minute  to  preserve  him  ;  time 
May  lessen  his  distraction. 

Re-enter  PESCARA,  u-ith  FRANCISCO  as  a  Jew  and 
EUGENIA  disguised. 

Fran.  I  am  no  god,  sir, 
To  give  a  new  life  to  her  ;  yet  I'll  hazard 
My  head,  I'll  work  the  senseless  trunk  t'  appear 
To  him  as  it  had  got  a  second  being, 
Or  that  the  soul  that's  fled  from't,  were  call'd  back 
To  govern  it  again.     I  will  preserve  it 
In  the  first  sweetness,  and  by  a  strange  vapour, 
Which  I'll  infuse  into  her  mouth,  create 
A  seeming  breath  ;  I'll  make  her  veins  run  high  too 
As  if  they  had  true  motion. 

Pesc.  Do  but  this, 

Till  we  use  means  to  win  upon  his  passions 
T'endure  to  hear  she's  dead  with  some  small  patience, 
And  make  thy  own  reward. 


•  Tib.  Which  in  his  death  tcill  quicltly  be  diJscocfr'd.'  I 
know  not  lx>w  the  modern  editor>  MdMaHwl  tin."  line,  but 
for  hit,  they  read,  her  death:  a  strange  sophistication  ' 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


[AcrV 


Fran.  The  art  I  use 
Admits  no  looker  on  :  I  only  ask 
The  fourth  part  of  an  hour  to  perfect  that 
I  boldly  undertake. 

Peso.  1  will  procure  it. 

2  Doct.  What  stranger's  this? 

Pesc.  Sooth  me  in  all  I  say ; 
There  is  a  main  end  in't. 

Fran.  Beware  ! 

J-'ug.  I  nm  warn'd. 

Pesc.  Look  up,  sir,  cheerfully  :  comfort  in  me 
Flows  strongly  to  you. 

Sfor.  From  whence  came  that  sound  ? 
Was  it  from  my  Marcelia?  If  it  were, 
I  rise,  and  joy  will  give  me  wings  to  meet  it. 

Pesc.  Nor  shall  your  expectation  be  deferr'd 
But  a  few  minutes.     Your  physicians  are 
Mere  voice,  and  no  performance  ;  I  have  found 
A  man  that  can  do  wonders.     Do  not  hinder 
The  dutchess'  wish'd  recovery,  to  enquire 
Or  what  he  is,  or  to  give  thanks,  but  leave  him 
To  work  this  miracle. 

Sfor.  Sure,  'tis  my  good  angel. 
I  do  obey  in  all  things  ;  be  it  death 
For  any  to  disturb  him,  or  come  near, 
Till  he  be  pleased  to  call  us.     O,  be  prosperous, 
And  make  a  duke  thy  bondman  ! 

[Exeunt  all  but  Francisco  and  Eugenia. 

Fran.  'Tis  my  purpose  ; 
If  that  to  fall  a  long-wish'd  sncrifice 
To  my  revenge  can  be  a  benefit. 
Ill  first  make  fast  the  doors  ;— soi 

Evg.  You  amaze  me  : 
What  follows  now  ? 

Fran.  A  full  conclusion 
Of  all  thy  wishes.     Look  on  this,  Eugenia, 
Even  such  a  thing,  the  proudest  fair  on  earth 
(For  whose  delight  the  elements  are  ransack'd, 
And  art  with  nature  studied  to  preserve  her,) 
Must  be,  when  she  is  summon'd  to  appear 
In  the  court  of  death.     But  I  lose  time. 

Eug.  What  mean  you  ? 

Fran.  Disturb  me  not    Your  ladyship  looks  pale ; 
But  I,  your  doctor,  have  a  ceruse  for  you. 
See,  my  Eugenia,  how  many  faces, 
That  are  adorned  in  court,  borrow  these  helps, 

[Paints  the  cheeks. 

And  pass  for  excellence,  when  the  better  part 
Of  them  are  like  to  this.     Your  mouth  smells  sour 
But  here  is  that  shall  take  away  the  scent ;        [too, 
A  precious  antidote  old  ladies  use,  [rotten. 

When  they  would   kiss,  knowing  their   gums   are 
These  hands  too,  that  disdain'd  to  take  a  touch 
From  any  lip,  whose  owner  writ  not  lord, 
Are  now  but  as  the  coarsest  earth  ;  but  I 
Am  at  the  charge,  my  bill  not  to  be  paid  too, 
To  give  them  seeming  beauty.     So !  'tis  done. 
How  do  you  like  my  workmanship  ? 

Eiig.  I  tremble  : 

And  thus  to  tyrannize  upon  the  dead 
Is  most  inhuman. 

Fran.  Come  we  for  revenge, 
And  can  we  think  on  pity  ?  Now  to  the  upshot, 
And,  as  it  proves,  applaud  it.     My  lord  the  duke, 
Enter  with  joy,  and  see  the  sudden  change 
Your  servant's  hand  hath  wrought. 

Re-enter  SFORZA  and  the  rest. 
Sfor.  I  live  again 


In  my  full  confidence  that  Marcelia  may 
Pronounce  my  pardon.     Can  she  speak  yet? 

Fran.  No  : 

You  must  not  look  for  all  your  joys  at  once  ; 
That  will  ask  longer  time.' 

Pesc.  'Tis  wondrous  strange  ! 

Sfor.  By  all  the  dues  of  love  I  have  had  from  her, 
This  hand  seems  as  it  was  when  first  I  kiss'd  it. 
These  lips  invite  too :  I  could  ever  feed 
Upon  these  roses,  they  still  keep  their  colour 
And  native  sweetness  :  only  the  nectar's  wanting, 
That,  like  the  morning  dew  in  flowery  May, 
Preserved  them  in  their  beauty. 

Enter  GnAccno  hastily. 

Grac.  Treason,  treason! 

Tib.  Call  up  the  guard. 

Fran.  Graccho!   then  we  are  lost. 

Grac.  I  am  got  off,  sir  Jew  ;  a  bribe  hath  done  it, 
For  all  your  serious  charge  ;  thwe's  no  disguise 
Can  keep  you  from  my  knowledge. 

Sfor.  Speak. 

Grac.  I  am  out  of  breath, 
But  this  is 

Fran.  Spare  thy  labour,  fool, — Francisco  *. 

All.  Monster  of  men  ! 

Fran.  Give  me  all  attributes 
Of  all  you  can  imagine,  yet  I  glory 
To  be  the  thing  1  was  born.     I  am  Francisco ; 
Francisco,  that  was  raised  by  you,  and  made 
The  minion  of  the  time  ;  the  same  Frnncisco, 
That  would  have  whored  this  trunk,  when  it  had  life, 
And,  after,  breathed  a  jealousy  upon  thee, 
As  killing  as  those  damps  that  belch  out  plagues 
When  the  foundation  of  the  earth  is  shaken: 
I  made  thee  do  a  deed  heaven  will  not  pardon, 
Which  was — to  kill  an  innocent. 

Sfor.  Call  forth  the  tortures 
For  all  that  flesh  can  feel. 

Fran.  I  dure  the  worst : 
Only,  to  yield  some  leason  to  the  world 
Why  I  pursued  this  course,  look  on  this  face, 
Made  old  by  thy  base  falsehood  ;  'tis  Eugenia. 

Sfor.  Eugenia  ! 

Fran.  Does  it  slart  you,  sir?  my  sister, 
Seduced  and  fool'd  by  thee :  but  thou  must  pay 
The  forfeit  of  thy  falsehood.     Does  it  not  work  yet  • 
Whate'er  becomes  of  me,  which  I  esteem  not, 
Thou  art  mark'd    for  the    grave :    I've  given  thee 

poison 

In  this  cup*,  (now  observe  me,)  which  thy  last 
Carousing  deeply  of,  made  thee  forget 
Thy  TOW  d  faith  to  Eugenia. 

Pesc.  O  clamn'd  villain  ! 

Isab.  How  do  you,  sir  ? 

Sfor.  Like  one 

That  learns  to  know  in  death  what  punishment 
Waits  on  the  breach  of  fnith.     Oh  !  now  I  feel 


Fran.  Spare  thy  labour,  fool, — Francitco.]  Francisco' 


gave  rise  i<»  one  or  me  inosi  anunaieu  scenes  in  nrainauc 
poetry.  The  reader  will  ea.-:ly  see,  that  I  refer  to  the  last 
act  of  Dr.  Young's  Revenge,  where  Zanna,  like  Francisco, 
defends  every  cruel  and  trriclierous  act  lie  has  committed 
from  a  principle  of  deep  resentment.  l).ivn:s. 

t I've  given  thee  poison 

In  thii  nip.  &c.]  i.  e.  in  the  lips  of  Marcelia.  This  is  a 
terrible  sct'iie,  and  has  the  air  of  being  taken  from  gome 
Itali  in  story. 


II.] 


THE  DUKE  OF  MILAN. 


An  ^Etna  in  my  entrails. — I  have  lived 
A  prince,  and  my  last  breath  shall  be  command. 
— 1  burn,  I  burn  !  yet  ere  life  be  consumed, 
Let  me  pronounce  upon  this  wretch  all  torture 
That  witty  cruelty  can  invent. 

Pesc.  Away  with  him  ! 

Tib.  In  all  things  we  will  serve  you. 

Fran.  Farewell,  sister  ! 

Now  I  have  kept  my  word,  torments  I  scorn: 
I  leave  the  world  with  glory.     They  are  men, 
And  leave  behind  them  name  and  memory, 
That  wrong'd,  do  right  themselves  before  they  die. 
[Exeunt  Guard  with  Franc'aco. 

Steph.  A  desperate  wretch  ! 

Sfor.  I  come  •.  Death !  I  obey  thee. 


Yet  I  will  not  die  raging  ;  for,  alas  ' 
My  whole  life  was  a  frenzy.     Good  Eugenia, 
In  death  forgive  me. — As  you  love  me,  bear  her 
To  some  religious  house,  there  let  her  spend 
The  remnant  of  her  life  :  when  I  am  ashes, 
Perhaps  she'll  be  appeased,  and  spare  a  prayer 
For  my  poor  soul.     Bury  me  with  Marcelia, 
And  let  our  epitaph  be [Diet 

Tib.  His  speech  is  stopt. 

Steph.  Already  dead  1 

Pesc.  It  is  in  vain  to  labour 
To  call  him  back.     We'll  give  him  funeral, 
And  then  determine  of  the  state  affairs  : 
And  learn,  from  this  example,  There's  no  trust 
In  a  foundation  that  is  built  on  lust.  [Eieitnt*. 


•  Mr.  M.  Mason,  contrary  to  his  custom,  has  given  an 
account  of  tliis  play  ;  but  it  is  too  loose  and  unsatisfactory  to 
be  presented  to  the  reader.  He  h;is  observed,  indeed,  what 
could  not  easily  be  missed,— the  beauty  of  the  language,  the 
elevation  of  the  sentiments,  the  interesting  nature  of  Ilic 
situations,  &c.  But  the  interior  motive  of  the  piece, — the 
spring  of  action  from  which  the  tragic  events  are  made  to 
flow,— seem*  to  have  utterly  escaped  him.  He  has  taken 
the  accessory  lor  the  primary  passion  of  it,  and,  upon  his 
own  error,  founded  a  comparison  between  the  Duke  of 
Alitan  and  Othello.—  But  let  us  hear  Massingcr  himself. 
Fearing  thai,  in  a  reverse  of  fortune,  his  wife  may  fall  into 
the  possession  of  another,  Sforza  gives  a  secret  order  for  her 
minder,  and  attributes  his  resolution  to  the  excess  of  his 
a'tuchnu-nt : 

"  'TU  more  than  love  to  her,  that  marks  her  out 
A  wish'd  companion  to  me  in  both  fortunes." 

Act  I.  «c.  iii. 

This  is  carefully  remembered  in  the  conference  between 
Marcelia  and  Francisro,  and  connected  with  the  feelings 
which  it  occasions  in  her : 

"• that  my  lord,  my  Sforza,  should  esteem 

My  life  fit  only  a*  a  page,  to  wail  on 

Tin:  various  course  ''f  his  uncertain  fortunes; 

Or  cherish  in  himself  ti.at  sensual  hope, 

In  death  to  know  me  as  a  wife,  afflicts  me." 

Act  III.  sc.  ii. 

Upon  tliis  disapprobation  of  his  selfish  motive,  is  founded 
IUT  reserve  towards  him, — a  reserve,  however,  more  allied 
to  tenderness  than  lo  anger,  and  meant  as  a  prudent  correc- 
tive of  his  unreasonable  desires  Anl  from  this  reserve,  ill 
interpreted  by  Sforza,  proceeds  that  jealousy  of  hi*  in  (he 
fourth  act,  which  Mr.  M.  Mason  will  have  lo  be  the  ground 
work  of  ihe  whole  subject  1 

But  if  Massinger  must  be  compared  with  somebody, let  it 
be  wiih  him.-eli  :  for,  as  the  reader  will  by  and  by  perceive, 
tJie  f)u!t?  nf  Milan  has  more  substantial  connexion  with  the 
Pii:tnrp  than  with  Othello.  In  his  uxorioHsnei-s,— his  doting 
entreaties  of  hU  wife's  favours, — his  abject  icuut-ls  of  the 


mediation  of  others  for  him,  &c.  &c.  Sforza  strongly  resem- 
bles Ladislaus ;  while  the  friendly  and  bold  reproofs  of  his 
fondness  by  Pescara  and  Stephano  prepare  us  for  the  rebukes 
afterwards  employed  against  the  same  failing  by  the  intrepid 
kindness  of  Eubulus.  And  not  only  do  we  find  this  similarity 
in  some  of  Ihe  leading  sentiments  of  the  two  play?,  but 
occasionally  the  very  language  of  the  one  is  carried  into  the 
other. 

As  to  the  action  itself  of  this  piece,  it  is  highly  animating 
and  interesting;  and  its  connexion,  at  the  very  opening,  with 
an  important  passage  of  history,  procures  for  it  at  once  a 
decided  attention.  This  is,  for  the  most  part,  well  maintained 
by  strong  and  rapid  alternations  of  fortune,  till  the  catastrophe 
is  matured  by  the  ever-working  vengeance  of  Francisco. 
Even  here,  the  author  has  contrived  a  novelty  of  interest 
little  expected  by  the  reader:  and  the  late  appearance  of  the 
injured  Eugenia  throws  a  fresh  emotion  into  the  conclusion 
of  the  play,  while  it  explains  a  considerable  part  of  the  plot, 
with  which,  indeed,  it  is  essentially  connected. 

The  character  of  Sforza  himself  is  strongly  conceived. 
His  passionate  fondness  for  Marcelia, — his  sudden  rage  at  her 
apparent  coolness, — his  resolute  renunciation  of  her, — his 
speedy  repentance  and  fretful  impatience  ot  her  absence, — 
his  vehement  defence  of  her  innocence, —  his  quick  and 
destructive  vengeance  against  her,  upon  a  false  assertion  ol 
her  dishonour, — and  his  prostrations  and  mad  embraces  of  her 
dead  body, — shew  the  force  of  dotage  and  hate  in  their  ex- 
tremes. His  actions  are  wild  and  ungovcrncd,  and  his  whole 
life  is  (as  he  says)  made  up  of  frenzy. 

One  important  lesson  is  to  be  drawn  from  the  principal 
feature  of  this  character.  From  Sforza's  ill-regulated  fond- 
ness for  Marcelia  flows  his  own  order  for  her  murder.  The 
discovery  of  it  occasions  Ihe  distant  behaviour  of  the  wife, 
ihe  revenge  of  the  husband,  and  the  de.ith  of  both. — Let  us 
use  the  blessings  of  life  with  modesty  and  thankfulness.  He 
who  aims  at  intemperate  gratifications,  disturbs  the  order  of 
Providence ;  and,  in  the  premature  loss  of  the  object  which 
he  too  fondly  covets,  is  made  to  feel  the  just  punishment  of 
|  unreasonable  wishes,  and  ungoverued  indulgence.  Da. 


THE 

BONDMAN. 

THE  BONDMAN.)  Hitherto  we  have  had  no  clue  to  guide  us  in  ascertaining  the  true  date  of  these  dramas. 
Fhe  fortunate  discovery  of  Sir  Henry  Herbert's  Office-book  enables  us,  from  this  period,  to  proceed  with 
avery  degree  of  certainty. 

The  Bondman  was  allowed  by  the  Master  of  the  "Revels,  and  performed  at  the  Cockpit  in  Drury  Lane,  on 
the  third  of  December,  1623.  It  was  printed  in  the  following  year,  and  again  in  1638.  This  edition  is  full 
of  errors,  which  I  have  been  enabled  to  remove,  by  the  assistance  of  the  first  copy,  for  which  I  am  indebted 
to  the  kindness  of  Mr.  M alone 

This  ancient  story  (for  so  it  is  called  by  Massinger)  is  founded  on  the  life  of  Timoleon  the  Corinthian,  as 
recorded  by  Plutarch.  The  revolt  and  subsequent  reduction  of  the  slaves  to  their  duty,  is  taken  from  Hero- 
dotus, or,  more  probably,  from  Justin*,  who  repeats  the  tale.  The  tale,  however,  more  especially  the  catas- 
trophe, is  trifling  enough,  and  does  little  honour  to  those  who  invented,  or  those  who  adopted  it ;  but  the 
beautiful  episode  here  founded  upon  it,  and  which  is  entirely  Massinger's  own,  is  an  inimitable  piece  of  art. 

This  is  one  of  the  few  plays  of  Massinger  that  have  been  revived  since  the  Restoration.  In  1660  it  was 
brouo-ht  on  the  stage  by  Betterton,  then  a  young  man,  who  played,  as  JJownes  the  prompter  informs  us,  the 
part  of  Pisander,  for  which  nature  had  eminently  qualified  him.  It  was  again  performed  at  Drury  Lane  in 
1719,  and  given  to  the  press  with  a  second  title  of  Love  and  Liberty,  and  a  few  insignificant  alterations;  and 
in  1779  a  modification  of  it  was  produced  by  Mr.  Cumberland,  and  played  for  a  few  nights  at  Covent 
Garden,  but,  as  it  appears,  with  no  extraordinary  encouragement.  It  was  not  printed. 


RIGHT  HONOURABLE,  MY  SINGULAR  GOOD  LORD, 

PHILIP  EARL  OF  MONTGOMERY, 

KNIGHT  OF  THE  MOST  NOBLE  ORDER  OF  THE  GARTER,  &c. 

RIGHT  HONOURABLE, 

However  I  could  never  arrive  at  the  happiness  to  be  made  known  to  your  lordship,  yet  a  desire,  born  with 
me,  to  make  a  tender  of  all  duties  and  service  to  the  noble  family  of  the  Herberts,  descended  to  me  as  an 
inheritance  from  my  dead  father,  Arthur  Massingerf.  Many  years  he  happily  spent  in  the  service  of  your 
honourable  house,  and  dicjd  a  servant  to  it;  leaving  his{  to  be  ever  most  glad  and  ready,  to  be  at  the  com- 
mand of  all  such  as  derive  themselves  from  his  most  honoured  master,  your  lordship's  most  noble  father. 
The  consideration  of  this  encouraged  me  (having  no  other  means  to  present  my  humblest  service  to  your 
honour)  to  shroud  this  trifle  under  the  wings  of  your  noble  protection  ;  and  I  hope,  out  of  the  clemency  of 
your  heroic  disposition,  it  will  find,  though  perhaps  not  a  welcome  entertainment,  yet,  at  the  worst,  a  gracious 
pardon.  When  it  was  first  acted,  your  lordship's  liberal  suffrage  taught  others  to  allow  it  forcurrent.it 
having  received  the  undoubted  stamp  of  your  lordships  allowance  :  and  if  in  the  perusal  of  any  vacant  hour, 
when  your  honour's  more  serious  occasions  shall  give  you  leave  to  read  it,  it  answer,  in  your  lordship's 

1'udgment,  the  report  and  opinion  it  had  uoon  the  stage,  I  shall  esteem  my  labours  not  ill  employed,  and,  while 
live,  continue 

the  humblest  of  those  that 

truly  honour  vour  lordship. 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


•  It  may,  indeed,  be  taken  from  an  account  of  Russia  in  Purrhas's  Pilgrims,  a  book  that  formed  the  delight  of  our 
ancestors.  There  il  is  -nid,  ili:ii  the  lini.mls  of  Noviorogod  reduced  their  slaves,  who  had  seized  the  town,  by  the  whip,  just 
as  tin'  Scythians  arc  said  10  h.ive  dune  theirs. 

+  My  deal  father,  Arthur  Massinyer.]  So  reads  the  first  edition.  The  modern  editors  follow  the  second,  winch  has 
Philip  Massiiiger.  See  the  In  iodnclii;n. 

t  I.enomy  his  to  be  ever  most  ylad,  &c.]  So  it  stands  in  both  the  old  qnartos,  and  in  Coxettr.  Mr  M.  Mason,  without 
authority,  and  indeed  without  reason,  inserts  ton  after  hit:  but  the  dedication,  as  given  by  him,  and  his  predecessor,  after 
the  .second  quarto,  is  full  ot  errors. 


t>CENE  I.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


91 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


TIMOLEON,  the  general,  of  Corinth 

ARCHIDAMUS,  preetor  of  Syracus-a. 

DIPHILUS,  a  senator  oj  Syracusa. 

CI.EON,  a  I  at  impotent  lord. 

PisANDEn,    a  gentleman  of  Thebes  ;    ditguised  as  a 

slave,  named  Marullo.  (The  Bondman.) 
POLIPIIRON,  friend  to  Pisander ;  also  disguised  as  a 

state. 
LEOSTIIENKS,  a  gentleman  of  Syracusa,  enamoured  of 

Cleora. 

ASOTUS,  a  1'onlish  later,  and  the  son  of  Cleon. 
TIMAGOHAS,  the  son  of  Archidarnus. 


GHACCULO,    >   , 
,,  J  tlavei. 

CIMBRIO,      3 

A  Gaoler. 

CLEORA,  daughter  of  Archidamus. 

CORISCA,  a  proud  wanton  lady,  wife  to  Cleon. 

OLY.MPIA,  a  rich  widoiv. 

STATII.IA,   sister   to  Pisander,  slave  to  Cleora,  named 

Timandra. 
ZASTHIA,  slave  to  Corisca. 


Other  slaves,  Officers,  Senators. 
SCENE,  Syracuse,  and  the  adjacent  country. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — Tlie  Camp  ofTimoleon,Tiear  Syracuse. 
Enter  TIMAGORAS  and  LEOSTHENES. 

Timag.  Why  should  you  droop,    Leosthenes,  or 

despair 

My  sister's  favour  1     What  before  you  purchased 
Hv  courtship  and  fair  language,  in  these  wars 
(For  from  her  soul  you  know  she  loves  a  soldier) 
You  may  r'eserve  by  action. 

Leost.  Good  Timagoras, 

When  I  have  said  my  friend,  think  all  is  spoken 
That  may  assure  me  yours  ;  and  pray  you  believe, 
The  dreadful  voice  of  war  that  shakes  the  city, 
The  thundering  threats  of  Carthage,  nor  their  army, 
Raised  to  m-.ike  good  those  threats,  affright  not  me. — 
If  fair  Cleora  were  confirm'd  his  prize, 
That  has  the  strongest  arm  and  sharpest  sword, 
I'd  court  Bellona  in  her  horrid  trim, 
As  if  she  were  a  mistress  ;  and  bless  fortune, 
That  offers  my  young  valour  to  the  proof, 
How  much  I  dare  do  for  your  sister's  love. 
}5ut,  when  that  I  consider  how  averse 
Your  noble  father,  great  Archidamus, 
Is,  and  hath  ever  been,  to  my  desires, 
Reason  may  warrant  me  to  doubt  and  fear. 
What  seeds  soever  I  sow  in  these  wars 
Of  noble  courage,  his  determinate  will 
May  blast  and  give  my  harvest  to  another, 
That  never  toil'd  for  it. 

Timag.  Prithee,  do  not  nourish  [me, 

These  jealous  thoughts ;    I  am  thine,  (and  pardon 
Though  I  repeat  it,)  thy  Timagoras*, 
That,  for  thv  sake,  when  the  bold  Theban  sued, 
Far-famed  Pisander,  for  my  sister's  love. 
Sent  him  disgraced  and  discontented  home. 
1  wrought  my  father  then  ;  and  I,  that  stopp'd  not 
In  the  career  of  my  affection  to  thee, 
When  that  renowned  worthy,  that,  brought  with  himt 


-'and  pardon  me. 


Thouyh  1  repeat  it,)  thy  Timagoras.]  So  tlie  old  copies. 
What  induced  the  mo  U-rn  editors  to  make  nonsense  of  the 
pa.-s.ii",  and  print  my  Lrosthenrs ,  1  cannot  even  guess. 

t  t-t'hm  that  rrnoicn-td  worthy,  that,  brought  with  him''. 
In  this  line  Mr.  M.  Mason  omits  the  second  that,  which,  he 
lays  "  destroys  both  sense  and  metre."  The  reduplication  is 


High  birth,  wealth,  courage,  as  fee'd  advocates 
To  mediate  for  him  :  never  will  consent 
A  fool,  that  only  has  the  shape  of  man, 
Asotus,  though  he  be  rich  Cleon  *s  heir, 
Shall  bear  her  from  thee. 

Leost.  In  that  trust  I  love*. 

Timag.  Which  never  shall  deceive  you. 

Enter  PISAXDF.H. 

Pisan.  Sir,  the  general, 

Timoleon,  by  his  trumpets  hath  given  warning 
For  a  remove. 

Timag.  'Tis  well  ;  provide  my  horse. 

Pisan.  I  shall,  sir.  [Exit. 

Leost.  This  slave  has  a  strange  aspect.       [knave  : 

Timag.    Fit  for  his  fortune  ;  'tis  a  strong-limb'd 
My  father  bought  him  for  my  sister's  litter. 
O  pride  of  women  !  Coaches  are  too  common — 
They  surfeit  in  the  happiness  of  peace, 
And  ladies  think  they  keep  not  state  enough, 
If,  for  their  pomp  and  ease,  they  are  not  born 
In  triumph  on  men's  shoulders  f. 

Leost.  Who  commands 
Tlie  Carthaginian  fleet  1 

Timag.  Cisco's  their  admiral, 
And  'tis  our  happiness ;  a  raw  young  fellow, 
One  never  train'd  in  arms,  but  rather  fasliion'd 
To  tilt  with  ladies'  lips,  than  crack  a  lance  ; 
Ravish  a  feather  from  a  mistress'  fan, 
And  wear  it  as  a  favour.     A  steel  helmet, 
Made  horrid  with  a  glorious  plume,  will  crack 
His  woman's  neck. 

Leost.  No  more  of  him. — The  motives, 
That  Corinth  gives  us  aid  ? 

entirely  in  Massinger'smanner.and  assuredly  destroys  neither. 
Wilh  respect  to  the  sense,  that  is  enforced  by  it;  and  no 
very  exquisite  ear  is  required,  to  perceive  that  the  metre  it 
improved. — How  often  will  it  be  necessary  to  obwrve,  that 
our  old  dramatists  never  counted  their  syllables  on  their 
fingers  ? 

*  Leost.  In  that  trust  I  love.]  Lore  is  the  reading  of  both 
the  quartos.  la  the  modern  editions  it  is  unnecessarily 
altered  to  live. 

T  in  triumph  on  men's  shoulders.']  Referring  to  the  then 
recently  introduced  sedan-chairs,  which  excited  much  indig 
natiou  in  Massinger's  time. 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[SCF.NE  III 


Timag.  The  common  danger  ; 
For  Sicily  being  afire,  she  is  not  safe  : 
It  being  apparent  that  ambitious  Carthage, 
That,  to  enlarge  ber  empire,  strives  to  fasten, 
An  unjust  gripe  on  us  that  live  free  lords 
Of  Syracusa,  will  not  end,  till  Greece 
Acknowledge  her  their  sovereign. 

Leost.  I  am  satisfied, 
What  think  you  of  our  general '! 

Titnag.   He's  a  man  [Trumpets  sound. 

Of  strange  and  reserved  parts,  but  a  great  soldier  *. 
His  trumpets  call  us,  I'll  forbear  his  character  j 
To-morrow,  in  the  senate-house,  at  large 
lie  will  express  himself. 

Leost.  I'll  follow  you.,'  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — SYRACUSE.     A  Room  in  Clean's  House. 
Enter  CLEON,  CORISCA,  and  GRACCULO. 

Corn.  Nay,  good  chuck. 

Clean.  I've  said  it ;  stay  at  home, 
I  cannot  brook  your  gadding  ;  you're  a  fair  one, 
Beauty  invites  temptations,  and  short  heels 
Are  soon  tripp'd  up. 

Cm-is.  Deny  me  !  by  my  honour, 
You  take  no  pity  on  me.     I  shall  swoon 
As  soon  as  you  are  absent ;  ask  my  man  else, 
You  know  he  dares  not  tell  a  lie. 

Grac.  Indeed. 

You  are  no  sooner  out  of  sight,  but  she        [doctor, 
Does  feel  strange  qualms  ;  then  sends  for  her  young 
Who  ministers  physic  to  her  on  her  back, 
Her  ladyship  lying  as  she  were  entranced  : 
(I've  peep'd  in  at  the  keyhole,  and  observed  them :) 
And  sure  his  potions  never  fail  to  work, 
For  she's  so  pleasant  in  the  taking  them, 
She  tickles  again. 

Cons.  And  all's  to  make  you  merry, 
When  you  come  home. 

Clean.  You  flatter  me  :  I'm  old, 
And  wisdom  cries,  Beware. 

Coris.  Old,  duck  !  To  me 
You  are  a  young  Adonis. 

Grac.  Well  said,  Venus  ; 
I  am  sure  she  Vuleans  him. 

Coris.  I  will  not  change  thee 

For  twenty  boisterous  young  things  without  beards. 
These  bristles  give  the  gentlest  titillations, 
And  such  a  sweet  dew  flows  on  them,  it  cures 
My  lips  without  pomatum.     Here's  a  round  belly ! 
'Tis  a  down  pillow  to  my  back  ;  I  sleep 
So  quietly  by  it :  and  this  tunable  nose, 
Faith.  wh«n  you  hear  it  not,  affords  such  music, 
That  I  curse  all  night-fiddlers. 

Grac.  This  is  gross. 
Not  finds  she  flouts  him  ! 

Com.  As  I  live,  I  am  jealous. 

Clean.  Jealous  of  me,  wife  ? 

Coris.  Yes  ;  and  I  have  reason  ; 
Knowing  how  lusty  and  active  a  man  you  are. 

Clean.  Hum.  hum  !  [will  make  him 

Grac.    This  is  no  cunning  quean  f  !  slight,   she 

•  Timag.  ffe't  a  man 

Q/'strangc  and  reserve d  parts,  but  a  great  soldier.]  Strange 
tignific*  here  distant.  M.  MASON. 

I  <lo  not  pretend  to  know  ihe  meaning  of  distant  parts. 
Massinger,  however.  \»  clear  enough  :  s'.range  and  reserved, 
in  his  language,  is  strangely  (i.  e.  singularly)  reserved. 

t  Grac.  Thil  is  no  cunning  quean.']  In  our  author's  time, 
4»  U  justly  observed  by  Wai-burton,  "  tlie  negative,  in  com- 


To  think  that,  like  a  stag,  he  has  cast  his  horns, 
And  is  grown  young  again. 

Coris.   You  have  forgot 

What  you  did  in  your  sleep,  and,  when  you  waked, 
Cull'd  for  a  caudle. 

Grac.  It  was  in  his  sleep  ; 
For,  waking,  I  durst  trust  my  mother  with  him. 

Coris.  I  long  to  see  the  man  of  war :  Cleora, 
Archidamus'  daughter,  goes,  and  rich  Olympia; 
I  will  not  miss  the  show. 

Clean.  There's  no  contending: 
For  this  time  1  am  pleased,  but  I'll  no  more  on't. 

[Eieunt 

SCENE  III.— Thesame.     The  Senate-house. 

Enter  ARCHIDAMUS,    CI.EON,     DIPIIILUS,   OLYMPIA, 
ConrscA,  CLEORA,  and  ZANTIIIA. 

ArchiJ.  So  careless  we  have  been,  my  noble  lords 
In  the  disposing  of  our  own  affairs, 
And  ignorant  in  the  art  of  government, 
That  now  we  need  a  stranger  to  instruct  us. 
Yet  we  are  happy  that  our  neighbour  Corinth, 
Pitying  the  unjust  gripe  Carthage  would  lay 
On  Syracusa,  hath  vouchsafed  to  lend  us 
Her  man  of  men,  Timoleon,  to  defend 
Our  country  and  our  liberties. 

Diph.  'I is  a  favour 

We  are  unworthy  of,  and  we  may  blush 
Necessity  compels  us  to  receive  it.  [nation 

ArchiJ.  O  shame  !  that  we,  that  are  a  populous 
Engaged  to  liberal  nature,  for  all  blessings 
An  island  can  bring  forth ;  we,  that  have  limbs, 
And  able  bodies  ;  shipping,  arms,  and  treasure, 
The  sinews  of  the  war,  now  we  are  call'd 
To  stand  upon  our  guard,  cannot  produce 
One  fit  to  be  our  general. 

Clean.  I  am  old  and  fat  ; 
I  could  say  something  else. 

Archid.  We  must  obey 

The  time  and  our  occasions  ;  ruinous  buildings, 
Whose  bases  and  foundations  are  infirm, 
Must  use  supporters  :  we  are  circled  round  [wings, 
With   danger ;    o'er   our   heads   with  sail-stretch'd 
Destruction  hovers,  and  a  cloud  of  mischief 
Ready  to  break  upon  us  ;  no  hope  left  us 
That  may  divert  it,  but  our  sleeping  virtue, 
Roused  up  by  brave  Timoleon. 

Clean.  When  arrives  he  ? 

Diph.  He  is  expected  every  hour. 

Archid.  The  braveries* 
Of  Syracusa,  among  whom  my  son 
Timagoras,  I.eosthenes,  and  Asotus, 
Your  hopeful  heir,  lord  Cleon,  two  days  since 
Rode  forth  to  meet  him,  and  attend  him  to 
The  city  ;  every  minute  we  expect 
To  be  bless'd  with  his  presence. 

[Shouts  within  ;  then  a  flourish  of  trumpets* 

Clean.  What  shout's  this  ? 

rnon   speech,  was   used   ironically  to   express  the  excess  o( 
thing."    Thus,  in  the  Roman  Actor : 

"  This  is  no  flattery  !" 
And  again,  in  the  City  Madam: 

"  Here's  no  gross  flattery  !     Will  she  swallow  tins .'" 
and  in  a  thousand  other  places. 

•  Archid.  The  braveries 

Of  Syracuse,  &c.]  i.  e.  the  young  nobility,  the  gay  and 
fashionable  gallants  of  the  city.  Thus  Clt  liuiont,  in  his  de- 
scription of  Sir  Amorous  la  Foole,  observes  that  "  he  is  one 
of  the  braveries,  though  he  be  none  of  tlie  wit*."  'I'lie  Silent 
Woman. 


SCENE  III.J 


THE  BONDMAN. 


Dlph.  "Tis  seconded  with  loud  music. 
Archid.    Which  confirms 

His  vrish'd-for  entrance.     Let  us  entertain  him 
With  all  respect,  solemnity,  and  pomp, 
A  man  may  merit,  that  comes  to  redeem  us 
From  slavery  and  oppression. 

Clean.  I'll  lock  up  [Corinth. 

My   doors,    and  guard    my  gold  ;    these  lads   of 
Have  nimble  fingers,  and  I  feu  them  more, 
Being  within  our  walls,  than  those  of  Carthage  ; 
They  are  far  off: 

Archid.  And,  ladies,  be  it  your  care 
To  welcome  him  and  his  followers  with  all  duty  : 
For   rest  resolved,  their  hands  and    swords   must 

keep  you 

In  that  full  height  of  happiness  you  live : 
A  dreadful  change  else  follows. 

[Extunt  Arcliidamus,  Clean,  and  Diphilus* 

Olymp.  We  are  instructed. 

Coris.  I'll  kiss  him  for  the  honour  of  my  country, 
With  any  she  in  Corintli  *. 

Olymp.  Were  he  a  courtier, 
I've  sweetmeat  in  my  closet  shall  content  him, 
Be  his  palate  ne'er  so  curious. 

Com.  And,  if  need  be,  [orchard, 

I   have  a   couch  and   a  banqueting-house   in  my 
Where  many  a  man  of  honour  f  has  not  scorn'd 
To  spend  an  afternoon. 

Olymp.  These  men  of  war, 
As  I  have  heard,  know  not  to  court  a  lady. 
They  cannot  praise  our  dressings,  kiss  our  hands, 
Usher  us  to  our  litters,  tell  love-stories, 
Commend  our  feet  and  legs,  and  so  search  upwards ; 
A  sweet  becoming  boldness  !  they  are  rough, 
Boisterous,  and  saucv,  and  at  the  first  sight 
Ruffle  and  touzeus,  and,  as  they  find  their  stomachs, 
Fall  roundly  to  it. 

Con's.  'Troth,  I  like  them  the  better  : 
I  can't  endure  to  have  a  perfumed  sir 
Ptand  cringing  in  the  hams,  licking  his  lips 
Like  a  spaniel  over  a  furmenty-pot,  and  yet 
Has  not  the  boldness  to  come  on,  or  offer 
What  they  know  we  expect. 

Olymp.  We  may  commend 

A  gentleman's  modesty,  manners,  and  fine  language, 
His  singing,  dancing,  riding  of  great  horses, 
The  wearing  of  his  clothes,  his  fair  complexion  ; 
Take  presents  from  him,  and  extol  his  bounty  : 
Yet,  though  he  observe,  and  waste  his  state  upon 
us  f, 


•  Coris.  I'll  hiss  him  for  the  honour  of  my  country, 
With  any  she  in  Corinth.)     The  reputation  of  the  Corin- 
thian l,idies  stood  high  among  the  ancients  for  gallantry  ;  and 
to  this  C'orisca  allude*. 

t  Coris    And  (f  need  be 

J  have  a  couch  and  a  banqueting-house  in  my  orchard, 
Where  many  a  man  of  honour,  &c.j  Our  old  plays  ar«-  full 
of  allusions  to  these  garden-houses,  which  appear  to  have 
been  abusul  to  the  purposes  of  debauchery.  A  very  homely 
passage  from  Stubbes's  Anatomie  of  Abuse*,  159!»,  will  make 
all  this  plain  :  "  In  the  suburbes  of  the  citie,  they  (the  wo- 
men) have  gardens  either  paled  or  walled  round  about  very- 
high,  with  their  harbers  and  bowers  tit  for  the  purpose :  and 
lest  they  might  be  espied  in  these  open  places,  they  have  their 
banquetiny-houses  with  galleries,  turrets,  and  what  not, 
therein  sumptuously  erecied  ;  wherein  they  may,  and  doubt- 
less do,  many  of  them,  play  the  filthy  persons."  See  too, 
the  City  Madam. 

$  and  waste  his  state  upon  us,}     Everywhere 

the  modern  editors  print  this  word  with  the  mark  of  elision, 
as  if  it  were  contracted  from  estate;  but  it  is  not  so:  state 
is  the  genuine  word,  and  is  used  by  all  our  old  poeis,  and  by 
Massinger  liimseli,  in  many  hundred  places,  where  we  should 
now  write  and  print  estate.  1  may  incidentally  observe  here. 


If  he  be  staunch  *,  and  bid  not  for  the  stock 
That  we  were  born  to  traffic  with  ;  the  truth  is, 
We  care  not  for  his  company. 

Coris.  Musing,  Cieor«  1  [strangers; 

Qlymp.    She's   studying  how  to    entertain    these 
And  to  engross  them  to  herself. 

Cleo.  No,  surelv  ; 

I  will  not  cheapen  any  of  their  wares, 
Till  you  have  made  your  market ;  you  will  buy, 
I  know,  at  any  rate. 

Con's.  She  has  given  it  you. 

0/i/mp.  No  more  ;    they  come  :  the  first  kiss  for 
this  jewel. 

Flourish  of  trumpets.  Enter  TIM  AGORASi  LEOSTHEXES, 
ASOTUS,  TiMor.EON  i«  black,  led  in  fti/  ARCIIIDAMUS, 
DIPHILUS,  and  CLEOV,  JolLowed  by  PISANDER, 
GitAcct'i-o,  CIMBUIO,  and  others. 

Arcliid.  It  is  your  seat  :  which,   with   a  general 
suffrage,  [O^eriwg  ''*"* 


that  many  terms  which  are  now  used  with  a  mark  of  elision, 
and  .supposed  to  have  guttered  an  aphwrcsis,  .ire  really  :«nd 
substantially  perfect.  In  some  cases,  the  Saxon  prefix  has 
been  corrupted  into  a  component  part  of  the  word,  and  in 
others,  prepositions  have  been  added  in  the  progress  of 
refinement,  for  the  sake  of  euphony,  or  metre  ;  but,  generally 
speaking,  the  simple  term  is  the  complete  one. 

*  Jf  he,  be  staunch,  &c.]  I  don't  think  that  staunch  can 
be  sense  in  this  passage;  we  should  probably  read  starch' d, 
that  is  precise,  formal.  M.  MASON. 

This  is  a  singular  conjecture  Let  the  reader  peruse  again 
Olympia's  description,  which  is  that  of  a  complete  gentleman  ; 
and  then  say  what  there  is  of  starched,  formal,  or  pre.-i-e, 
in  it  !  fi  launch  is  as  good  a  'vorrt  as  >he  could  have  chosen, 
and  is  here  used  in  its  proper  sense  for  steady,  firm,  lull  of 
integrity  :  and  her  meaning  is,  "  if  with  al  the  accomplish- 
ments of  a  tine  gentleman,  he  possesses  the  fixed  principles 
of  a  man  of  honour,  and  does  not  attempt  to  debauch  us,  ho 
is  not  for  our  purpose." 

When  I  wrote  this,  1  had  not  seen  the  appendix  which  is 
subjoined  to  some  copies  of  the  last  edit  ion.  Mr.  M.  Mason 
has  there  revised  hi*  note,  and  given  his  more  mature  thoughts 
on  the  subject:  "  On  the  first  consideration  of  this  passage, 
I  did  not  apprehend  that  the  word  staunch  could  import  any 
meaning  th.it  would  render  it  intelligible,  anil  I  therefore 
amended  the  passage  by  read  ins  starch'd  instead  of  staunch; 
but  1  have  -ince  found  a  similar  acceptation  of  that  word  in 
Jonson's  Silrntft'oman.  where  Truewit  says  :  "  If  your  mis- 
tress love  valour,  talk  of  your  sword,  and  he  frequent  in  the 
mention  of  quarrels  though  you  be  staunch  in  righting." 
This  is  one  of  the  many  instances  that  may  be  proiliicrd  to 
prove  how  necessary  it  is  for  the  editor  of  any  ancient  dra- 
matic writer,  to  re.nl  with  attention  the  other  dramatic 
productions  of  the  time." 

I  participate  in  Mr.  M.  Mason's  self-congratulations  on  this 
im  pni  i  ant  discovery;  and  will  venture  to  suggest  another, 
still  more  important,  which  appears  to  have  eluded  his  re- 
searches :  it  is  simply — "  tlie  necessity  for  the  editor  of  any 
ancient  dramatic  writer,  tu  read  with  attention"— that  dra- 
matic writer  himself. 

But  what,  after  all,  docs  Mr.  M.  Mason  imagine  he  has 
found  out  >.  and  what  is  (lie  sense  he  would  finally  affix  to 
itaunch  ?  these  are  trifles  he  has  omitted  to  mention.  I  can 
discover  nothing  fio-n  his  long  note,  but  that  he  misunder 
Mauds  Jonson  now,  as  he  misunderstood  Maisingrr  before. 
Each  of  these  great  poets  uses  the  word  in  its  proper  and 
ordinary  sense:  "Though  you  be  staunch  in  fighting,"  says 
Trnewit,  (i.  c.  really  brave,  and  consequently  not  prone  to 
boasting,)  "yet,  to  please  your  mistress,  jou  must  talk  of 
your  sword,"  &c. 

+  Offering  him  the  state.]  The  state  was  a  raised  platform, 
on  which  was  placed  a  chair  with  a  canopy  over  it.  The 
word  occurs  perpetually  in  our  old  writers.  It  is  used  by 
Dryden,  but  seem*  to  ifave  been  growing  obsolete  while  he 
was  writing  :  in  the  first  edition 'of  Mac  Fleckno,  the  mo- 
narch is  placed  on  a  state;  in  the  snbs.-quent  ones,  he  is 
seated,  like  his  fell..w  kings,  on  a  throne:  it  occurs  also, and 
I  believe  for  the  last  time,  in  Swift  :  "  As  she  effected  not 
the  grandeur  of  a  state  with  a  canopy,  she  thought  there  was 
no  ortcnce.  in  an  elbow  chair."  Hist,  of  John  Bull,  e.  L 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[Acrl, 


As  to  the  supreme  magistrate,  Sicily  tenders*, 
And  prays  Timoleon  to  accept. 

Timol.  Such  honours 
To  one  ambitious  of  rule  t  or  titles, 
Whose  heaven  on  earth  is  placed  in  his  command, 
And  ahsolute  power  o'er  others,  would  with  joy, 
And  veins  swollen  high  with  pride,  be  entertain'd. 
They  take  not  me  ;  for  I  have  ever  loved 
An  equal  freedom,  and  proclaim 'd  all  such 
As  would  usurp  on  other's  liberties  J, 
Rebels  to  nature,  to  whose  bounteous  blessings 
All  men  lay  claim  as  true  legitimate  sons  : 
But  such  as  have  made  forfeit  of  themselves 
By  vicious  courses,  and  their  birthright  lost, 
Tis  not  injustice  they  are  mark'd  for  slaves 
To  serve  the  virtuous.     For  myself,  I  know 
Honours  and  great  employments  are  great  burthens, 
And  must  require  an  Atlas  to  support  them. 
He  that  would  govern  others,  first  should  be 
The  master  of  himself,  richly  endued 
With  depth  of  understanding,  height  of  courage, 
And  those  remarkable  graces  which  I  dare  not 
Ascribe  unto  myself. 

Archid.  Sir,  empty  men 

Are  trumpets  of  their  own  deserts  ;  but  you, 
That  are  not  in  opinion,  but  in  proof, 
Really  good,  and  full  of  glorious  parts, 
Leave  the  report  of  what  you  are  to  fame  •, 
Which,  from  the  ready  tongues  of  all  good  men, 
Aloud  proclaims  you. 

Diph.  Besides,  you  stand  bound, 
Having  so  large  a  field  to  exercise 
Your  active  virtues  offer 'd  you,  to  impart 
Your  strength  to  such  as  need  it. 

Timol.  'Tis  confess'd  : 
And,  since  you'll  have  it  so,  such  as  I  am, 
For  you,  and  for  the  liberty  of  Greece, 
I  am  most  ready  to  lay  down  my  life  : 
But  yet  consider,  men  of  Syracusa, 
Before  that  you  deliver  up  the  power, 
Which  yet  is  yours,  to  me, — to  whom  'tis  given  • 
To  an  impartial  man,  with  whom  nor  threats, 
Nor  prayers,  shall  prevail  §  ;  for  I  must  steer 
An  even  course. 

Archid.  Which  is  desired  of  all. 

Timol.  Timophanes,  my  brother,  for  whose  death 
I  am  tainted  in  the  world  ||,  and  foully  tainted  ; 

•  As  to  the  supreme  magistrate,  Sicily  tenders,]  For  Sicily, 
the  old  copies  have  surely.  The  emendation,  which  is  a  very 
happy  one,  was  made  by  Coxeter. 
suck  honours 

To  one  amkitimtn  of  rule,  &c.]  Massinger  has  here  finely 
drawn  the  char  icier  of  Timoleon,  and  been  very  true  to  his- 
tory. He  was  descended  from  one  of  the  noblest  families  in 
Corinth,  loved  liis  country  passionately,  and  discovered  upon 
all  occasions  a  sinful. ir  humanity  of  temper,  except  against 
tyrants  and  had  men.  He  was  an  excellent  captain  ;  and  as 
in  his  youth  he  had  all  the  maturity  of  age,  in  age  lie  hail  all 
the  lire  and  courage  of  the  most  ardent  youth.  CUXETKR. 

|  As  would  usurp  on  other's  liberties  J  So  the  hrst  quarto; 
the  second,  which  the  modern  editors  follow,  has,  another's 
liberties.  In  the  preceding  line,  for  proclaim'd,  Mr.  M. 
Mason  arbitrarily  reads,  proclaim  :  an  injudicious  alteration. 

§  Nor  prayers  shall  prevail:]  Ever,  which  the  modern 
editors  arbitrarily  insert  alter  shall,  is  neither  required  by 
the  sense  nor  the  metre.  (Omitted  in  ed.  1813.) 

||  'J'imol.  Timoplianes,  my  brother,  for  whose  death 

I'm  tainted  in  the  ivorld,  &C..I  Timoleon  had  an  elder  bro- 
ther, called  Timoplianes,  whom  he  tenderly  loved,  as  he  had 
demonstrated  in  a  I)  nil.',  in  which  he  covered  him  with  his 
body,  and  saved  his  life  at  the  great  danger  of  his  own  ;  but 
his  country  was  still  dearer  to  him.  That  brothel  having 
made  himself  tyrant  of  it,  so  black  a  crime  gave  him  the 
sharpest  affliction.  He  made  use  of  all  possible  means  to 
bring  him  buck  to  his  duty :  kindness,  friendship,  aft'ection, 


In  whose  remembrance  I  have  ever  worn, 
In  peace  and  war,  this  livery  of  sorrow, 
Can  witness  for  me,  how  much  I  detest 
Tyrannous  usurpation  ;  with  grief 
I  must  remember  it :  for,  when  no  persuasion 
Could  win  him  to  desist  from  his  bad  practice, 
To  change  the  aristocracy  of  Corinth 
Into  an  absolute  monarchy,  I  chose  rather 
To  prove  a  pious  and  obedient  son 
To  my  country,  my  best  mother*,  than  to  lenc' 
Assistance  to  Timoplmnes,  though  my  brother, 
That,  like  a  tyrant,  strove  to  set  his  foot 
Upon  the  city's  freedom. 

Timag.  'Twas  a  deed 
Deserving  rather  trophies  than  reproof. 

Least.  And  will  be  still  remembered  to  your  honour, 
If  you  forsake  not  us. 

Diph.  1  f  you  free  Sicily 

From  barbarous  Carthage'  yoke,f  'twill  be  said, 
In  him  you  slew  a  tyrant. 

Archid.  But,  giving  way 
To  her  invasion,  not  vouchsafing  us. 
That  fly  to  your  protection,  aid  and  comfort, 
'Twill  he  believed,  that,  for  your  private  ends, 
You  kill'd  a  brother, 

Tinwl.  As  I  then  proceed, 
To  all  posterity  may  that  act  be  crown'd 
With  a  deserved  applause,  or  branded  with 
The  mark  of  infamy  ! — Stay  yet;  ere  I  take 
This  seat  of  justice,  or  engage  myself 
To  fight  for  you  abroad,  or  to  reform 
Your  state  at  home,  swear  all  upon  my  sword 
And  call  the  gods  of  Sicily  to  witness 
The  oath  you  take,  that  whatsoe'er  I  shall 
Propound  for  safety  of  your  commonwealth, 

remonstrances,  and  even  menaces.  But,  finding  all  Ins  en- 
deavours inetteclual,  and  that  nothing  could  prevail  upon  a 
heart  abandoned  to  ambition,  he  caused  his  brother  to  be 
assassinated  in  his  presence  [no  ;  not  iit  his  presence]  by  two 
of  his  friends  and  intimates,  and  thought,  that  upon  sucli  an 
occasion,  the  laws  of  nature  ought  to  give  place  to  those  of 
his  country.  CoXETiiB. 

Coxeter  has  copied  with  sufficient  accuracy,  the  leading 
traits  of  Timoleon's  character,  from  the  old  translation  of 
Plutarch's  Lives.  \Viih  Plutarch,  indeed,  Timoleon  appears 
to  be  a  favourite,  and  not  undeservedly  ;  in  an  age  of  great 
men,  he  was  eminently  conspicuous  :  his  greatest  praise,  how- 
ever, is,  that  lie  profiled  by  experience,  and  suffered  the  wild 
and  savage  enthusiasm  of  his  voulh  to  me  low  into  a  steady 
and  rational  love  ot  liberty,  '['he  assassination  of  his  brother, 
which  \>at  heavy  OH  hi*  soul,  taught  him  "  that  an  action 
should  not  only"  (it  is  Plulaich  who  speaks)  "  be  just  and 
laudable  in  itself,  but  the  principle  from  uhich  it  proceeds, 
firm  and  immoveable  ;  in  order  lhat  our  conduct  may  have 
the  sanction  of  our  own  approbation." 

It  is  impossible  to  read  a  page  of  his  latter  history,  without 
seeing  lhat  prudence  was  the  virtue  on  which  he  chiefly  relied 
for  fame  :  prodigies  and  portents  forerun  all  his  achieve- 
ments ;  part  of  which  he  undoubtedly  fabricaied,  and  all  of 
which  he  had  the  dexterity  to  turn  to  his  account ;  but  he  was 
not  only  indebted  to  prudence  for  fame,  but  for  happiness 
also;  since,  when  he  had  given  victory  and  peace  to  the 
Syracusans,  he  wisely  declined  returning  to  Greece,  where 
proscription  or  death  probably  awaited  him  :  and  chose  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  his  days  at  Syracuse.  Those  days 
were  long  and  happy ,  and  when  he  died  he  was  honoured 
with  a  public  funeral,  and  the  tears  of  a  people  whom  he  had 
saved. 

*  To  my  country,  my  hest  mother,]     In  this  expression, 
Timoleon  alludes  to  the  conduct  of  his  natural  mother,  who 
would  never  see  him  after  the  assassination  of  his  brother, 
and  always  called  \\\m  fratricidam,  impiumque. 
t  Diph.  Jf  you  free  Mcily, 

From  barbarous  Carihaye'  yoke,  &c.1  This  and  the  next 
speech  are  literally  from  1'lutarch  ;  Massinger  IMS  in  this 
instance  adhered  more  closely  to  liis  story  than  usual  ;  for,  to 
confess  the  truth,  it  cannot  be  said  or  him,  lhat  his  historical 
plays  are  "  more  authentic  than  the  chronicles  !" 


SCENE  Til.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


95 


Not  ci-cumscribed  or  bound  in,  shall  by  you 
lie  willingly  obev'd. 

Archid.  Diph.  Clean.  So  may  «ve  prosper, 
As  we  obey  in  all  tinners. 

Timag.  i.eost.  Asot.  And  observe 
All  vour  commands  as  oracles  ! 

Timol.  Do  not  repent  it.  [Takes  the  state. 

Olymf.  He  asu'd  not  our  consent. 

Con's.  He's  a  clown  I  warrant  liim. 

0/i/m/>.  I  offer 'd  myself  twice,  and  yet  the  churl 
Would  not  salute  me. 

Con's.  Let  him  kiss  his  drum  ! 
I'll  save  my  lips,  I  rest  on  it*. 

Oti/mp.  He  thinks  women 
No  part  of  the  republic. 

Car  is.  He  shall  find 
We  are  a  commonwealth. 

Cleo.  The  less  your  honour. 

Timol.  First  then  a  word  or  two,  but  without  bit- 
terness. 

(And  yet  mistake  me  not,  I  am  no  flatterer.) 
Comeming  your  ill  government  of  the  state  ; 
In  which  the  greatest,  noblest,  and  most  rich, 
Stand,  in  the  first  file  guilty. 

Clean.  Ha  !  how's  this  ? 

Timol.  You  have  not,  as  good  patriots  should  do, 

studied 

The  public  good,  but  your  particular  ends  ; 
Factious  among  yourselves,  preferring  such 
To  offices  and  honours,  as  ne'er  read 
The  elements  of  saving  polk-y  ; 
But  deeply  skill'd  in  all  the  principles 
That  usher  to  destruction. 

1  east.  Shnrp. 

Timag.  The  better. 

Timol.  Your  senate-house,  which  used  not  to  ad- 
A  man,  however  popular,  to  stand  [mil 

At  the  helm  of  government,  whose  youth  was  not 
Made  glorious  by  action ;  whose  experience,     [sels, 
Crown'd  with  gray  hairs,  gave  warrant  to  his  coun- 
Heard  and  received  with  reverence,  is  now  fill'd 
With  green  heads,  that  determine  of  the  state 
Over  their  cups,  or  when  their  sated  lusts 
Afford  them  leisure  ;  or  supplied  by  those 
Who,  rising  from  base  arts  and  sordid  thrift. 
Are  eminent  for  theirt  wealth  not  for  their  wisdom : 
Which  is  the  reason  that  to  hold  a  place 
In  council,  which  was  once  esteem'd  an  honour, 
And  a  reward  for  virtue,  hath  quite  lost 
Lustre  and  reputation,  and  is  made 
A  mercenary  purchase. 

Timag.  He  speaks  home. 

Lenst.  And  to  the  purpose. 

Timol.  From  whence  proceeds 
That  the  treasure  of  the  city  is  engross'd 
By  a  few  private  men,  the  public  coffers 
Hollow  with  want ;  and  they,  that  will  not  spare 
One  talent  for  the  common  good,  to  feed 
The  pride  and  bravery  of  their  wives,  consume, 


•  /'//  sare  my  lipt,  I  rest  on  it.]  I  am  fixed,  determined, 
on  it ;  a  metaphor  taken  t'uiui  play,  wlu-ie  tin:  hi^!ie;t  Make 
the  parties  were  disposed  to  vennire,  was  called  the  re1.'. 
To  appropriate  this  U-rm  to  any  particular  game,  as  is  some 
times  done,  is  extremely  incorrect  ;  since  il  was  anciently 
applied  to  cards,  to  dice,  to  bowl-,  in  >ln>rt  to  any  amuse- 
ment of  ch. nice,  where  money  was  wagered,  or,  to  use  a 
phrase  of  the  limes,  set  up. 

t  Are  eminent  for  tlieir  wealth,  not  for  their  wisdom  :]  I 
have  inserted  their  from  the  invaluable  first  quarto :  it 
strengthens  and  completes  tlie  verse. 


In  plate,  and  jewels,  and  superfluous  slaves, 
What  would  maintain  an  army. 

Cirris.   Have  at  us! 

Oliimp.  We  thought  we  were  forgot. 

Cleo.  Hut  it  appears 
You  will  be  treated  of. 

Timut.  Yet,  in  this  plenty, 

And  fat  of  peace,  your  young  men  ne'er  were  train'd 
In  martial  discipline;  and  your  ships  unrigg'd, 
Rot  in  the  harbour  :  no  defence  prepared, 
But  thought  unuseful ;  as  if  Unit  the  gods, 
Indulgent  to  vour  sloth,  had  granted  you 
A  perpetuity  of  pride  and  plea.si.re. 
No  change  fear'd  or  expected. x   Now  you  find 
That  Carthage,  looking  on  your  stupid"  sleeps, 
And  dull  security,  was  invited  to 
Invade  your  territories. 

Archid.  You  have  made  us  see,  sir, 
To  our  shame,  the  country's  sickness :  now,  from  you, 
As  from  a  careful  and  a  wise  physician, 
We  do  expect  the  cure.1 

Timol.  Old  fester'd  sores 
Must  be  lanced  to  the  quick,  and  cauterized  : 
Which  born  with  patience,  after  I'll  apply 
Soil  unguents.     For  the  maintenance  of  the  war, 
It  is  drcrf-ed  all  monies  in  the  hand 
Of  private  men,  shall  instantly  be  brought 
To  the  public  treasury. 

Timag.  This  bites  sore. 

Clean,  The  cure 

Is  worse  than  the  disease  ;  I'll  never  yield  to't: 
What  could  the  enemy,  though  victorious. 
Infl  ct  more  on  us?   All  that,  my  youth  hath  toil'd  for, 
Purchased  wish  industry,  and  preserved  with  care, 
Forced  from  me  in  a  moment ! 

Diph.  This  lough  course 
Will  never  be  allow'd  of. 

Timol    O  blind  men  ! 

If  you  refuse  the  first  means  that  is  ofier'd 
To  give  you  health,  no  hope's  left  to  n  cover 
Your  desperate  sickness.     Do  you  prize  your  muck 
Above  your  liberties  ;  and  rather  « hoose 
To  be  made  bondxien,  than  to  part  with  that 
To  which  already  you  are  slaves  ?  Or  <-ui  it 
Be  probable  in  your  flattering  apprehensions, 
You  can  capitulate  with  the  conqueror, 
And  keep  that  yours  wliich  they  come  to  possess, 
And,  while  you  kneel  in  vain,  will  ravish  from  you  ? 
— But  t.ike  your  own  ways  ;    brood  upon  your  gold, 
Sacrifice  to  your  idol,  and  preserve 
The  prey  entire,  and  merit  the  report 
Of  careful  stewards  ;  yield  a  just  account 
To  your  proud  masters,  who,  with  whips  of  iron, 
Will  force  vou  to  give  up  what  you  conceal, 
Or  tear  it  from  your  throats  :  adorn  your  walls 
With  Persian  hangings  wrought  of  gold  and  pearl; 
Cover  the  floors  on  which  they  are  to  tread, 
With  costly  Median  silks  ;  perfume  the  rooms 
With  cassia  and  amber,  where  they  are 
To  feast  and  revel  ;  while,  like  servile  grooms, 
You  wait  upon  their  trenchers  ;  feed  their  eyes 
\\  itli  massy  plate,  until  your  cupboards  crack 
With  the  weight  that  they  sustain  ;  set  forth  your 
And  daughters  in  as  many  varied  shapes          [wive 
As  there  are  nations  to  provoke  their  lusts, 
And  let  them  be  embraced  before  your  eyes, 
The  object  may  content  you  !  and  to  perfect 
Their  entertainment,  offer  up  your  sons, 
And  able  i>  en.  for  slaves  ;  while  you.  that  are 
Unfit  for  labour,  are  spurn 'd  out  to  starve, 


96 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[Ac»  I. 


Unpitied,  in  some  desert,  no  friend  by, 

Whose  sorrow  may  spare  one  compassionate  tear. 

In  the  remembrance  of  what  once  you  were. 

Least.  The  blood  turns. 

Timag.  Observe  how  old  Cleon  shakes, 
As  if  in  picture  he  had  shown  him  what 
He  was  to  suffer. 

Coris.  I  am  sick  ;  the  man 
Speaks  poniards  and  diseases. 

Olitmp.  O  my  doctor  ! 
I  never  shall  recover. 

Cleo.  [coming forward.']  If  a  virgin, 
Whose  speech  was  ever  yet  usher'd  with  fear ; 
One  knowing  modesty  and  humble  silence 
To  be  the  choicest  ornaments  of  our  sex, 
In  the  presence  of  so  many  reverend  men 
Struck  dumb  with  terror  and  astonishment, 
Presume  to  clothe  her  thought  in  vocal  sounds, 
Let  her  find  pardon.     First  to  you,  great  sir, 
A  bashful  maid's  thanks,  and  her  zealous  pravers 
Wing'd  with  pure  innocence,  bearing  *'.<sin  to  heaven, 
For  all  prosperity  that  the  gods  can  give 
To  one  whose  piety  must  exact  their  care, 
Thus  low  I  offer. 

Timol.  'Tis  a  happy  omen. 

Rise,  blest  one,  and  speak  boldly.     On  my  virtue, 
I  am  thy  warrant,  from  so  clear  a  spring 
Sweet  rivers  ever  flow. 

Cleo.  Then,  thus  to  you, 
My  noble  father,  and  these  lords,  to  whom 
I  next  owe  duty  :  no  respect  forgotten 
To  you,  my  brother,  and  these  bold  young  men, 
(Such  I  would  have  them,)  that  are,  or  should  be, 
The  city's  sword  and  target  of  defence. 
To  all  of  you  I  speak  ;  and,  if  a  blush 
Steal  on  my  cheeks,  it  is  shown  to  reprove 
Your  paleness,  willingly  1  would  not  say, 
Your  cowardice  or  fear  :  Think  you  all  treasure 
Hid  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  or  shipwreck'd 
In  Neptune's  wat'ry  kingdom,  can  hold  weight, 
When  liberty  and  honour  fill  one  scale, 
Triumphant  Justice  sitting  on  the  beam  ? 
Or  dare  you  but  imagine  that  your  gold  is 
Too  dear  a  salary  for  such  as  hazard 
Their  blood  and  lives  in  your  defence  ?     For  me, 
An  ignorant  girl,  bear  witness,  heaven !  so  far 
I  prize  a  soldier,  that,  to  give  him  pay, 
With  such  devotion  as  our  flamens  offer 
Their  sacrifices  at  the  holy  altar, 
I  do  lay  down  these  jewels,  will  make  sale 
Of  my  superfluous  wardrobe,  to  supply 
The  meanest  of  their  wants.      [Lays  dawn  her  jewels. 

Timol.  Brave  masculine  spirit ! 

DipA.  We  are  shown,  to  our  shame,  what  we  in 
Should  have  taught  others.  [honour 

Archid.  Such  a  fnir  example 
Must  needs  be  folio w'd. 

Timag.  Ever  my  dear  sister, 
But  now  our  family's  glory  ! 

Least.  Were  she  deform'd, 
The  virtues  of  her  mind  would  force  a  Stoic 
To  sue  to  be  her  servant. 

Cleon.  I  must  yield  ; 

And.  though  my  heart-blood  part  with  it,  I  will 
Deliver  in  my  wealth. 

Asot.  I  would  say  something ; 
But,  the  truth  is,  I  know  not  what, 

Timol.  We  have  money  ; 
And  men  must  now  be  thought  on. 

Archid.  We  can  press 


Of  labourers  in  the  country,  men  inured 
To  cold  and  heat,  ten  thousand. 

Diph.  Or,  if  need  be, 
Enrol  our  slaves,  lusty  and  able  varlets, 
And  fit  for  service. 

Cleon.  They  shall  go  for  me  j 
I  will  not  pay  and  fight  too. 

Cleo.  How  !  your  slaves  ? 

0  stain  of  honour! — Once  more,  sir,  your  pardon; 
And,  to  their  shnmes,  let  me  deliver  what 

1  know  in  justice  you  may  speak. 

Timol.  Most  gladly  : 

I  could  not  wish  my  thoughts  a  better  organ 
Than  your  tongue,  to  express  them. 

Cleo.  Are  you  men  ! 

(For  age  may  qualify,  though  not  excuse. 
The  backwardness  of  these,)  able  young  men  ! 
Yet,  now  your  country's  liberty's  at  the  stake. 
Honour  and  glorious  triumph  made  the  garland* 
For  such  as  dare  deserve  them  ;  a  rich  feast 
Prepared  by  Victory,  of  immortal  viands, 
Not  for  base  men.  but  such  as  with  their  swords 
Dare  force  admittance,  and  will  be  her  guests  : 
And  can  you  coldly  suffer  such  rewards 
To  be  proposed  to  labourers  and  slaves  ? 
While  you,  that  are  born  noble,  to  whom  these, 
Valued  at  their  best  rate,  are  next  to  horses, 
Or  other  beasts  of  carriage,  cry  aim  f  ! 


•  Yet,  now  your  country'!  liberty'*  at  the  itake, 

Honour  and  yloriovs  triumph  made  the  yarland.]  Mr. 
M.  Mason  has  improved  these  lines,  in  his  opinion,  by  omit- 
ting the  article  in  the  first,  and  changing  the  iu  the  second, 
into  a.  These  are  very  strange  liberties  to  take  with  an 
author,  upon  caprice,  or  blind  conjecture. 

+  While  you cry  aim  ! 

Like  idle  lookers  on,  Coxeter,  who  seems  not  to  have 
understood  the  expression,  gave  the  incorrect  reading  of  the 
second  quarto,  cry,  Ay  me',  which,  alter  all,  was  nothing 
more  than  an  accidental  disjunction  of  the  last  word  (ayme) 
at  the  press.  Mr.  M.  Mason  follows  him  in  the  text,  but 
observes,  in  a  note,  that  we  should  read  cry  aim.  There  is 
no  doubt  of  it  ;  and  so  it  is  distinctly  given  in  the  first  and 
btst  copy.  The  expression  is  fo  common  in  the  writers  ot 
Massinger's  time,  and,  indeed,  in  Massinger  liims.lt,  that  it 
is  difficult  to  say  how  it  could  ever  be  misunderstood.  The 
phrase,  as  Warburton  observes,  Merry  Hives  of  Windsor, 
Act  II.  sc.  iii.  was  taken  from  archery  :  "  \V  hen  any  one  had 
challenged  another  to  shoot  at  the  butts,  the  stiinders-hy  used 
to  say  one  to  the  other,  Cry  aim,  i.e.  accept  the  challenge." 
Stecvens  rejects  this  explanation,  which,  in  fact,  ha?  neither 
truth  nor  probability  to  recommend  it ;  and  adds  :  "  It  seems 
to  have  been  the  otlice  of  the  aim-cryer,  to  give  notice  to  the 
archer  when  he  was  within  a  proper  distance  of  his  mark," 
&c.  Here  this  acute  critic  has  fallen,  with  the  rest  of  the 
commentators, into  an  error.  Aim!  for  so  it  shont'l  be  printed, 
ami  not  cry  aim,  was  always  addressed  to  the  person  about 
to  shoot:  it  was  an  hortatory  exclamation  of  the  by-stan<lers, 
or,  as  Massingcr  has  it,  of  the  idle  loohert  on,  intended  for 
his  encouragement.  But  the  mistake  of  Stcevens  arises  from 
his  confounding  cry  aim  !  with  give  aim.  To  cry  aim  !  as  I 
have  already  observed,  was  to  ENCOURAGE  ;  to  five  aim,  was 
to  DIRKCT,  and  in  these  distinct  and  appropriate  senses  the 
words  perpetually  occur.  There  was  no  such  office  as  aim- 
crycr,  as  asserted  above;  the  business  of  encouragement  being 
abandoned  to  such  of  the  spectators  as  chose  to  interfere :  to 
that  of  direction,  indeed,  there  was  a  special  person  appointed. 
Those  who  cried  aim  /  stood  by  the  archers  ;  he  who  gave  it, 
was  stationed  near  the  butts,  and  pointed  out  after  every 
discharge,  how  wide,  or  how  short,  the  arrow  fell  of  the 
mark.  A  few  examples  will  make  all  this  clear  : 
"  It  ill  becomes  this  presence  to  cry  aim! 

To  these  ill-tuned  repositions."  King  John. 

\.  e.  to  encourage. 

"  Before  his  face  plotting  his  own  abuse, 

To  which  himself  gives  aim  : 

While  the  broad    — >w  with  the  forked  head, 

Misses  his  brows  uui  narrowly." 

A  Mad  World  my  Matter*, 
•   I  c.  directs. 


SONS  III.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


97 


Like  idle  lookers  on,  till  their  proud  worth 
Make  them  become  your  masters  ! 

Timol.   By  my  hopes, 

There's  fire  and  spirit  enough  in  this  to  make 
Thersites  valiant. 

Cleo.  No  ;  far,  far  be  it  from  you  : 
Let  these  of  meaner  quality  contend 
Who  can  endure  most  labour ;  plough  the  earth, 
And  think  they  are  rewaeded  when  their  sweat 
Brings  home  a  fruitful  harvest  to  their  lords  ; 
Let  them  prove  good  artificers,  and  serve  you 
For  use  and  ornament,  but  not  presume 
To  touch  at  what  is  noble.     If  you  think  them 
Unworthy  to  taste  of  those  cates  you  feed  on, 
Or  wear  such  costly  garments,  will  you  grant  them 
The  privilege  and  prerogative  of  great  minds, 
Which  you  were  born  to?     Honour  won  in  war, 
And  to  be  styled  preservers  of  their  country, 
Are  titles  fit  for  free  and  generous  spirits, 
And  not  for  bondmen  :  had  I  been  born  a  man, 
And  such  ne'er-dying  glories  made  the  prize 
To  bold  heroic  courage,  by  Diana, 
I  would  not  to  my  brother,  nay,  my  father, 
Be  bribed  to  part  with  the  least  piece  of  honour 
I  should  gain  in  this  action  ! 

Timol.  She's  inspired, 

Or  in  her  speaks  the  genius  of  your  country, 
To  fire  your  blood  in  her  defence  ;  I  am  rapt 
With  the  imagination.     Noble  maid, 
Timoleon  is  your  soldier,  and  will  sweat 
Drops  of  his  best  blood,  but  he  will  bring  home 
Triumphant  conquest  to  you.     Let  me  wear 
Your  colours,  lady ;  and  though  youthful  heats  *, 
That  look  no  further  than  your  outward  form. 
Are  long  since  buried  in  me,  while  I  live, 
I  am  a  constant  lover  of  your  mind, 
That  does  transcend  all  precedents. 

Cleo.  Tis  an  honour,  [Gives  Jw  temf. 

And  so  I  do  receive  it. 

Con's.  Plague  upon  it ! 

She  has  got  the  start  of  us :  I  could  even  burst 
With  envv  at  her  fortune. 


To  the  viceroy's  base  embraces,  and  cry  aim! 
While  he  by  force,"  &c.  The  Renegade. 

i.  e.  encourage  them. 

"  This  way  I  toil  in  vain,  ami  give  but  aim 
To  infamy  and  ruin ;  he  will  fall, 
My  blessing  cannot  stay  him."         The  Roaring  Girl. 
i.  e.  direct  them. 

"  — Standyng  rather  in  his  window  to — crye  aime!  than 
helpyng  any  waye  to  part  the  fraye." 

Fenton's  Tragical  Ditcourtes. 
i.  e.  to  encourage. 

"  1  myself  r/ave  aim  thus, — Wide,  fonr  bows  !  short,  three 
and  a  half."    Middleton's  Spanish  Gyptie. 
i.  e.  directed. 

I  should  apologize  for  the  length  of  this  note,  were  it  not 
that  I  flatter  myself  the  distinct  and  appropriate  meaning  of 
these  two  phrases  is  ascertained  in  it,  and  finally  established. 

Let  me  wear 

Your  colour*,  lady  ;  and  though  youthful  heats, 
That  look  no  further  than  your  outward  form, 
Are  long  ilnce  buried  in  me,  while  1  line, 
I  am,  &.C.]    This  is  evidently  copied  from  that  much  con- 
tested speech  of  Othello,  Act  1.  sc.  iii.  :  "  I  therefore  beg  it 
not,"  &c.,  as  in  the  following  passage,  in  The  Fair  Maid  of 
the  Inn  : 

"  Shall  we  take  our  fortune  ?  and  while  our  cold  fathers," 
In  whom  Ions;  since  their  youthful  heats  were  dead, 
Talk  much  of  Mars,  serve  under  Venus'  ensigns, 
And  seek  a  mistress  ?" 

And  as  this  shows  how  Shakspeare's  contemporaries  nnder- 
itood  the  lines,  it  should,  I  think,  with  us,  be  decisive  of 
their  meaning.  The  old  reading,  with  the  alteration  of  one 
letter  by  Johnson,  stands  thus  : 


Oltjmp.  A  raw  young  thing !  [bands  say, — 

We   have    too  much  tongue  sometimes,  our   hus- 
And  she  outstrip  us  ! 

l^eost.  I  am  for  the  journey. 

Timag.  May  all  diseases  sloth  and  letchery  brin( 
Fall  upon  him  that  stays  at  home ! 

Archid.  Though  old, 
I  will  be  there  in  person. 

Diph.  So  will  I : 

Methinks  I  am  not  what  I  was  ;  her  words 
Have  made  me  younger,  by  a  score  of  years, 
Than  I  was  when  I  came  hither. 

Cleon.  I  am  still 

Old  Cleon,  fat  and  unwieldy;  I  shall  never 
Make  a  good  soldier,  and  therefore  desire 
To  be  excused  at  home. 

Asot.  Tis  my  suit  too  : 
lama  gristle,  and  these  spider  fingers 
Will  never  hold  a  sword.     Let  us  alone 
To  rule  the  slaves  at  home  ;  I  can  so  yerk  them — 
But  in  mv  conscience  I  shall  never  prove 
Good  justice  in  the  war. 

Timol.  Have  your  desires  ; 
You  would  be  burthens  to  us,  no  way  aids. 
Lead,  fairest,  to  the  temple  ;  first  we'll  pay 
A  sacrifice  to  the  gods  for  good  success  : 
For  all  great  actions  the  wish'd  course  do  run, 
That  are,  with  their  allowance,  well  begun. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Pisan.  Grac.  and  Cimb. 

Pisan.  Stay,  Cimbrio  and  Gracculo. 

Cimb.  The  business  ?  [grove, 

Pisan.  Meet  me  to-morrow  night  near  to  the 
Neighbouring  the  east  part  of  the  city. 

Grac.  Well.  [you  : 

Pisan.  And  bring  the  rest  of  our  condition  with 
I've  something  to  impart  may  break  our  fetters, 
If  you  dare  second  me. 

Cimb.  We'll  not  fail. 

Grac.  A  cart-rope 
Shall  not  bind  me  at  home. 

Pisan.  Think  on't,  and  prosper.  [Exeunt. 

" 1  therefore  beg  it  not 

To  please  the  palate  of  my  appetite  ; 

Nor  to  comply  with  heat,  the  young  affects 

In  me  defunct,  and  proper  satisfaction,"  &c. 

The  admirers  of  Shakspeare  cannot  but  recollect  with 
dismay,  the  prodigious  mass  of  conjectural  criticism  which 
Sleevens  has  accumulated  on  this  passage,  as  svell  as  ihe 
melancholy  presage  with  which  it  terminates;  that,  after  all, 
"  it  will  probably  prove  a  lasting  source  of  doubt  and  con- 
troversy." 1  confess  I  SCP  little  occasion  for  either  :  nor  can 
I  well  conceive  why,  after  the  rational  and  unforced  expla- 
nation of  Johnson,  the  worthless  reveries  of  Theobald, Toilet, 
&c.,  were  admitted. — Affect*  occur  incessantly  in  the  ^en?e 
of  passions,  affections  :  young  affects  is  therefore  perfectly 
synonimous  with  youthful  tieatt.  Othello,  like  Timoleon, 
was  not  an  old  man,  though  he  had  lost  the  fire  of  youth  ;  the 
critics  might  therefore  have  dismissed  that  concern  for  the 
lady,  which  they  have  so  delicately  communicated  for  the 
edification  of  the  rising  generation. 

I  have  said  thus  much  on  the  subject,  because  I  observe, 
that  the  numerous  editions  of  Shakspeare  now  preparing,  lay 
claim  to  patronage  on  the  score  of  religiously  following  the 
text  of  Steevens.  I  am  not  prepared  to  deny  that  this  is  the 
best  which  has  hitherto  appeared  ;  though  I  have  nodifh'cnlty 
in  affirming  that  those  will  deserve  well  of  the  public,  who 
shall  bring  back  some  readings  which  he  has  discarded,  and 
reject  others  which  he  has  adopted.  In  the  present  instance, 
for  example,  his  text,  besides  being  unwarranted,  and  totally 
foreign  from  the  meaning  of  his  author,  can  scarcely  be 
reconciled  either  to  grammar  or  sense. 

I  would  wish  the  future  editors  of  Shakspeare  to  consider, 
•whether  he  might  not  have  given  affect  in  the  singular  (this 
also  is  used  for  passion),  to  correspond  with  heat ;  and  theu 
the  lines  may  be  thus  regalatc-d  : 

f  Nor  to  comply  with  heat,  (the  young  affect'i 
In  me  defunct,)  and  proper  satisfaction," 


98 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[Act 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I. — The  tame.    A  Room  in  ARCHIDAMUS'S 
House. 

Enter  ARCHIDAMUS,  TIMAGORAS,  LEOSTHENES,  with 
gorgets  ;  and  PISANDER. 

Archid.  So,  so,  'tis  well :  bow  do  I  look  ? 

Pisan.  Most  sprightfully.  [I'm  old 

Archid.  I  shrink  not  in  the  shoulders  ;  though 
I'm  tough,  steel  to  the  back  ;  I  have  not  wasted 
My  stock  of  strength  in  featherbeds  :  here's  an  arm 

too ; 

There's  stuff  in't,  and  I  hope  will  use  a  sword 
As  well  as  any  beardless  boy  of  you  all. 

Timag.  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  sir,  so  well  prepared 
To  endure  the  travail  of  the  war. 

Archid.  Go  to,  sirrah  ! 

I  shall  endure,  when  some  of  you  keep  your  cabins, 
For  all  your  flaunting  feathers  ;  nay,  Leosthenes, 
You  are  welcome  too*,  all  friends  and  fellows  now. 

Least.  Your  servant,  sir. 

Archid.  Pish  !  leave  these  compliments, 
They  stink  in  a  soldier's  mouth  ;   I  could  be  merry, 
For,  now  my  gown's  off,  farewell  gravityt ! 
And  must  be  bold  to  put  a  question  to  you, 
"Without  offence,  I  hope. 

Least.  Sir,  what  you  please. 

Archid.  And  you  will  answer  truly? 

Timag.  On  our  words,  sir. 

Archid.  Go  to,  then  ;  I  presume  you  will  confess 
That  you  are  two  notorious  whoremasters  ; 
Nay,  spare  your  blushing,  I've  been  wild  myself, 
A  smack  or  so  for  jihysic  does  no  harm ; 
Nay,  it  is  physic,  if  used  moderately : 
But  to  lie  at  rack  ond  manger 

Least.  Say  we  grant  this, 
For  if  we  should  deny 't,  you'll  not  believe  us, 
What  will  you  infer  upon  it  ? 

Archid.  What  you'll  groan  for,  [us, 

I  fear,  when  you  come  to  the  test.     Old  stories  teli 
There's  a  month  call'd  October},  which  brings  in 
Cold  weather ;  there  are  trenches  too,  'tis  rumour'd, 
In  which  to  stand  all  night  to  the  knees  in  water, 
In  gallants  breeds  the  toothach  ;  there's  a  sport  too, 
Named  lying  pe  due,  do  you  mark  me  'f  'tis  a  game 
Which  you  must  learn  to  play  at ;    now  in  these 
Aid  choice  variety  of  exercises,  [seasons, 

nay,  l^eosthenes, 

You  are  welcome  too,  &c.]  It  should  be  remembered  that 
ArrliiiUimis  is,  with  great  judgment,  represented  in  the 
first  scene,  as  averse  to  the  marriage  of  Leosthene»  with  his 
daughter. 

i  For,  now  my  flown'g  off,  farewell  gravity.']  This  is  said 
to  have  been  a  frequent  expression  with  the  gieal  but  pl.i\- 
fiil  Sir  Thomas  Mote,  who  was  never  so  happy  as  when  he 
thook  off  the  pomp  of  office.  Fuller  tells  a  similar  story  of 
Lord  Burleigh. 

I  Hid  storiett  tell  ut, 

There  s  a  month  called  October,  &c.]  This  pleasant  old 
man  forgets  he  is  talking  of  Sicily,  where  October  is  the 
most  li-iijjnt'iil  month  of  the  year.  All  our  old  poets  loved 
and  tliv-nghl  t.nly  of  their  country.  Whatever  ivpiou  was 
the  subject,  Gnu  and  was  the  real  theme:  their  habits,  cus- 
toms, peculi.iri  ies,  wcie  all  derived  from  thence.  This, 
though  it  must  ci>mlcmn  them  as  historians,  may  >ave  Ihrm 
as  patriots!  and,  indeed,  it  is  not  much  to  be  regretted  that 
thty  should  overlook  manners,  with  which  they  were  very 
imperfectly  acquainted,  in  favour  of  those  with  which  they 
were  hourly  coiivcrsnil— at  least,  it  would  be  ungrateful  in 
us,  who  profit  so  much  by  their  minute  descriptions,  to  he 
offended  at  their  disregard  of  what  are  quaintly  called  the 
fottumi. 


(Nay,  I  come  to  you,)  and  fasts,  not  for  devotion, 

Your  rambling  hunt-smock  feels  strange  alterations ; 

And  in  a  frosty  morning  looks  as  if 

He  could  with  ease  creep  in  a  pottle-pot, 

Instead  of  his  mistress'  placket.     Then  he  curses 

The  time  he  spent  in  midnight  visitations ; 

And  finds  what  he  superfluously  parted  with, 

To  be  reported  good  at  length,  and  well  breath'd*, 

If  but  retrieved  into  his  back  again  f, 

Would  keep  him  warmer  than  a  scarlet  waistcoat, 

Enter  DIPHILUS  and  CLEOIIA. 

Or  an  armour  lined  with  fur — 0  welcome  !    wel- 
come ! 

You  have  cut  off  my  discourse;  but  I  will  perfect 
My  lecture  in  the  camp. 

Diph.  Come,  we  are  stay'd  for ; 
The  general's  afire  for  a  remove, 
And  longs  to  be  in  action. 

Archid.  'Tis  my  wish  too. 
We  must  part — nay,  no  tears,  my  best  Cleora ; 
1  shall  melt  too,  and  that  were  ominous. 
Millions  of  blessings  on  thee  !    All  that's  mine 
I  give  up  to  thy  charge ;  and,  sirrah,  look 

[To  Piwnder, 

You  with  that  cave  and  reverence  observe  her, 
Which  you  would  pav  to  me.     A  kiss;    farewell, 
girl! 

Diph.  Peace  wait  upon  you,  fair  one! 

[Exeunt  Archidamus,  Diphilus,  and  Pisander. 

Timag.  'Twere  impertinence 
To  wish  you  to  be  careful  of  your  honour, 
That  ever  keep  in  pay  a  guard  about  you 
Of  faithful  virtues.     Farewell  :  friend,  1  leave  you 
To  wipe  our  kisses  oft';  1  know  that  lovers 
Part  with  more  circumstance  and  ceremony ; 
Which  I  give  way  to.  [Exit, 

Least.  '  1  is  a  noble  favour, 
For  which  I  ever  owe  you.     We  are  alone ; 
But  how  I  should  begin,  or  in  what  language 
Speak  the  unwilling  word  of  parting  from  you, 
1  am  yet  to  learn. 

Cieo.  And  still  continue  ignorant. ; 
For  I  must  be  most  cruel  to  myself, 
If  I  should  teach  you. 

Least.  Vet  it  must  be  spoken, 

Or  you  will  chide  my  slackness.    You  have  fired  me 
With  the  heat  of  noble  action  to  deserve  you  ; 
And  the  least  spark  of  honour  that  took  life 
From    your    sweet  breath,    still   fann'd  by   it   and 
Must  mount  up  in  a  glorious  flame,  or  I    [cherish 'd, 
Am  much  unworthy. 

£leo.  May  it  not  burn  here, 
And,  as  a  seamark,  serve  to  guide  true  lovers, 
Toss'd  on  the  ocean  of  luxurious  wishes, 
Safe  from  the  rocks  of  lust,  into  the  harbour 
Of  pure  affection  !  rising  up  an  example 


*  To  be  reported  yood,  at  length,  and  well  breath'd]  at 
li'iii/th.  \\hirh  completes  the  verse,  is  carelessly  droj.t  by 
In, ili  the  editors. 

t  If  bu'  retrieved  into  his  bark  again  ]  This  'with  the 
ev.-t-plion  «.f  Hut  if,  for  If  but,  whirl)  I  am  accountable 
fur)  is  the  reading  of  the  second  quarto;  the  first  quaintly 
i '-ails  : 

"  Hut  if  retained  into  his  lack  auain.' 


SCENE  i.J 


THE  BONDMAN. 


99 


Which  aftertimes  shall  witness  to  our  glory, 
First  took  from  us  beginning. 

Least.  'Tis  a  happiness 
My  duty  to  my  country,  and  mine  honour 
Cannot  consent  to  ;  besides,  add  to  these, 
It  was  your  pleasure,  fortified  by  persuasion, 
And  strength  of  reason,  for  the  general  good, 
That  I  should  go. 

Cleo.  Alas  !  I  then  was  witty 
To  plead  against  myself ;  and  mine  eye,  fix'd 
Upon  the  hill  of  honour,  ne'er  descended 
To  look  into  the  vale  of  certain  dangers, 
Through  which  you  were  to  cut  your  passage  to  it. 

Leost.  I'll  stay  at  home,  then. 

Cleo.  No,  that  must  not  be  ; 
For  so,  to  serve  uiy  own  ends,  and  to  gain 
A  petty  wreath  myself,  I  rob  you  of 
A  certain  triumph,  which  must  fall  upon  you, 
Or  Virtue's  turn'd  a  handmaid  to  blind  Fortune. 
How  is  my  soul  divided  !  to  confirm  you 
In  the  opinion  of  the  world,  most  worthy 
To  be  beloved   (with  me  you're  at  the  height, 
And  can  advance  no  further,)  I  must  send  you 
To  court  the  goddess  of  stern  war,  who,  if 
She  see  you  with  my  eyes,  will  ne'er  return  you, 
But  grow  enamour'd  of  you. 

Leost.  Sweet,  take  comfort ! 
And  what  I  offer  you,  you  must  vouchsafe  me, 
Or  I  am  wretclu-d  :  all  the  dangers  that 
I  can  encounter  in  the  war,  are  trifles; 
My  enemies  abroad,  to  be  contemn'd  ; 
The  dreadful  foes,  that  have  the  power  to  hurt  me, 
I  leave  at  home  with  you. 

Cleo.  With  me  ? 

Leost.  Nay.  in  you, 

In  every  part  about  you,  they  a»e  arm'd 
To  fight  against  me. 

Cleo.  Where? 

Leost.  There's  no  perfection 
That  you  are  mistress  of,  but  musters  up 
A  legion  against  me,  and  all  sworn 
To  my  destruction. 

Cleo.  This  is  strange  ! 

Leost.  But  true,  sweet ; 
Excess  of  love  can  work  such  miracles  ! 
Upon  this  ivory  forehead  are  intrench'd 
Ten  thousand  rivals,  and  these  suns  command 
Supplies  from  all  the  world,  on  pain  to  forfeit 
Their  comfortable  beams  ;  these  ruby  lips, 
A  rich  exchequer  to  assure  their  pay ; 
This  hand,  Sibylla's  golden  bough  to  guard  them, 
Through  hell  and  horror,  to  the  Elysian  springs  ; 
^  hich  who'll  not  venture  for?  and,  should  I  name 
Such  as  the  virtues  of  your  mind  invite, 
Their  numbers  would  be  infinite. 

Cleo.  Can  you  think 
I  may  be  tempted  ? 

Leoit.  You  were  never  proved*. 
For  me   I  have  conversed  with  you  no  further 
Than  would  become  a  brother.     I  ne'er  tuned 
Loose  notes  to  your  chaste  ears ;  or  brought  rich 
For  my  artillery,  to  batter  down  [presents 

The  fortress  of  your  honour  ;  nor  endeavour'd 
To  make  your  blood  run  high  at  solemn  feasts 
With  viands  that  provoke  ;  the  speeding  philtres  : 


*  Leost.  You  were  never  proved  ]  The  whole  of  this 
Irene  is  eminenilv  beautiful  ;  )ul  I  cannot  avoid  recom- 
mending to  the  reader's  particular  notice,  the  spec-ill  which 
follow*.  Its  rliMlmi  is  so  perfect,  that  it  (Irons  on  the  ear 
like  the  sweetest  melody. 


I  work'd  no  bawds  to  tempt  you  ;  never  practised 

The  cunning  and  corrupting  arts  they  study, 

That  wander  in  the  wild  maze  of  desire  ; 

Honest  simplicity  and  truth  were  all 

The  agents  I  employ 'd  ;  and  when  I  came 

To  see  you,  it  was  with  that  reverence 

As  T  beheld  the  altars  of  the  gods  : 

And  love,  that  came  along  with  me,  was  taught 

To  leave  his  arrows  and  his  torch  behind, 

Quench'd  in  mv  fear  to  give  offence. 

CUo.  And  'twas 

That  modesty  that  took  me  and  preserves  me, 
Like  a  fresh  rose,  in  mine  own  natural  sweetness , 
Which,  sullied  with  the  touch  of  impure  hands, 
Loses  both  scent  and  beauty. 

Leost.   Hut,  Cleora, 

When  I  am  absent,  as  I  must  go  from  you 
(Such  is  the  cruelty  of  my  fate),  and  leave  you, 
Unguarded,  to  the  violent  assaults 
Of  loose  temptations  ;  when  the  memory 
Of  my  so  many  years  of  love  and  service 
Is  lost  in  other  objects  ;  when  you  are  courted 
By  such  as  keep  a  catalogue  of  their  conquests, 
Won  upon  credulous  virgins  ;  when  nor  father 
Is  here  to  owe  you,  brother  to  advise  you  *, 
Nor  your  poor  servant  by,  to  keep  such  off, 
By  lust  instructed  how  to  undermine, 
And  blow  your  chastity  up;  when  your  weak  senses, 
At  once  assaulted,  shall  conspire  against  you, 
And  play  the  traitors  to  your  soul,  your  virtue ; 
How  can  you  stand?  'Faith,  though  you  fall,  and  I 
The  judge  before  whom  you  then  stood  accused, 
I  should  acquit  you. 

Cleo.  Will  you  then  confirm 

That  love  and  jealousy,  though  of  different  natures, 
Must  of  necessity  be  twins  ;  the  younger 
Created  only  to  defeat  the  elder, 
And  spoil  him  of  his  birthright  f  1  'tis  not  well. 
But  being  to  part,  I  will  not  chide,  I  will  not ; 
Nor  with  one  syllable  or  tear,  express 
How  deeply  I  am  wounded  with  the  arrows 
Of  your  di.-,trust :  but  when  that  you  shall  hear, 
At  your  return,  how  I  have  borne  myself, 
And  what  an  austere  penance  1  take  on  me, 
To  satisfy  your  doubts  ;  when,  like  a  vestal, 
I  shew  you,  to  your  shame,  the  tire  still  burning, 
Committed  to  my  charge  by  true  affection, 
The  people  joining  with  you  in  the  wonder; 
When,  by  the  glorious  splendour  of  my  sufferings, 
The  prying  eyes  of  jealousy  are  struck  blind, 
The  monster  too  that  feeds  on  fears,  e'en  starved 
For  want  of  seeming  matter  to  accuse  me ; 
Expect,  Leosthenes,  a  sharp  reproof 
From  my  just  anger. 

Least.  What  will  you  do  1 
Cleo.  Obey  me, 

Or  from  this  minute  you  are  a  stranger  to  me; 
And  do't  without  reply.     All- seeing  sun, 
'J  hou  witness  of  my  innocence,  thus  I  close 
Mine  eyes  against  thy  comfortable  light, 


when  nor  father 


It  here  to  owe  you,  brother  to  advise  you.]  Owe  is  the  reading 
of  both  thr  quarto*;  ami  is  evidently  riyht.  The  property  i.t 
Cleora  was,  in  ihe  father;  tl'is  is  di^ins-iiMitd  Horn  the 
only  lisht  the  brother  had  :—  to  advise.  The  mMk-rn  t-.i- 
ton.nut  comprehending  this,  sophisticate  the  text,  ami  print- 
hvrr  to  aiff  you  ! 

t  And  tpoil  him  of  hi*  birthright  T]  Th.«  is  a  h.ippy 
allusion  to  the  hi>tor>  of  Jacob  and  Ksan.  It  I*  the  more 
M>,  lor  being  \oid  of  all  prolaneness;  to  which,  indeed 


Massinger  had  no  tendency. 


100 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[Arrll. 


Till  the  return  of  this  distrustful  man! 

Now  bind  them    sure; — nay,  do't :    [He  binds   her 

eyes.]     If,  uncompell'd, 

I  loose  this  knot,  until  the  hands  that  made  it 
13e  pleased  to  untie  it,  may  consuming  plagues 
Fall  heavy  on  me  !  pray  you  guide  me  to  your  lips. 
This  kiss,  when  you  come  back,  shall  be  a  virgin 
To  bid  you  welcome  ;  nay,  1  have  not  done  yet : 
I  will  continue  dumb,  and,  you  once  gone, 
No  accent  shall  come  from  me.    Now  to  my  chamber, 
My  tomb,  if  you  miscarry:  there  I'll  spend 
My  hours  in  silent  mourning,  and  thus  much 
Shall  be  reported  of  me  to  my  glory, 
And  you  confess  it,  whether  I  live  or  die, 
My  chastity  triumphs  o'er  your  jealousy.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     A  Room  in  Cleon's  House. 
Enter  A.SOTUS,  driving  in  GRACCULO. 

Atot.  You  slave !  you  dog !  down,  cur. 

Gi-ac.  Hold,  good  young  muster, 
For  pity's  sake ! 

Asot.  Now  am  I  in  my  kingdom  : — 
Who  savs  I  am  not  valiant  1  I  begin 
To  frown  again  :  quake,  villain. 

Grac.  So  I  do,  sir  ; 
Your  looks  are  agues  to  me. 

Asot.  Are  they  so,  sir! 

'Slight,  if  I  had  them  at  this  bay  that  flout  me, 
And  say  I  look  like  a  sheep  and  an  ass,  I'd  make  them 
Feel  that  I  am  a  lion. 

Grac.  Do  not  roar,  sir, 

As  you  are  a  valiant  beast :  but  do  you  know 
VVhv  you  use  me  thus? 

Asot.  I'll  beat  tb.ee  a  little  more, 
Then  study  for  a  reason.     O  !  I  have  it  : 
One  brake  a  jest  on  me,  and  then  I  swore, 
Because  I  durst  not  strike  him,  when  I  came  home 
That  I  would  break  thy  head. 

Grac.  Plague  on  his  mirth*  ! 
I'm  sure  I  mourn  for't. 

Asot.  Remember  too,  I  charge  you, 
To  teach  my  horse  good  manners  yer. ;  this  morning, 
As  I  rode  to  take  the  air,  the  untutor'd  jade 
Threw  me,  and  kick'd  me. 

Grac.  I  thank  him  for't.  [Aside. 

Asot.  What's  that? 

Grac.  I  say,  sir,  I  will  teach  him  to  hold  his  heels, 
If  you  will  rule  your  fingers. 

Asot.  I'll  think  upon't. 

Garc.  1  am  bruised  to  jelly :  better  be  a  dog, 
Than  slave  to  a  fool  or  coward.  [./tsicfc. 

Asot.  Here's  my  mother. 

Enter  COHISCA  and  ZANTHIA. 
She  is  chastising  too :  how  brave  we  live, 
That  have  our  slaves  to  beat,  to  keep  us  in  breath 
When  we  want  exercise ! 

Com.  Careless  harlotry,  [Striking  her. 

Look  to't ;  if  a  curl  fall,  or  wind  or  sun 
Take  my  complexion  off,  I  will  not  leave 
One  hair  upon  thine  head. 

Grac.  Here's  a  second  show 

•  Grac.  Plague  on  hi*  mirth.]  This  is  marked  as  a  side 
f  peech  by  the  modern  editors ;  it  is  spoken,  however,  to 
Asotus:  and  alludes  to  what  he  calls  a  jest  in  the  preceding 
line.  It  is  worth  observing,  that  the  editor  of  the  second 
quarto  frequently  varies  the  exclamations  of  the  first,  and 
alvvajs  for  the  worse  :  thus  Playue  I  is  uniformly  turned 
>nto  P — xt  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  follow  him. 


Of  the  family  of  pride.  [Aside. 

Con's.  Fie  on  these  wars ! 

I'm  starved  for  want  of  action  ;  not  a  gamester  left 
To  keep  a  woman  play.     If  this  world  last 
A  little  longer  with  us,  ladies  must  study 
Some  new-found  mystery  to  cool  one  another; 
We  shall  burn  to  cinders  else.     I  have  heard  there 

have  been 

Such  arts  in  a  long  vacation  ;  would  they  were 
Reveal'd  to  me !  they  have  made  my  doctor  too 
Physician  to  the  army  ;  he  was  used 
To  serve  the  turn  at  a  pinch ;  but  I  am  now 
Quite  unprovided. 

Asot.  My  mother-in-law  is,  sure, 
At  her  devotion. 

Con's.  There  are  none  but  our  slaves  left, 
Nor  are  they  to  be  trusted.     Some  great  women, 
Which  I  could  name,  in  a  dearth  of  visitants, 
Rather  than  be  idle,  have  been  glad  to  play 
At  small  game ;  but  I  am  so  queasy-stomach 'd, 
And  from  my  youth  have  been  so  used  to  dainties, 
I    cannot  taste    such   ^ross   meat.     Some   that   are 
Draw  on  their  shoemakers,  and  take  a  fall    [hungry 
From  such  as  mend  mats  in  their  galleries  ; 
Or  when  a  tailor  settles  a  petticoat  on, 
Take  measure  of  his  bodkin  ;  fie  upon't! 
'T is  base ;  for  my  part,  I  could  rather  lie  with 
A  gallant's  breeches,  and  conceive  upon  them, 
Than  stoop  so  low. 

Asot.  Fair  madam,  and  my  mother.  [country, 

Cm-is.  Leave   the  last  out,  it  smells  rank  of  the 
And    shews    coarse  breeding  j    your  true  courtier 

knows  not 

His  niece,  or  sister,  from  another  woman, 
If  she  be  apt  and  cunning.     I  could  tempt  now 
This  fool,  but  he  will  be  so  long  a  working  ! 
Then  he's  my  husband's  son  : — the  fitter  to 
Supply  his  wants ;  I  have  the  way  already, 
I'll  try  if  it  will  take.     When  were  you  with 
Your  mistress,  fair  Cleora? 

Asot.  Two  days  sithence ; 

But  she's  so  coy,  forsooth,  that  ere  I  can  [for  her, 
Speak  a  penn'd  speech  I  have  bought  and  studied 
Her  woman  calls  her  away. 

Coris.  Here's  a  dull  thing  ! 
But  better  taught,  I  hope.    Send  off  your  man. 

Asot.  Sirrah,  be  gone. 

Grac.  This  is  the  first  good  turn 
She  ever  did  me.  [Exit 

Coris.  We'll  have  a  scene  of  mirth  ; 
I  must  not  have  you  shamed  for  want  of  practice. 
I  stand  here  for  Cleora,  and,  do  you  hear,  minion, 
That  you  may  tell  her  what  her  woman  should  do, 
Repeat  the  lesson  over  that  I  taught  you, 
When  my  young  lord  came  to  visit  me  ;  if  you  miss 
In  a  syllable  or  posture 

Zant.  I  am  perfect. 

Asot.  Would  I  were  so  !  I  fear  I  shall  be  out. 

Coris.  If  you  are,  I'll  help  you  in.     Thus  I  walk 
You  are  to  enter,  and,  as  you  pass  by,         [musing : 
Salute  my  woman  ; — be  but  bold  enough, 
You'll  speed,  I  warrant  you.     Begin. 

Asot.  Have  at  it 

Save  thee,  sweet  heart !  a  kiss. 

Zant.  Venus  forbid,  sir, 
I  should  presume  to  taste  your  honour's  lip» 
Before  my  lady. 

Con's.  This  is  well  on  both  parts. 

Asot.  How  does  thy  lady  ? 

Zant.  Happy  in  your  lordship, 


SCFNE  III.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


As  oft  as  she  tliinks  on  you. 

Cor  is.  Very  good  ; 
This  wench  will  learn  in  time. 

Asot.  Does  she  think  of  me? 

Zfint.  O,  sir!  and  speaks  the  best  of  you  ;  admires 
Your  wit,  your  clothes,  discourse  ;  and  swears,  but 

that 

You  are  not  forward  enough  for  a  lord,  you  were 
The  most  complete  and  absolute  man, — I'll  shew 
Your  lordship  a  secret. 

Asot.  Not  of  thine  o»vn  ? 

Zant.  O  !  no,  sir, 

'Tis  of  my  lady  :  but,  upon  your  honour, 
You  must  conceal  it. 

Asot.  By  all  means. 

Zant.  Sometimes 

I  lie  with  my  lady ;  as  the  last  night  I  did  ; 
She  could  not  say  her  prayers  for  thinking  of  you: 
Nav,  she  talk'd  of  you  in  her  sleep,  and  sigh'd  out, 

0  sweet  Asotns,  sure  thoit  art  so  backward, 
That  I  mint  ravish  tliee!  mid  in  that  fervour 
She  took  me  in  her  arms,  threw  me  upon  her, 
Kiss'd  me,  and  hugg'd  me,  and  then  waked, and  wept, 
Because  'twas  but  a  dream. 

Com.  This  will  bring  him  on, 
Or  lie's  a  block.     A  good  girl ! 

Azoi.  I  am  rnad, 
Till  1  am  ai  it. 

Zant  Be  not  put  off,  sir, 

With.  Away,  I  dare  not;~Jie,  you  are  immodest;  — 
Mi/  brother's  u]>; — mujuther  uitl  hear. — Shoot  home, 
You  cannot  miss  the  mark.  [sir, 

Asot.  '[  here's  for  thy  counsel. 
This  is  the  fairest  interlude, — if  it  prove  earnest, 

1  shall  wish  I  were  a  player. 

Con's.  Now  my  turn  comes. 
I  am  exceeding  sick,  pray  you  send  my  page 
For  young  Asotus,  I  cannot  live  without  him  ; 
Prey  him  to  visit  me  ;  yet,  when  he's  present, 
I  must  be  strange  to  him. 

Asot.   Not  so,  you  are  caught : 
Lo.  whom  you  wish  ;  behold  Asotus  here  ! 

Com.  You  wait  well,  minion  ;  shortly  I  shall  not 

speak 

My  thoughts  in  my  private  chamber,  but  they  must 
Lie  open  to  discovery. 

Asot.  'Slid,  she's  angrv. 

Zant.  No,  no,  sir,  she  but  seems  so.     To  her  again. 

Asot.   I.ady,  I  would  descend  to  kiss  your  hand, 
But  that  'tis  gloved,  and  tivet  makes  me  sick  ; 
And  to  presume  to  taste  your  lip's  not  safe, 
Your  woman  by. 

Cm-is.  I  hope  she's  no  observer 
Of  whom  I  grace.  [Zanthia  looks  on  a  book. 

Asot.  She's  at  her  book,  O  rare  !  [Kisses  her. 

Con's.  A  kiss  for  entertainment  is  sufficient; 
Too  much  of  one  dish  cloys  me. 

Asot.  I  would  serve  in 
The  second  course  ;  but  still  I  fear  your  woman. 

Coris.  You  are  very  cautelous*. 

[Zanihia,  seems  to  sleep. 


•  Coris.  You  are  very  eautclous.]  This  word  or.cnrs  con- 
tiniuiiy  in  the  smse  of  wary,  suspicious,  over-circum- 
ip  ct,  &c. 

"  This  cannot  be  Brisac,  that  worthy  gentleman. 

"  He  is  too  prudent,  and  too  cautelous :  The  Elder 
B-other;  yet  Mr.  M.  MHMIII  rhoos.-s  to  displ.icu  it  for 
cautious,  which,  besides  bf  ing  a  febler  expression,  has  the 
lurtiier  ivomtiiirn  l.m.-ii,  ot  -O'-iliii^  inr  ineirr.  1  cannot 
avoid  subjoining,  that  this,  and  the  preceding  scene,  Are  most 

10 


Asot.  'Slight,  she's  asleep  ! 
'Tis  pity  these  instructions  are  not  printed  ; 
They   would  sell  well  to  chambermaids.      'Tis  :.o 

time  now 

To  play  with  my  good  fortune,  and  your  favour; 
Yet  to  be  taken,  as  they  say  : — a  scout, 
To  give  the  signal  when  the  enemy  comes, 

[/•'.u't  Zanthia, 

Were  now  worth  gold. — She's  gone  to  watch. 
A  waiter  so  train'd  up  were  worth  a  million 
To  a  wanton  city  madam. 

Com.  You  are  grown  conceited*. 

Asot.  You  teach  me.     Lady,  now  your  cabinet — 

Com.  You  speak  as  it  were  yours. 

Asot.  When  we  are  there, 
I'll  shew  you  my  best  evidence. 

Com.  Hold  !  you  forget, 
I  only  play  Cleora's  part. 

Asot.  No  matter, 
Now  we've  begun,  let's  end  the  act. 

Coris.     Forbear,  sir; 
Your  father's  wife  ! 

Asot.  Why,  being  his  heir,  I  am  bound. 
Since  he  can  make  no  satisfaction  to  you. 
To  see  his  debts  paid 

Enter  ZANTHIA  running. 

Zant.  Madam,  my  lord  ! 

Coris.  Fall  off; 
I  must  triHe  with  the  time  too;  hell  confound  it 

Asot.  Plague  on  his  toothless  chaps !    he  cannot 

do't 
Himself,  yet  hinders  such  as  have  good  stomachs. 

Enter  CLEON. 

Clean.  Where  are  you,  wife?    I    fain  would   go 

abroad, 

But  cannot  find  my  slaves  that  bear  my  litter ; 
I  am  tired.      Your  shoulder,  son  ; — nay,  sweet,  thy 

hand  too ; 

A  turn  or  two  in  the  garden,  and  then  to  supper, 
And  so  to  bed. 

Asot.  Never  to  rise,  I  hope,  more.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— A  Grow  near  the  Walls  ofSyracus*. 
Enter  PISANDER  and  POLIPH  RON,  A  Table. 

Pisan.  'Twill  take,  I  warrant  tliee. 

Poliph.  You  may  do  your  pleasure ; 
But,  in  my  judgment,  better  to  make  use  of 
The  present  opportunity. 

Pisan.  No  more. 

Poliph.  I  am  silenced. 

Pisan.  More  wine  ;  prithee  drink  hard,  friend, 
And  when  we're  hot,  whatever  I  propound, 

Enter  CIMBRIO,  GRACCULO,  and  other  Slaves. 

Second  with  vehemence.     Men  of  your  words,  all 

welcome  ! 
Slaves  use  no  ceremony  ;  sit  down,  here's  a  health. 

Poliph.  Let  it  run  round,  fill  every  man  his  glass. 

Grac.  We  look  for  no  waiters  ;  this  is  wine  ! 

tcandalonsly  given  by  both  the  editor!  ;  scarcely  a  linglt 
speech  being  without  ;t  misprint  or  an  omission. 

*  Coris.  You  are  grown  conceited,]  i.  e.  facetion*,  witty  • 
so  in  Ham  Alley  or  Merry  Trickit  1611. 

Throat*.  What  brought  yon  hither? 

Boat.  Why,  these  small  legs. 

Throate.  You  are  conceited,  sir 


102 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[Acr  II 


PZ*JH.  The  better,  [us 

Strong,  lusty  wine  :  drink  deep,  this  juice  will  make 
As  free  as  our  lords.  [Drinks. 

Grac.  But  if  they  find  we  taste  it, 
We  are  all  damn'd  to  the  (|uarry  during  life, 
Without  hope  of  redemption. 

Pisan.  Pish  !  for  that 
We'll  talk  anon  :  another  rouse*  !  we  lose  time  ; 

[Drinks. 

When  our  low  blood's  wound  up  a  little  higher, 
I'll  offer  my  design  ;  nay,  we  are  cold  yet ; 
These  "-lasses  contain  nothing  : — do  me  right, 

[Takes  the  bottle. 

As  e'er  you  hope  for  liberty.     Tis  done  bravely  ; 
How  do  you  feel  yourselves  now  ? 

Cimb.  1  begin 
To  have  strange  conundrums  in  my  head. 

Graf.  And  I  [now> 

To  loath  base  water :    I  would  be  hang'd  in  peace 
For  one  month  of  such  holidays. 

Pisan.  An  age,  boys, 
And  yet  defy  the  whip  ;  if  you  are  men, 
Or  dare  believe  you  have  souls. 

Cimb.   We  ure  no  brokers. 

Grac.  Nor  whores,  whose  marks  are  out  of  their 

mouths,  they  have  nonet ; 
They  hardly  can  get  salt  enough  to  keep  them 
From  stinking;  above  ground. 

Pis.ni.  Our  lords  are  no  gods — 

Grac.  They  are  devils  to  us,  I  am  sure. 

Piiuii.   IJUL  subject  to 
Cold,  hunger,  and  diseases. 

Giur.  In  abundance. 

Your  lord  that  (eels  no  ach  in  his  chine  at  twenty, 
Forfeits   his   privilege:  how  should  their  surgeons 
Or  ride  on  their  footcloths  ?  [build  else, 

Pi/sun.  K>|u:il  Nature  fashion VI  us 
All  in  one  mould.     The  bear  serves  not  the  bear, 
Nor  ilie   wolf  the  wolf;  'twas  odds  of  strength  in 

t\  r  nts, 

That  pluck'*)  the  first  link  from  the  golden  chain 
With  which  that  THING  OF  THINGS}  bound  in  the 

world. 

Why  tlieu,  since  we  are  taught,  by  their  examples. 
To  love  our  liberty,  if  not  command,  [ones  ? 

Should  the  strong  serve  the  weak,  the  fair,  deform 'd 
Or  such  us  know  the  cause  of  things,  pay  tribute 
To  ignorant  fools!     All's  but  the  outwaid  gloss, 
And  politick  form,  that  does  distinguish  us. 
Cimlino  thou  art  a  strong  man  ;  if,  in  place 
Of  carrving  burthens,  thou  had.->t  been  irain'd  up 
In  nrini-.ii  discipline,  thou  might'st  have  proved 
A  general,  tit  to  lead  and  fight  for  Sicily, 
As  fortunate  its  'I  imoleon. 

Cimb.  A  little  lighting 
Wiil  serve  a  general's  turn. 

Pisan.    1  huu,  Gracculo, 
Hast  fluency  ot  language,  quick  conceit ; 
And,  1  think,  cover'd  with  a  senator's  robe, 
Formally  set  on  the  bench,  thou  wouldst  appear 
As  brave  u  senator. 

Grac.  Would  1  had  lands, 

• another  rouse!]  Anullier  full  glass,  another  bum- 
per. See  the  Duke  of  Milan. 

t  (Jr:ic.  A'lir  wliorei,  uihote  markt  are  out  of  their  mnutht, 
they  have  none  ;]  Thzy  have  none  ;  is  omitted  both  by  Coxe- 
trr  and  M.  M<isou. 

*  That  THING  OF  THINGS.]  A  literal  translation,  as  Mr. 
M.  Mat  -ii  «.b-<  rses,  of  ENS  KNTU;M.  1  know  not  where 
PiiMiidt./  acquired  liis  revolutionary  philosophy  :  his  gulden 
chain,  perhaps  lie  louuit  in  Homer. 


Or  money  to  buy  a  place  ;  and  if  I  did  not 
Sleep  on  the  bench  with  the  drowsiest  of  them,  play 
with  my  chain,  [and  wear 

Look  on  my  watch,  when  my   guts  chimed   twelve, 
A  state  beard,   with  my  barber's  help,   rank   with 

them 

In  their  most  choice  peculiar  gifts  ;  degrade  me, 
And  put  me  to  drink  water  again,  which,  now 
I  have  tasted  wine,  were  poison  ! 

Pisan.  Tis  spoke  nobly, 

And  like  a  gownman  :  none  of  these,  I  think  too, 
But  would  prove  good  burghers. 

Grac.   Hum  !  the  fools  are  modest ; 
I  know  their  insides  :  here's  an  ill-faced  fellow, 
(  But  that  will  not  be  seen  in  a  dark  shop,) 
If  he  did  not  in  a  month  learn  to  outswear,        [man 
In  the  selling  of  his  wares,  the  cunning'st  trades- 
In  Syracusa,  I  have  no  skill.     Here's  another, 
Observe  but  what  a  cozening  look  he  has  ! — 
Hold  up  thy  head,  man  ;  if,  for  drawing  gallants 
Into  mortgages  for  commodities^,  or  cheating  heira 
With  your  new  counterfeit  gold  thread,  and  gumm'd 

velvets, 

He  does  not  transcend  all  that  went  before  him, 
Call  in  his  patent :  pass  the  rest ;  they'll  all  make 
Sufficient  beccos,  and  with  their  brow-antlers 
Bear  up  the  cap  of  maintenance. 

Pisan.  Is't  not  pity,  then, 
Men  of  such  eminent  virtues  should  be  slaves  1 

Cimb.  Our  fortune. 

Pisan.  'Tis  your  folly  :  daring  men 
Command  and  make  their  fates.     Say,  at  this  instant, 
I  raark'd  you  out  a  way  to  liberty; 
Possess'd  you  of  those  blessings,  our  proud  lords 
So  long  have  surfeited  in  ;  and,  what  is  sweetest, 
Arm  you  with  power,  by  strong  hand  to  revenge 
Your  stripes,  your  unregarded  toil,  the  pride, 
The  insolence  of  such  as  tread  upon 
Your  patient  sufferings ;  fill  your  famish'd  mouths 
With  the  fat  and  plenty  of  the  land  ;  redeem  you 
From  the  dark  vale  of  servitude,  and  seat  you 
Upon  a  hill  of  happiness  ;  what  would  you  do 
To  purchase  this,  and  more? 

Grac.   Do  !  any  thing  : 

To  burn  a  church  or  two,  and  dance  by  the  light  on't, 
Were  but  a  May-game. 

Poliph.  I  have  a  father  living  ; 
But,  if  the  cutting  of  his  throat  could  work  this, 
He  should  excuse  me. 

Cimb.  'Slight !  I  would  cut  mine  own 
Rather  than  miss  it,  so  I  might  but  have 
A  taste  on't,  ere  I  die. 


if,  for  drawing  aallanti 


Into  mortyutjea  for  commodities,  &c.]  i.  e.  for  wares,  of 
which  ihe  needy  borrower  made  what  he  could  :  "  Firit, 
here'sy-jung  master  Rash  ;  he's  iu  lor  a  commodity  of  brown 
paper  and  old  ginger,  ninescore  and  seventeen  pounds;  of 
which  lie  made  live  marks  ready  money:"  Measure  for 
Aleisvre.  This  is  ridiculous  enough;  and,  indeed,  our  old 
wrilfis  aie  rxiremely  pleasant  on  the  heterogt  neons  articles, 
which  the  usurers  of  their  days  forced  on  Ihe  necessity  of 
the  thoiigluless  spendthrift,  in  lieu  of  the  money  for  which 
he  h.id  rashly  signed.  Fielding  has  imitated  them  in  Ins 
Mixer,  without  adding  much  to  their  humour:  and  Foot*-, 
in  The  Minor,  IMS  servilely  followed  his  example  The 
spectators  of  those  scenes  probably  thought  that  the  writers 
baM  gone  beyond  real  life,  and  drawn  on  imagination  for 
their  amusement:  but  transactions  (not  altogether  proper, 
perhaps,  to  be  specilied  here)  have  actually  taken  place  in 
our  own  limes,  which  leave  their  boldest  conceptions  at 
an  humble  distance;  and  prove,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  in  the 
arts  of  raising  money,  the  invention  of  the  most  fertile  poet 
must  yield  to  that  of  the  mcanett  scrivener. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


103 


Pisan.  Be  resolute  men, 

vou  shall  run  no  such  hazard,  nor  groan  under 
The  burthen  of  such  crying  sins. 

L'imh.  The  means  ? 

Cniic.  1  feel  a  woman's  longing. 

Ptili/ih.   Do  not  torment  us 
With  expectation. 

Pis;nt,  Thus,  then:   Our  proud  masters, 
And  all  the  able  freemen  of  the  city, 
Are  gone  unto  the  wars 

/Wi'/i/i.  Observe  but  that. 

/'i»<ii.  Old  men,  and  such  as  can  make  no  resist- 
ance, 
Are  only  left  at  home 

Civic.  And  the  proud  young  fool, 
My  master :  If  this  take,  I'll  hamper  him. 


Pisan.   Their  arsenal,    their  treasure,  's  in  our 

power, 

If  we  have  hearts  to  seize  them.     If  our  lords  fall 
In  the  present  action,  the  whole  country's  ours  : 
Say  they  return  victorious,  we  have  means 
To  keep  the  town  against  them  :  at  the  worst, 
To  make  our  own  conditions.     Now,  if  you  dare 
Fall  on  their  daughters  and  their  wives,  break  up 
Their  iron  chests,  banquet  on  their  rich  beds, 
And  carve  yourselves  of  all  delights  and  pleasure 
You  have  been  barr'd  from,  with  one  voice  cry  with 
Liberty,  liberty !  [me, 

AIL  Liberty,  liberty  !  [dom: 

Pisan.  Go  then,  and  take  possession  :  use  all  free- 
But  shed  no  blood. — So,  this  is  well  begun  ; 
But  not  to  be  commended,  till't  be  done.       [Erennt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.  —  The  same.     A   Room  in  AKCIIIDAMUS'S 
Home. 

Entrr  PISANDER  and  TI.MANDUA. 

Pisan.  Why,  think  you  that  I  plot  againstmyself  *? 
Fear  nothing,  you  are  safe;  these  thick-skinn'd  slaves 
1  use  as  instruments  to  serve  my  ends, 
Pierce  not  my  deep  designs ;  nor  shall  they  dare 
To  lift  an  arm  against  you. 

Timand.  With  your  will. 

But  turbulent  spirits,  raised  beyond  themselves 
With  ease,  are  not  so  soon  laid  ;  they  oft  prove 
Diinge:aus  to  him  that  call'd  them  up. 

I'isan.  '  i  is  true, 

In  wlut  is  rashly  undertook.     Long  since 
I  have  con^ider'd  seriously  their  natures, 
Proceeded  with  mature  advice,  and  know 
1  hold  their  wills  and  faculties  in  more  awe 
Tlun  1  can  do  my  own.     Now,  for  their  license 
And  riot  in  the  city,  1  can  make 
A  just  defence  and  use :  it  inav  appear  too 
A  politick  prevention  of  such  ills 
A.s  might,  with  -.  reater  violence  and  danger, 
Hereafter  be  attempted  ;  though  some  smart  for't, 
li  i.'uKters  not: — however,  I'm  resolved; 
Atui  sleep  you  with  security.     Holds  Cleora 
Constant  to  her  rush  vow? 

Timand.  Beyond  belief; 
To  me,  that  see  her  hourly,  it  seems  a  fahle. 
By  signs  I  guess  at  her  commands,  and  serve  them 
\Virh  silence;  such  her  pleasure  i-,  made  known 
By  holding  her  hiir  hand  thus.     She  eats  little, 
Sleeps  Ijss,  sis  I  imagine;  once  a  day, 
1  lea.l  her  to  this  gallery,  where  she  walks 
Some  half  a  dozen  turns,  and,  having  oft'er'd 
To  her  absent  saint  a  sacrifice  of  .sighs, 
She  points  back  to  her  pri  -on. 

Pisan.  Guide  her  hither. 
And  make  IH-T  understand  the  slaves'  revolt; 
And,  with  your  utmost  eloquence,  enlarge 


•  Pisan  Why,  think  you  that  I  plot  againtt  mytefff] 
The  plot  oprii.-  here  wi'li  woml.rlu!  Hd<lre.->,  anil  (lie  sue- 
Cf'ltus  cu-itVre:>;<-,  or  ratlur  scene,  beiwetu  I'isjiidcr  aud 
CIvora,  is  niiuii'.ibly  beautiful. 


Their  insolence,  and  rapes  done  in  the  city: 
Forget  not  too,  I  am  their  chief,  and  tell  her 
You  strongly  think  my  extreme  dotage  on  her, 
As  I'm  Marullo,  caused  this  sudden  uproar 
To  make  way  to  enjoy  her. 

Timand.  Punctually 

I  will  discharge  my  part.  [Exit. 

Enter  POLIPHROX. 

Pitliph.  O,  sir,  I  sought  you:  [loose; 

You've  miss'd  the  best*  sport !  Hell,  I  think 's  broke 
There's  such  variety  of  all  disorders, 
As  leaping,  shouting,  drinking,  dancing,  whoring, 
Among  the  slaves  ;  answer'd  with  crying,  howling, 
By  the  citizens  and  their  wives  ;  such  a  confusion, 
In  a  word,  not  to  tire  you,  as,  1  think, 
The  like  was  never  read  of. 

Pisan.  I  share  in 

The  pleasure,  though  I'm  absent.     This  is  some 
Revenge  for  my  disgrace. 

Poliph.  But,  sir,  I  fear, 
If  your  authority  restrain  them  not, 
They'll  fire  *he  city,  or  kill  one  another, 
They  are  so  apt  to  outrage  ;  neither  know  I 
Whether  you  wish  it,  and  came  therefore  to 
Acquaint  you  with  so  much. 

Pisan.  I  will  among  them  ; 
But  must  not  long  be  absent. 

Potiph.  At  your  pleasure.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     Another  Room  in  the  fame. 
Shouts  within.     Enter  CLEOKA  and  TIMANDRA. 
Timand.  They  are  at  our  gates :  my  heart !  affright* 

and  horrors 

Increase  each  minute.     No  way  left  to  save  us, 
No  flattering  hope  to  comfort  us,  or  means 
But  miracle  to  redeem  us  from  base  lust 
And  lawless  rapine !  Are  there  gods,  yet  suffer 
Such  innocent  sweetness  to  be  made  the  spoil 

•  You've  miss'd  the  best  sport.']  Rest,  which  U  not  It 
Coxrter,  or  M  M.I.-OII,  is  only  found  in  the  first  edition  il 
seemn  necessary  to  (he  metre. 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[Acr  II) 


Of  brutish  appetite?  or,  since  they  decree 
To  ruin  nature's  masterpiece,  of  which 
They  have  not  left  one  pattern,  must  they  choose, 
To  set  their  tyranny  off,  slaves  to  pollute 
The  spring  of  chastity,  and  poison  it 
With  their  most  loath'd  embraces?  and,  of  those, 
He,  that  should  offer  up  his  life  to  guard  it, 
Marullo,  curs'd  Marullo,  your  own  bondman, 
Purchased  to  *erve  you,  and  ted  by  your  favours? — 
Nay,  start  not :  it  is  he;  he,  the  grand  captain 
Of  these  libidinous  beasts,  that  have  not  left 
One  cruel  act  undone,  that  barbarous  conquest 
Yet  ever  practised  in  a  captive  city. 
He,  doting  on  your  beauty,  and  to  have  fellows 
In  his  foiil  sin,  hath  raised  these  mutinous  slaves 
Who  have  begun  the  game  by  violent  rapes 
Upon  the  wives  and  daughters  of  their  lords: 
And  he,  to  quench  the  fire  of  his  base  lust, 
By  force  comes  to  enjoy  you  : — do  not  wring 
Your  innocent  hands,  'tis  bootless;  use  the  means 
That  may  preserve  you.     'Tis  no  crime  to  break 
A  vow  when  you  are  forced  to  it ;  shew  your  face, 
And  with  the  majesty  of  commanding  beauty, 
Strike  dead  his  loose  affections:  if  that  fail, 
Give  liberty  to  your  tongue,  and  use  entreaties; 
There  cannot  be  a  breast  of  flesh  and  blood, 
Or  heart  so  made  of  flint,  but  must  receive 
Impression  from  your  words  ;  or  eyes  so  stern. 
But,  from  the  clear  reflection  of  your  tears, 
Must  melt,  and  bear  them  company.     Will  you  not 
Do  these  good  offices  to  yourself?  poor  I,  then, 
Can  only  weep  your  fortune : — here  he  comes. 

Enter  PISANDER,  speaking  at  the  door. 

Pisan.  He  that  advances 
A  fool  beyond  this,  comes  upon  my  oword: 
You  have  had  your  ways,  disturb  not  mine. 

Timand.  Speak  gently, 
Her  fears  may  kill  her  else. 

Pisan.  Now  Love  inspire  me! 
Still  shall  this  canopy  of  envious  night 
Obscure  my  suns  of  comfort?  and  those  dainties 
Of  purest  white  and  red,  which  I  take  in  at 
My  greedy  eyes,  denied  my  famish'd  senses? — 
The  organs  of  your  hearing  yet  are  open  ; 
And  you  infringe  no  vow,  though  you  vouchsafe 
To  give  them  warrant  to  convey  unto 
Your  understanding  parts,  the  story  of 
A  tortured  and  despairing  lover,  whom 
Not  fortune  but  affection  marks  your  slave : — 
Shake  not,  best  lady !  for  believe''!,  you  are 
As  far  from  danger  as  I  am  from  force: 
All  violence  I  shall  offer,  tends  no  further 
Than  to  relate  my  sufferings,  which  I  dare  not 
Presume  to  do,  till,  by  some  gracious  sio-n, 
You  shew  you  are  pleased  to  hear  me. 

Timund,  If  you  are, 
Hold  forth  your  right  hand. 

[Cleora  holds  forth  her  right  hand. 
Pisan.  So,  tis  done ;  and  I 
With  my  glad  lips  seal  humbly  on  your  foot, 
My  soul's  thanks  for  the  favour :  1  forbear 
To  tell  you  who  I  am,  what  wealth,  what  honours 
1  made  exchange  of,  to  become  your  servant  : 
And,  though  1  knew  worthy  Leosthenes 
(For  sure  he  must  be  worthy,  for  whose  love 
You  have  endured  so  much)  to  be  my  rival ; 
When  rage  and  jealousy  counsell'd  me  to  kill  him, 
Which  then  I  could  have  done  with  much  more  ease, 
Than  now,  in  lear  to  grieve  you,  I  dare  speak  it. 


Love,  seconded  with  duty,  boldly  told  me 

The  man  I  hated,  fair  Cleora  favour'd: 

And  that  was  his  protection.  [Cleora  bowt 

Timand.  See,  she  bows 
Her  head  in  sign  of  thankfulness. 

Pisan.  He  removed  by 

The  occasiou  of  the  war,  (my  fires  increasing 
By  being  closed  and  stopp'd  up,)  frantic  affection 
Prompted  me  to  do  something  in  his  absence, 
That  might  deliver  you  into  my  power, 
Which  you  see  is  effected  ;  and,  even  now, 
When  my  rebellious  passions  chide  my  dulness, 
And  tell  me  how  much  I  abuse  my  fortunes, 
Now  it  is  in  my  power  to  bear  you  hence, 

[Cleora  start* 

Or  take  my  wishes  here,  (nay,  fear  not,  madam, 
True  love's  a  servant,  brutish  lust  a  tyrant,) 
I  dare  not  touch  those  viands  that  ne'er  taste  well, 
But  when  they're  freely  offer'd  :  only  thus  much, 
Be  pleased  I  may  speak  in  my  own  dear  cause, 
And  think  it  worthy  your  consideration, 
(I  have  loved  truly,  cannot  say  deserved. 
Since  duty  must  not  take  the  name  of  merit,) 
That  I  so  far  prize  your  content,  before 
All  blessings  that  my  hope  can  fashion  to  me, 
That  willingly  1  entertain  despair, 
And,  for  your  sake,  embrace  it :  for  I  know, 
This  opportunity  lost,  by  no  endeavour 
The  like  can  be  recover'd.     To  conclude    >     ,    » t  ..-. 
Forget  not  thut  I  lose  myself  to  save  you : 
For  what  can  I  expect  but  death  and  torture, 
The  war  being  ended  ?  and,  what  is  a  task 
Would  trouble  Hercules  to  undertake, 
I  do  deny  you  to  myself,  to  give  you, 
A  pure  unspotted  present,  to  my  rival. 
I  have  said  :  If  it  distaste  not,  best  of  virgins, 
Reward  my  temperance  with  some  lawful  favour, 
Though  you  contemn  my  person. 

[Cletira  kneels,  then  pulls  off'  her  glove,  and 
offers  her  hand  to  Pisatider. 

Timand.  See,  she  kneels  ; 
And  seems  to  call  upon  the  gods  to  pay 
The  debt  she  owes  your  virtue  :  to  perform  which, 
As  a  sure  pledge  of  friendship,  she  vouchsafes  you 
Her  fair*  right  hand. 

Pisan.  I  am  paid  for  all  my  sufferings. 
Now,  whenyou please, pass toyour  private  chamber, 
My  love  and  duty,  faithful  guards,  shall  keep  you 
From  all  disturbance  ;  and  when  you  are  sated 
With  thinking  of  Leosthenes,  as  a  fee 
Due  to  my  service,  spare  one  sigh  for  me. 

f  V.ieunt.     Cleora  makes  a  low  courtesy  as  tin 
goes  off. 


SCENE  III.— The  same.    A  Roomin  Cleon's  House. 

Enter  GRACCULO,  leading  ASOTUS  in  an  ape's  habit, 
with  a  chain  about  his  neck  ;  ZANTHIA  in  CORISCA'^ 
clothes,  she  bearing  up  her  train. 

Grac.  Come  on,  sir. 

Atot.  Oil  ! 

Grac.  Do  you  grumble?  you  were  ever 
A  brainless  ass  ;  but,  if  this  hold,  I'll  teach  you 
To  come  aloft,  and  do  tricks  like  an  ape. 
Your  morning's  lessen  :  if  you  miss — 

Asot.  O  no,  sir. 

*  Her  fair  right  hand  ]     I  have  inserted  fair  from  0* 
I    first  quarto  :  the  subsequent  editions  dropt  it. 


SCENE  II I.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


101 


Grac.  What  for  the  Carthaginians?     [Asotus  makes 

moppes.~\  a  good  beast*. 

What  tor  ourself,  your  lord  ?  \_Danrtt.~\     Exceeding 

wellf.  [so. 

There's  your  reward.     Not  kiss  your  paw  !     So,  so, 

Zant.  Was  ever  lady,  the  first  day  of  her  honour, 
So  waited  on  by  a  wrinkled  crone  ?     She  looks  now, 
Without  her  painting,  curling,  and  perfumes, 
Like  the  last  day  of  January  ;  and  stinks  worse 
Than  a'hot  brache  in  the  dogdays.     Further  oft"! 
So — stand  there  like  an  image  ;  if  you  stir, 
Till,  with  a  quarter  of  a  look,  I  call  you, 
You  know  what  follows. 

Coris.  O,  what  am  I  fallen  to  ! 
But  'tis  a  punishment  for  my  lust  and  pride, 
Justly  return 'd  upon  me. 

Grac.  How  dost  thou  like 
Thy  ladyship,  Zanthia? 

Zant.  Very  well ;  and  bear  it 
With  as  much  state  as  your  lordship. 

Grac.  Give  me  thy  hand  : 

Let  us,  like  conquering  Romans,  walk  in  triumph*, 
Our  captives  following  ;  then  mount  our  tribunals, 
And  make  the  slaves  our  footstools. 

Zant.  Fine,  by  Jove  ! 
Are  your  hands  clean,  minion  t 

Com.  Yes,  forsooth. 

Zant.  Fall  off  then.  [duties 

So,  now  come  on  ;  and,  having  made  your  three 
Down,  I  say— are  you  stiff  in  the  bams  ? — now  kneel, 
And  tie  our  shoe  :  now  kiss  it,  and  be  happy. 

Grac.  This  is  state,  indeed. 

Zanl.     It  is  such  as  she  taught  me  ; 
A  tickling  itch  of  greatness,  your  proud  ladies 
Expect  from  their  poor  waiters  :  we  have  changed 

parts  ; 

She  does  what  she  forced  me  to  do  in  her  reign, 
And  I  must  practise  it  in  mine. 

Grac.  'Tis  justice  : 
0  !  here  come  more. 


•  Grac.  If^hat  for  the  Carthaginian*  ?  [Asotus  makes 
moppet.]  For  this  word,  which  signifies  that  quick  and 
grinning  motion  of  the  teeth  and  lips  which  apes  make  when 
they  are  irritated,  and  which  is  found  in  both  the  copies, 
the  modern  editors,  in  kindness  to  their  reader.-,  I  suppose, 
have  mouth*:  indeed,  they  do  not  seem  to  have  understood 
the  humour  of  this  scene,  which,  in  both,  especially  in  Mr. 
M.  Mason,  is  most  negligently  printed. 

t  What  for  ourself,  your  lord?  Here  Asostus  must  be 
supposed  I  )  come  aloft,  i.  e.  to  leap,  or  rather  tumble,  in 
token  of  »aii«f.iction.  Our  ancestors  certainly  excelled  us 
in  the  education  which  they  gave  to  their  animals.  Banks's 
hors*  far  surpassed  all  that  have  been  brought  up  in  the 
academy  of  Mr.  Astley;  and  the  apes  of  these  days  are 
mere  clowns  to  their  progenitors.  The  apes  of  M.issiii«er's 
lime  were  giftrd  with  a  pretty  smattering  of  politics  ami 
philosophy.  The  widow  Wild  had  one  of  them  :  "  He  would 
come  over  for  all  my  friends,  but  was  the  dogged'st  ihing 
to  my  enemies;  he  would  sit  upon  his  tail  before  them,  and 
frown  like  John-a-napes  when  the  pope  is  named."  The 
Partnn't  Weddi**}.  Another  may  be  found  in  Ram  Alley: 
"  Men  say  you've  tricks ;  remember,  noble  captain, 

You  skip  when  [  shall  shake  my  whip.     Now,  sir, 

What  can  you  do  for  the  preat  Turk? 

What  can  you  do  for  the  Pope  of  Rome  T 

Lo! 

He  stirreth  not,  he  moveth  not,  he  waggeth  not. 

What  cau  you  do  for  the  town  of  Geneva,  sirrah  t 

["  Captain  hold*  up  hi*  hand,"  &c. 
J  Grac.  fJive  me  thy  hand  : 

/.rt  us,  like  conquering  Romans,  walk  in  triumph.]  Grac- 
cnlo  speaks  in  the  spirit  of  prophecy  ;  for  the  conquirring 
Roman*  were  at  this  time  struggling  with  their  neighliuurs 
for  a  few  miserable  huts  to  hide  their  heads  in  ;  and  if  any 
captives  folloii'td,  or  rather  preceded,  their  triumph*,  it  was 
v  Utrd  of  .'tuk'ti  beeves. 


Enter  CIMBRIO,  CLEON,  POLIPHROX,  and  OLYMPIA. 

Cimb.   Discover  to  a  drachma, 
Or  I  will  famish  thee. 

Clean.  O  !  I  asn  pined  already. 

Cimb.  Hunger  shall  force  thee  to  cut  off  the  brawni 
From  thy  arms  and  thighs,  then  broil  them  on  the 
For  carbonadoes.  [coal* 

Poliph.  Spare  the  old  jade,  he's  founder'd. 

Grac.  Cut  his  throat  then, 
And  hang  him  out  for  a  scarecrow. 

Poliph.  You  have  all  your  wishes 
In  your  revenge,  and  1  have  mine.     You  see 
I  use  no  tyranny :  when  I  was  her  slave, 
She  kept  me  as  a  sinner,  to  lie  at  her  back 
In  frosty  nights,  and  fed  me  high  with  dainties, 
Which  still  she  had  in  her  belly  again  ere  morning 
And  in  requital  of  those  courtesies, 
Having  made  one  another  free,  we  are  married  • 
And,  if  you  wish  us  joy,  join  with  us  in 
A  dance  at  our  wedding. 

Grac.  Agreed  ;  for  I  have  thought  of 
A  most  triumpliant  one,  which  shall  express 
We  are  lords,  and  these  our  slaves. 

Poliph.  But  we  shall  want 
A  woman. 

Grac.  No,  here's  Jane-of-apes  shall  serve  *  ; 
Carry  your  body  swimming — Where's  the  music  ? 

Poliph.  I  have  placed  it  in  yon  window. 

Grac.  Begin  then  sprightly. 

[Music,  and  then  a  dance 

Enter  PISANDER  behind. 

Poliph.  Well  done  on  all  aides  !  I  have  prepared  > 
Let's  drink  and  cool  us.  [banquet ; 

Grac.  A  good  motion. 

Cimb.  Wait  here  , 
You  have  been  tired  with  feasting,  learn  to  fast  now 

Grac.  I'll  have  an  apple   for  Jack,  and  may  ba 

May  fall  to  your  share.  |~some  scrap* 

[Ereunt  Grac.  Zant.  Cimb.  Poliph.  and  Oiymp 

Con's.  Whom  can  we  accuse 

But  ourselves,  for  what  we  suffer?  Thou  art  just, 
Thou  all-creating  Power!  and  misery 
Instructs  me  now,  that  yesterday  acknowledged 
No  deity  beyond  my  lust  and  pride, 
There  is  a  heaven  above  us,  that  looks  down 
With  the  eyes  of  justice,  upon  such  as  number 
Those  blessings  freely  given,  in  the  accompt 
Of  their  poor  merits  ;  else  it  could  not  be, 
Now  miserable  I,  to  please  whose  palate 
The  elements  were  ransack'd,  yet  complain'd 
Of  nature,  as  not  liberal  enough 
In  her  provision  of  rarities 
To  sooth  my  taste,  and  pamper  my  proud  flesh, 
Should  wish  in  vain  for  bread. 

Clean.  Yes,  I  do  wish  too, 
For  what  I  fed  my  dogs  with. 

Corw.  I,  that  forgot 

I  was  made  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  thought  the  silk 
Spun  by  the  diligent  worm,  out  of  their  entrails, 
Too  coarse  to  clothe  me,  and  the  softest  down 
Too  hard  to  sleep  on  ;  that  disdain'd  to  look 
On  virtue  being  in  rags,  that  stopp'd  my  nose 
At  those  that  did  not  use  adulterate  arts 
To  better  nature  ;  that  from  those  that  served  me 
Expected  adoration,  am  made  justly 


•  Grac.  A'o,  here's  Jane-of-apes  shall  teree ;]  Meaning 
Corisca  :  he  plays  upon  Jack-an-apes,  the  name  uc  had 
giv«n  tti  Asolu* 


106 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[ACT  Hi. 


The  scorn  of  my  own  bondwoman. 

Aunt.  I  am  punish'd, 

For  seeking  to  cuckold  mine  own  natural  father  : 
Unit  I  been  gelded  then,  or  used  myself 
Like  a  man,  I  had  not  been  transform'd,  and  forced 
To  play  an  overgrown  ape. 

Clem.  1  know  I  cannot  [both ; 

Last  long,  that's  all  my  comfort.     Come,  I  forgive 
Tis  in  vain  to  be  angry ;  let  us,  therefore, 
Lament  together  like  friends. 

Pisan.  What  a  true  mirror 
Were  this  sad  spectacle  for  secure  greatness! 
Here  they,  that  never  see  themselves,  but  in 
The  glass  of  servile  flattery,  might  behold 
The  weak  foundation  upon  which  they  build 
Their  trust  in  human  frailty.     Happy  are  those, 
That  knowing,  in  their  births,  they  are  subject  to 
Uncertain  change,  are  still  prepared,  and  arin'd 
For  either  fortune  :  a  rare  principle, 
And  with  much  labour,  learn'd  in  wisdom's  school ! 
For,  as  these  bondmen,  by  their  actions,  shew 
That  their  prosperity,  like  too  large  a  sail 
For  their  small  bark  of  judgment,  sinks  them  with 
A  fore-right  gale  of  liberty,  ere  they  reach 
The  port  they  long  to  touch  at :  so  these  wretches, 
Swollen  with  the  false  opinion  of  their  worth, 
And  proud  of  blessings  left  them,  not  acquired  ; 
That  did  believe  they  could  with  giant  arms 
Fathom  the  earth,  and  were  above  their  fates, 
Those  borrow'd  helps,  that  did  support  them,  van- 

ish'd, 

Fall  of  themselves,  and  by  unmanly  suffering. 
Betray  their  proper  weakness,  and  make  known 
Their  boasted  greatness  was  lent,  not  their  own. 

Clean.  O  for  some  meat !  they  sit  long, 

Com.  We  forgot, 

When  we  drew  out  intemperate  feasts  till  midnight; 
Their  hunger  was  not  thought  on,  nor  their  watch- 
ings  ; 

Nor  did  we  hold  ourselves  served  to  the  height, 
But  when  we  did  exact  and  furce  their  duties 
Beyond  their  strength  and  power. 

Asot.  We  pay  for't  now  : 
I  now  could  be  content  to  have  my  head 
Broke  with  a  rib  of  beef,  or  for  a  coffin, 
Be  buried  in  the  dripping  pan. 

Re-enter  POLIPHON,  CIMBTUO,  GRACCUI.O,  ZANTIIM, 
and  OLYMPIA,  drunk  and  quarrelling. 

Cimb.  Do  not  hold  me : 
Not  kiss  the  bride  ! 
Poliph.  No,  sir. 

Cimb.  She's  common  good, 
And  so  we'll  use  her. 

Orac.  We'll  have  nothing  private. 

Pisan.  [coming forward]  Hold ! 

Zant.  Here's  Marullo. 

Olymp.  He's  your  chief. 

Cimb.  We  are  equals  ; 
I  will  know  no  obedience. 

Grac.  Nor  superior — 

Nay,  if  you  are  lion-drunk.  I  will  make  one ; 
For  lightly  ever  he  that  parts  the  fray, 
Goes  away  with  the  blows.* 

•  For  lightly  ever  he  that  part*  the  fray, 

Goes  away  with  the  blows..     Liyhtly  is  commonly,  usu- 
all>  ;  so  in  The  New  Inn  : 

Jleau.   What  insolent,  half-wilted  thing*,  these  are; 

I. at.  So  are  all  smatterers,  insolent  and  impudent; 
They  nyhtly  KI>  together 


Pisan.  Art  thou  mad  too  ? 
No  more,  as  you  respect  me. 

Poliph.  I  obey,  sir. 

Pisan.  Quarrel  among  yourselves 

Cimb.  Yes,  in  our  wine,  sir, 
And  for  our  wenches. 

Grac.  How  could  we  be  lords  else? 

Piian.  Take  heed  ;  I've  news  will  cool  this  heat 
Remember  what  you  were.  ("and  make  you 

Cimb.  How  ! 

Pisan.  Send  off  these, 
And  then  I'll  tell  you.  [Zanthia  beats  Consca. 

Olymp.  This  is  tyranny, 
Now  she  offends  not. 

Zunt.  'Tis  for  exercise, 

And  to  help  digestion.       What  is  she  good  for  else  ? 
To  me  it  wts«  her  language. 

Pisan.  Lead  her  off, 

And  take  heed,  madam  minx,  the  wheel  may  turn. 
Go  to  your  meat  and  rest ;  and  from  this  hour 
Remember  he  that  is  a  lord  to  day, 
May  be  a  slave  tomorrow. 

Clean.  Good  morality ! 

[Exeunt  Clean,  Asot.  Zint.  Oli/mp.  and  Con's. 

Cimb.  But  wh.it  would  you  impart  J 

Pisan.   What  must  invite  you 

To  stand  upon  your  guard,  and  leave  j-our  feasting 
Or  but  imagine  what  it  is  to  be 
Most  miserable,  and  rest  assured  you  are  so. 
Our  masters  are  victorious. 

All.  How  ! 

Pisan.  Within 

A  clay's  march  of  the  city,  flesh 'd  with  spoil, 
And  proud  of  conquest ;  the  armado  sunk  , 
The  Carthaginian  admiral,  hand  to  hand, 
Slain  by  Leosthenes. 

Ct'mfc.  I  feel  the  whip 
Upon  my  back  already. 

Grac.  Every  man 
Seek  a  convenient  tree,  and  hang  himself. 

Poliph.  Better  die  once,  than  live  an  age,  to  suffer 
New  tortures  every  hour. 

Cimb.  Say,  we  submit, 
And  yield  us  to  their  mercy? — 

Pisan.  Can  you  natter 

Yourselves  with  such  false  hopes?  O-  dare  you  think 
That  your  imperious  lords,  that  never  fail'd 
To  punish  with  severity  petty  slips 
In  your  neglect  of  labour,  may  be  won 
To  pardon  those  licentious  outrages 
Which  noble  enemies  forbear  to  practise 
Upon  the  conquer'd  ?   What  have  you  omitted, 
That  may  call  on  their  just  revenge  with  horror 
And  studied  cruelty  ?  we  have  gone  too  fur 
To  think  now  of  retiring;  in  our  courage, 
And  daring*,  lies  our  safety  ;  if  you  are  not 
Slaves  in  your  abject  minds,  as  in  your  fortunes. 
Since  to  die  is  the  worst,  better  expose 
Our  naked  breasts  to  their  keen  swords,  and  sell 
Our  lives  with  the  most  advantage,  than  to  trust 
In  a  forestall'd  remission,  or  yield  up 
Our  bodies  to  the  furnace  of  their  fury; 
Thrice  heated  with  revenge. 

Again,  in  The  Fox  : 

" I  knew  'twould  take  ; 

For  liuhtly,  they  that  use  themselves  most  license 

Are  still  mo3t  jealous." 
*  '  in  our  courage t 

And  daring,  lies  our  safety  :]   The  old  copies  read  during 
but  it  is  an  evident  misprint. 


SCENE  IV.] 


THE  BONDMAN 


Grac.  You  led  us  on. 

Cimb.  And  'tis  but  justice  you  should  bring  us  off. 

Grac.  And  we  expect  it. 

Pisttn.  Hear  then  and  obey  me  ; 
And  I  will  either  save  you,  or  fall  with  you  : 
Man  the  walls  strongly,  and  make  good  the  ports  ; 
Boldly  deny  their  entrance,  and  rip  up 
Your  grievances,  and  what  compelld  you  to 
This  desperate  course  :   if  they  disdain  to  hear 
Of  composition,  we  have  in  our  powers 
Their  aged  fathers,  children,  and  their  wives, 
Who,  to  preserve  themselves,  must  willingly 
Make  intercession  for  us.     'Tis  not  time  now 
To  talk,  but  do  :  a  glorious  end,  or  freedom, 
Is  now  proposed  us  ;  stand  resolved  for  either, 
And,  like  good  fellows,  live  or  die  together. 

\_F.xeunt. 

SCENE    IV. — The  Country  near  Syracuse.      The 
Camp  of  Timoleon. 

Enter  LEOSTHENES  and  Tm^noRAS. 

Timag.  I  am  so  far  from  envy,  I  am  proud 
You  have  outstripp'd  me  in  the  nice  of  honour. 
O  'twas  a  glorious  day,  and  bravely  won  ! 
Your  bold  performance  gave  such  lustre  to 
Timoleon's  wise  directions,  as  the  iirmy 
Rests  doubtful,  to  whom  they  stand  most  engaged 
For  their  so  great  success. 

Least.  The  gods  first  honour'd, 
The  glory  be  the  general's  ;  'tis  far  from  me 
To  be  his  rival, 

Timag.  You  abuse  your  fortune, 
To  entertain  her  choice  and  gracious  favours 
With  a  contracted  brow  ;  plumed  Victory 
Is  truly  painted  with  a  cheerful  look, 
Equally  di<taut  from  proud  insolence, 
And  base  dejection. 

Leo$t.  O  Tirnagoras, 
You  only  are  acquainted  with  the  cause 
That  loads  my  sad  heart  with  a  hill  of  lead  ;      [nour 
Whose  ponderous  weight,  neither  my  new-got  ho- 
Assisted  by  the  general  ;ipplnuse   • 
The  soldier  crowns  it  with*,  nor  all  war's  glories 
Can  lessen  or  remove  :  and  would  you  please, 
With  fit  consideration,  to  remember 
How  much  I  wrong'd  Cleora's  innocence 
With  my  rash  doubts  ;  and  what  a  grievous  penance 
She  did  impose  upon  her  tender  sweetness, 
To  pluck  away  the  vulture  jealousy, 
That  fed  upon  my  liver;  you  cannot  blame  me, 
But  call  it  a  fit  just  ce  on'myself, 
Though  I  resolve  to  be  a  stranger  to 
The  thought  of  mirth  or  pleasure. 

Timag.  You  have  redeem'd 
The  forfeit  of  your  fault  with  such  a  ransom 
Of  honourable  action,  as  my  sister 
Must  of  necessity  confess  her  sufferings 

•  The  soldier  crowns  it  mth.]  This  is  a  m;ich  better  ' 
reading  than  the  sophistication  of  the  modern  editors,  the  ' 
toldiert  croa-n,  ic. 


Weigh'd  down  by  your  fair  merits  ;  and,  when  she 

views  you, 

Like  a  triumphant  conqueror,  carried  through 
The  streets  of  Syracusa,  the  glad  people 
Pressing  to  meet  you,  and  the  senators 
Contending  who  shall  heap  most  honou'S  on  you  ; 
The  oxen,  crown'd  with  garlands,  led  before  vou, 
Appointed  for  the  sacrifice ;  and  the  altars 
Smoking  with  thankful  incense  to  the  gods  : 
The  soldiers  chanting  loud  hymns  to  your  praise, 
The  windows  fill'd  with  matrons  and  with  virgins, 
Throwing  upon  your  head  as  you  puss  by, 
The  choicest  flowers,  and  silently  invoking 
The  queen  of  love,  with  their  particular  vows, 
To  be  thought  worthy  of  you  ;  can  Cleora 
(Though,  in  the  glass  of  self-love,  she  behold 
Her  best  deserts)  but  with  all  joy  acknowledge, 
\\  hat  she  endured  was  but  a  noble  trial 
You  made  of  her  affection  ?  and  her  anger, 
Rising  from  your  too  amorous  cares*,  soon  drench 'd 
In  Lethe,  and  forgotten. 

Least.  If  those  glories 

You  so  set  forth  were  mine,  they  might  plead  for  me ; 
But  I  cmi  lay  no  claim  to  the  least  honour 
Which  you,  with  foul  injustice,  lavish  from  her 
Her  beauty  in  me  wrought  a  miracle. 
Taught  me  to  aim  at  things  beyond  my  power, 
Which  her  perfections  purchased,  and  gave  to  me 
From  her  free  bounties  ;  she  inspired  me  with 
That  valour  which  1  dare  not  call  mine  own ; 
And,  from  the  fair  reflexion  of  her  mind. 
My  soul  received  the  sparkling  beams  of  courage. 
She,  from  the  magazine  of  her  proper  goodness, 
Stock'd  me  with  virtuous  purposes;  sent  me  furth 
To  trade  for  honour ;  and,  she  being  the  owner 
Of  tlie  bark  of  my  adventures,  I  must  yield  her 
A  just  account  of  all,  as  fits  a  factor. 
And,  howsoever  others  think  me  happy, 
And  cry  aloud,  I  have  made  a  prosperous  voyage. 
One  frown  of  her  dislike  at  my  return. 
Which,  as  a  punishment  for  my  fault,  1  look  for 
Strikes  dead  all  comfort. 

Timag.  Tush  !  these  fears  are  needless  ; 
She  cani.ot,  must  not,  shall  not,  be  so  truel. 
A  free  confession  of  a  fault  wins  pardon, 
But,  being  seconded  by  desert,  commands  it. 
The  general  is  your  own,  and,  sure,  my  father 
Repents  his  harshness  ;  for  myself,  1  am 
Ever  your  creature. — One  day  shall  be  happy 
In  your  triumph,  and  your  marriage. 

Least.  May  it  prove  so, 
With  her  consent  and  pardon. 

Timag.  Ever  touching 

On  that  harsh  string!  She  is  your  own,  and  you 
Without  disturbance  seize  on  what's  your  due. 

[Exeunt. 

•  Ristng  from  your  too  amorous  cares.]  The  old  copiei 
read  earet,  which  seems  merely  an  error  of  Ilie  press,  for 
cares.  Coxfti-r,  however,  printed  it  ears,  which,  being 
without  any  mc.ining,  was  corrected  at  random  by  Mr.  M. 
M.tson  into  ftars.  The  correction  was  nut  ami??;  but  the 
£enuiiie  word  is  undoubtedly  that  which  I  hare  ijiven. 


108 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[Acr  IV. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — Syracuse.    A  Room  in  \rcbidamus's 

House. 
Enter  PISAXDER  and  TIHANDRA. 

Pisan.  She  has  her  health,  then  ? 

Timand.  Yes,  sir  ;  and  as  often 
As  1  speak  of  you,  lends  attentive  ear 
To  all  that  1  deliver ;  nor  seems  tired, 
Though  I  dwell  long  on  the  relation  of 
Your  sufferings  for  her,  heaping  praise  on  praise 
On  your  unequall'd  temperance,  and  command 
You  hold  o'er  your  affections. 

Pisan.  To  my  wish  : 

Have  you  acquainted  her  with  the  defeature* 
Of  the  Carthaginians,  and  with  what  honours 
Leosthenes  comes  crown'd  home  with  ? 

Timand.  With  all  care. 

Pisan.  And  how  does  she  receive  it? 

Timand.  As  I  guess, 

With  a  seeming  kind  of  joy  ;  but  yet  appears  not 
Transported,  or  proud  of  his  happy  fortune. 
But  when  I  tell  her  of  the  certain  ruin 
You  must  encounter  with  at  their  arrival 
In  Syracusa,  and  that  death,  with  torments, 
Must  fall  upon  you,  which  you  yet  repent  not, 
Ksteeming  it  a  glorious  martyrdom, 
And  a  reward  of  pure  unspotted  love, 
Preserved  in  the  white  robe  of  innocence, 
Though  she  were  in  your  power ;  and,  still  spurr'd  on 
By  insolent  lust,  you  rather  chose  to  suffer 
TLe  fruit  untasted,  for  whose  glad  possession 
You  have  call'd  on  the  fury  of  your  lord, 
Than  that  she  should  be  grieved,  or  tainted  in 
Her  reputation 

Pisan.  Doth  it  work  compunction? 
Pities  she  my  misfortune? 

Timand.  She  express'd 

All  signs  of  sorrow  which,  her  vow  observed, 
Could  witness  a  grieved  heart.     At  the  first  hearing, 
She  fell  upon  her  face,  rent  her  fair  hair, 
Her  bands  held  up  to  heaven,  and  vented  sighs, 
In  which  she  silently  seem'd  to  complain 
Of  heaven's  injustice. 

Pisan.  'Tis  enough  :  wait  carefully, 
And,  on  all  watch'd  occasions,  continue 
Speech  and  discourse  of  me :  'tis  time  must  work  her. 

Timand.  I'll  not  be  wanting,   but   still  strive  to 
serve  you.  [Exit. 

Enter  POM  PH  RON. 

Pisan.  Now,  Poliphron,  the  news  ! 

Poliph.  The  conquering  army 
Is  within  ken. 

Pisan.  How  brook  the  slaves  the  object? 

Poliph.  Cheerfully  yet ;  they  do  refuse  no  labour, 

•  Have  you  acquainted  her  with  the  defeature]  The  mo- 
dern editors  removed  this  word  in  favour  of  defeat,  and, 
doubtless,  applauded  their  labour;  it  happens,  however,  as 
in  most  cases  where  they  have  interposed,  that  they  might 
have  spared  it  altogether :  for  the  words  are  the  fame,  and 
died  indiscriminately  by  our  old  writers :  "  Dcsfaicte," 
says  Cotgrave,  "  a  defeat,  or  defeature  ;"  and,  in  the  strond 
part  of  his  dictionary,  he  verbally  repeats  (he  explanation. 
There  is  much  strange  conjecture  on  tl.is  won),  in  the  last 
act  of  The  Comedy  of  Error* :  I  wonder  that  none  of  the 
commentators  should  light  upon  its  meaning; — but  it  was 
too  limplc  for  their  apprehension. 


And  seem  to  scoff  at  danger  ;  'tis  your  presence 

That  must  confirm  them  :  with  a  full  consent 

You  are  chosen  to  relate  ihe  tyranny 

Of  our  proud  masters;  and  what  you  subscribe  to, 

They  gladly  will  allow  of,  or  hold  out 

To  the  last  man. 

Pisan.  I'll  instantly  among  them. 
If  we  prove  constant  to  ourselves,  good  fortune 
Will  not,  I  hope,  forsake  us. 

Poliph.  'Tis  our  best  refuge.  [Ereiml 

SCENE  II.— Before  the  walls  of  Syracuse. 

Enter  TIMOLEOM,  AncniDAMus,  DIPIIII.US,  LEOSTIIENES, 
TIMAGGRAS  and  soldiers. 

Timol.  Thus  far  we  are  returr'd  victorious;  crown'd 
With  wreaths  triumphant,  (famine,  blood,  and  death, 
Banish'd  your  peaceful  confines,)  and  bring  home 
Security  and  peace.     'Tis  therefore  fit 
That  such  as  boldly  stood  the  shock  of  war, 
And  with  the  dear  expense  of  sweat  and  blood 
Have  purchased  honour,  should  with  pleasure  reap 
The  harvest  of  their  toil :  and  we  stand  bou:>d 
Out  of  the  first  file  of  the  best  deservers, 
(Though  all  must  be  consider'd  to  their  merits,) 
To  think  of  you,  Leosthenes,  that  stand, 
And  worthily,  most  dear  in  our  esteem, 
For  your  heroic  valour. 

Archid.  When  I  look  on 
The  labour  of  so  many  men  and  ages. 
This  well-built  city,  not  long  since  design'd 
To  spoil  and  rapine,  by  the  favour  of 
The  gods,  and  you,  their  ministers,  preserved, 
I  cannot,  in  my  height  of  joy,  but  offer 
These  tears  for  a  glad  sacrifice. 

Diph.  Sleep  the  citizens  ? 
Or  are  they  overwhelm 'd  with  the  excess 
Of  comfort  that  flows  to  them  ? 

l.t-ost.  We  receive 
A  silent  entertainment. 

Timag.  1  long  since 

Expected  that  the  virgins  and  the  matrons, 
The  old  men  striving  with  their  age,  the  priests, 
Carrying  the  images  of  their  gods  before  them, 
Should  have  met  us  with  procession. —Ha!  the  gates 
Are  shut  against  us! 

Archid.  And  upon  the  walls 
Arm'd  men  seem  to  defy  us  ! 

Enter  above,  on  the  Walls,  PISANDER,  POLIPHKON, 
CIMBHIO,  GRACCULO,  and  the  rest. 

Diph.  I  should  know 
These  faces  :  they  are  our  slaves. 

Timag.  The  mystery,  rascals ! 
Open  ti;e  ports,  and  play  not  with  an  anger 
That  will  consume  you. 

Timol.  1  his  is  above  wonder. 

Archid.  Our  bondmen  stand  against  us  ! 

Grac.  Some  such  things  [turn'd 

We  were  in  man's  remembrance.     The  slaves  are 
Lords  of  the  town,  or  so — nay,  be  not  angry  : 
Perhaps,  upon  good  terms,  giving  security 
You  will  be  quiet  men,  we  may  allow  you 
Some  lodgings  in  our  garrets  or  outhouse*: 
Your  great  looks  cannot  carry  it. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


Cimb.  The  truth  13, 

We've  been  bold  with  your  wives,  toy'd  with  your 
daughters 

Least.  O  my  prophetic  soul ! 

Grac.  Rifled  your  chests, 
Been  busy  whh  your  wardrobes. 

Timng.  Can  we  endure  tins? 

l.ea>t.  O  my  Cleora! 

Gruc.  A  caudle  for  the  gentleman  ; 
He'll  die  o'  the  pip  else. 

Timig.  Scorn 'd  too!  are  you  turn'd  stone? 
Hold  parley  with  our  bondmen  !  force  our  entrance, 
Then,  villains,  expect 

Timol.  Hold!  you  wear  men's  shapes, 
And  if,  like  men,  you  have  reason,  shew  a  cause 
That  leads  you  to  this  desperate  course,  which  must 
In  your  destruction.  [end 

Gruc.  That,  as  please  the  fates  ; 
But  we  vouchsafe Speak,  captain. 

Timig.  I  Ml  imd  furies! 

Archid.  Bay'd  bv  our  own  curs! 

Cimb.  Take  heed  you  be  not  worried. 

Poli/ih.  We  are  sharp  set. 

Cimh.  And  sudden. 

Pis'in.  Briefly  thus,  then, 
Since  I  must  speak  for  all ;  your  tyranny 
Drew  us  from  our  obedience.     Happv  those  times 
When  lords  were  styled  fathers  of  families, 
And  nat  impeiious  masters!  when  they  number'd 
Their  servants  alwiost  equal  with  their  sons, 
Or  one  degree  beneath  them  !  when  their  labours 
Were  cherish'd  and  rewarded,  and  a  period 
Set  to  their  sufferings;  when  they  did  not  press 
Their  duties  or  their  wills  beyond  the  power 
And  strength  of  their   performance!  all  things  or- 
With  such  decorum  as*  wise  lawmakers,          [der'd 
From  each  well-govern'd  private  house  derived 
The  perfect  model  of  a  commonwealth. 
Humanity  then  lodged  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  thankful  masters  carefully  provided 
For  creatures  wanting  reason.     The  noble  horse, 
That,  in  his  fiery  youth,  froir.  his  wide  nostrils 
Neigh 'd  courage  to  his  rider,  and  brake  through 
Groves  of  opposed  pikes,  bearing  his  lord 
Safe  to  triumphant  victory:  old  or  wounded, 
Was  set  at  liberty,  and  freed  from  service. 
The  Athenian  mules,  that  from  the  quarry  drew 
Marble,  hew'd  for  the  temples  of  the  gods, 
The  great  work  ended,  were  dismiss'd,  and  fed 
At  the  public  tost ;  nay,  faithful  dogs  have  found 
Their  sepulchres  ;  but  man,  to  man  more  cruel, 
Appoints  no  end  to  the  sufferings  of  his  slave ; 
Since  pride  stepp'd  in  and  riot,  and  o'erturn'd 
This  goodly  frame  of  concord,  teaching  masters 
To  glory  in  the  abuse  of  such  as  are 
Brought  under  their  command ;    who,    grown  un- 

useful, 
Are   less    esteem'd    than    beasts. — This    you  have 

practised, 

Practised  on  us  with  rigour ;  this  hath  forced  us 
To  shake  our  heavy  yokes  off;  and,  if  redress 
Of  these  just  grievances  be  not  granted  us, 
We'll  right  ourselves,  and  by  strong  hand  defend 
What  we  are  now  possess'd  of. 

Grac.  And  not  leave 
One  house  unfired. 


•   II  ith  such  decorum  as  wite  lair-maker*  ]    At,  in  this 
pass.ige,  IMS  the  force  of  thai.     M.  .MASON. 
Or  rather  there  is  au  ellii>:is  of  tliat,  as  usu.il. 


Cimb.  Or  throat  uncut  of  those 
We  have  in  our  power. 

Potiph.  Nor  will  we  fall  alone  ; 
You  shall  buy  us  dearly. 

Timag.  O  the  gods ! 
Unheard-of  insolence ! 

Timol.  What  are  your  demands? 

Pisan.  A  general  pardon*  first,  for  all  offences 
Committed  in  your  absence.     Liberty 
To  all  such  as  desire  to  make  return 
Into  their  countries  ;  and,  to  those  that  stay, 
A  competence  of  land  freely  allotted 
To  each  man's  proper  use,  no  lord  acknowledged  : 
Lastlv,  with  your  consent,  to  choose  them  wives 
Out  of  your  families. 

Timag.  Let  the  city  sink  first. 

Least.  And  ruin  seize  on  all,  ere  we  subscribe 
To  such  conditions. 

Archid.   Carthage,  though  victorious, 
Could  not  have  forced  more  from  us. 

Least.  Scale  the  walls  ; 
Capitulate  after. 

Timol.  He  that  wins  the  top  first, 
Shall  wear  a  mural  wreath.  [Exeunt. 

Pltan.  Each  to  his  place.      [  Flourish  and  alarms.} 

Or  death  or  victory  '    Charge  them  home,  and  fear 

not.  [Eaeunf  Pisunder  andSlacet. 

Re-enter  TIMOLEOV,  ARCHIDAMUS.  and  Senators. 

Timol.  We  wrong  ourselves,  and  we  are  justly 

punish'd, 

To  deal  with  bondmen,  as  if  we  encounter'd 
An  equal  enemy. 

Orchid.  They  fight  like  devils  ; 
And  run  upon  our  swords,  as  if  their  breasts 
Were  proof  beyond  their  armour. 

Re-enter  LEOSTHEXES  and  TIMAGORAS. 

Timag.  Make  a  firm  stand. 
The  slaves,  not  satisfied  they  have  beat  us  off, 
Prepare  to  sally  forth. 

Timol.  They  are  wild  beasts, 
And  to  be  tamed  by  policy.     Each  man  take 
A  tough  whip  in  his  hand,  such  as  you  used 
To  punish  them  with,  as  masters  :  in  your  looks 
Carry  severity  and  awe ;  'twill  fright  them 
More  than  your  weapons.     Savage  lions  fly  from  { 
The  sight  of  fire  ;  and  these,  that  have  forgot 
That  duty  you  ne'er  taught  them  with  your  swords 
When,  unexpected,  they  behold  those  terrors 
Advanced  aloft,  that  they  were  made  to  shake  *!, 
'  Twill  force  them  to  remember  what  they  are. 
And  stoop  to  due  obedience. 

Archid.  Here  they  come. 

Enter,  from  the  City,  CIMBRIO,  GRACCULO,  and  other 
Slaves. 

Cimb.  Leave  net  a  man  alive ;  a  wound's  but  a 
To  what  we  suffer'd,  being  slaves.  [flea-biting 

•  Pisan.  A  general  pardon^&c.]  It  is  evident,  trom  the 
unreasonable  nature  of  these  demands,  that  Pisander  does 
not  wish  them  to  be  accepted.  The  la.-t  article,  indeed,  has 
a  lefercnr.e  lo  himself,  bul  he  s  ems  desirous  of  previously 
trying  the  fortune  of  ami-.  See,  however,  the  next  scene, 
ami  his  defence,  in  the  last  act. 

>  {flourish  and  aliini-.j  Flourish  an<l  arm*,  jays  Mr.  M. 
Majon,  alter  Coveter.  5io  degree  of  nonsense  could  tempt 
him  to  consult  the  ol:l  copies. 

; Savage  lion*  fty  from,  &c.!  A  transient  passion 

for  ihe  anti.|iif  has  here  seized  (he  modem  editors  :  they 
print  salcaye  lions,  &c.  It  is  unluckily  a  little  mal-a-pro- 
pus,  for  the  old  copy  reads  as  I  have  giveu  it.  (Omitted  in 
Ed.  1813). 


lie 


THE  BONDMAN. 


fAcr  IV 


Crac.  O.  my  heart ! 
Cimbrio,  what  do  we  see?  the  whip !  our  masters*  ! 

Timug.   Dare  you  rebel,  slaves! 

-   [The  Senators  shake    their  irhips,  the  Slates 
throw  await  their  weapons,  and  run  off. 

Cimb.  Mercy  !  mercy  !  where 
Shall  we  liide  us  from  their  fury  ? 

Grac.   Fly,  they  follow; 
0,  we  shall  be  tormented  ! 

Timol.  Enter  with  them. 
But  yet  forbear  to  kill  them:  still  remember 
They  are  part  of  your  wealth ;  and  being  disarm'd, 
There  is  no  danger. 

Archid.  Let  us  first  deliver 
Such  as  thev  have  in  fetters,  and  at  leisure 
Determine  of  their  punishment. 

Leost.  Friend,  to  you 
I  leave  the  disposition  of  what's  mine  : 
I  cannot  think  I  am  safe  without  your  sister, 
She  is  only  worth  my  thought ;  and,  till  I  see 
What  she  has  suffer'd,  1  am  on  the  rack, 
And  furies  my  tormentors.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Syracuse.     A  Room  in  AKCHIDAMUS'S 
House. 

Enter  PISA^NDKR  and  TIMANDRA. 

Pisan.  I  know  I  am  pursued  ;  nor  would  I  fly, 
Although  the  port*  were  open,  and  a  convoy 
Ready  to  bring  me  off:  the  baseness  of 
These  villains,  from  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes, 
Hath  thrown  me  to  the  bottomless  abyss 
Of  horror  and  despair :  had  they  stood  firm, 
i  could  have  bought  Cleora's  free  consent 
With  the  safety  of  her  father's  life,  and  brother's; 
And  forced  Leosthenes  to  quit  his  claim, 
And  kneel  a  suitor  for  met- 

Timand.  You  must  not  think  [tised, 

What  might  have  been,  but  what  must  now  be  prac- 
And  suddenly  resolve. 

Pisan.  All  my  poor  fortunes 
Are  at  the  stake,  and  I  must  run  the  hazard. 
Unseen,  convey  me  to  Cleora's  chamber; 
For  in  her  sight,  if  it  were  possible, 
I  would  be  apprehended  :  do  not  enquire 
The  reason  why,  but  help  me. 

Timand.  Make  haste, — one  knocks.  [Exit  Pisander. 
Jove  turn  all  to  the  best ! 

Enter  LEOSTHENES. 

You  are  welcome,  sir. 
Leost.  Thou  giv'st  it  in  a  heavy  tone. 

•  Cimbrio,  what  do  we  tee  f  the  whip  !  our  matter* .']  "  O 
most  lame  and  impotent  conclusion  !"  Surely  Malinger 
was  not  so  strictly  bound  to  the  literal  relation  of  this 
foolish  adventure,  but  that  he  might  have  given  it  a  little 
probability,  if  it  were  only  to  maintain  the  decorum  of  his 
action,  and  the  interest  of  his  under-plot.  He  someiinies 
il.-vi.iifi  from  his  authorities  with  fewer  prospects  of  advan- 
tage than  were  here  opentd  to  him. 

t  And  kneel  a  tuitor  lor  me.]     This  is  the  reading  of  all 
the  olil  copies,  and  is  undoubtedly  genuine ;  yet  the  modern 
editors,  by   an  obliquity  of  reasoning  into  which  I  cannot 
enter,  choose  to  vary  (he  expression,  and  print, 
kneel  a  suitor  to  me  ! 

Is  it  not  evident  "  to  any  formal  capacity,"  that  Pisander 

means, It  m>  designs  hail  succeeded,  I  would   not  only 

have  compelled  Leosthenes  to  renounce  his  pietensions  to 
Cleora,  but  even  to  rnnr.it  her  father  and  brother  to  give 
her  to  me :  what  is  there  in  this  that  requires  alteration, 
especially  into  nonsense  t  lor  Leoslhenes  could  have  nothing 
to  ask  of  Pisander. 


Timand.  Alas  !  sir, 

We  have  so  long  fed  on  the  bread  of  sorrow, 
Drinking  the  bitter  water  of  afflictions, 
Maife  loathsome  too  by  our  continued  fears, 
Comfort's  a  stranger  to  us. 

Leost.  Fears!  your  sufferings*: — 
For  which  I  am  so  overgone  with  grief, 
I  dare  not  ask,  without  compassionate  tears, 
The  villain's  name  that  robb'd  thee  of  thy  honour* 
For  being  train'd  up  in  chastity's  cold  school, 
And  taught  by  such  a  mistress  as  Cleora, 
'Twere  impious  in  me  to  think  Timandra 
Fell  with  her  own  consent. 

Timand.  How  mean  you,  fell,  sir? 
I  understand  you  not. 

Leost.  1  would  thou  did'st  not, 
Or  that  I  could  not  read  upon  thy  face, 
In  blushing  characters,  the  story  of 
Libidinous  rape:  confess  it,  for  you  stand  not 
Accountable  for  a  sin,  against  whose  strength 
Your  o'ermatch'd  innocence  could  make  no  resist. 
Under  which  odds,  I  know,  Cleora  fell  too,      [ance. 
Heaven's  help  in  vain  invoked  ;  the  amazed  sun 
Hiding  his  face  behind  a  mask  of  clouds, 
Not  daring  to  look  on  it !   In  her  sufferings 
All  sorrows  comprehended  :  what  Timandra, 
Or  the  city,  lias  endured,  her  loss  consider'd, 
Deserves  not  to  be  named. 

Timand.  Pray  you  do  not  bring,  sir, 
In  the  chimeras  of  your  jealous  fears, 
New  monsters  to  affright  us. 

Leott.  O,  Timandra, 

That  J  had  faith  enough  but  to  believe  thee ! 
1  should  receive  it  with  a  joy  beyond 
Assurance  of  Elysian  shades  hereafter, 
Or  all  ihe  blessings,  in  this  life,  a  mother 
Could  wish  her  children  crown'd  with, — but  1  must 
Credit  impossibilities  ;  yet  I  strive  [not 

To  find  out  that  whose  knowledge  is  a  curse, 
And  ignorance  a  blessing.     Come,  discover 
What  kind  of  look  he  had  that  forced  thy  lady, 
(Thy  ravisher  I  will  enquire  at  leisure,) 
That  when,  hereafter,  1  behold  a  stranger 
But  near  him  in  aspect,  1  may  conclude, 
Though  men  and  angels  t>hould  proclaim  him  honest, 
He  is  a  hell-bred  villain. 

Timand.  You  are  unworthy 
To  know  she  is  preserved,  preserved  untainted 
Sorrow,  but  ill  bestow'd,  hath  only  made 
A  rape  upon  her  comforts  in  your  absence. 
Come  forth,  dear  madam.  [Leads  in  Cleora. 

.Least.  Ha !  [Kneels 

Timand.  Nay,  she  deserves 

The  bending  of  your  heart  ;  that,  to  content  you, 
Has  kept  a  vow,  the  breach  of  which  a  Vestal, 
Though  the  infringing  it  had  call'd  upon  her 
A  living  funeral, t  must  of  force  have  shrunk  at 
No  danger  could  compel  her  to  dispense  with 

•  Leost.  fears !  your  tuferingt : — ]  The  character  of 
Leosthenes  is  everywhere  preserved  with  great  nicety.  His 
jealous  disposition  breaks  out  in  this  scene  with  peculiar 
beauty. 

t  '1  hovyh  the  infringing  it  had  call  d  upon  her 
A  living  funeral,  &c.]  The  poet  alludes  to  the  manner  in 
which  the  Vestals,  who  had  broken  their  vow  of  chastity, 
were  punished.  They  had  literally  a  living  funeral,  being 
plunged  alive  into  a  subterraneous  cavern,  ot  which  the 
opening  wan  immediately  closed  upnii  them,  and  walled  up. 
The  confusion  of  countries  and  of  customs  may  possibly 
strike  the  critical  rentier  :  but  of  this,  as  1  h.ive  already  ob 
served,  our  old  dramatists  wire  not  aware  or  solicitous. 


SCENE  111.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


Ill 


Her  cruel  penance,  though  hot  lust  came  arm'd 
To  seize  upon  her;  \vhen  one  look  or  nccent 
IMisriit  have  redeem'd  her. 

lent,     Might !   O  do  not  shew  mp 
A  beam  of  comfort,  and  straight  take  it  from  me. 
The  means  bv  which  she  was  freed  ?  speak,  O  speak 

quicklv; 
Each  minute  of  delay's  an  age  of  torment ; 

0  speak,  I  imandra. 

Tuiiattd.   Free  her  from  her  oath  ; 
Herself  can  best  deliver  it. 

Leint.  O  blest  office  !  [Unhhtdsher  eyes. 

Never  did  galley-slave  slv.ike  off  his  chair.s, 
Or  look'd  on  his  redemption  from  the  oar, 
With  such  true  feeling  of  delight  as  now 

1  find  my  sell'  possessed  of. — Now  I  behold 
True  light  indeed  ;  for,  since  these  fairest  stars, 
Co'.-er'd  with  clouds  of  your  determinate  will, 
Denied  their  influence  to  mv  optic  sense, 

The  splendour  of  the  sun  appenr'd  to  me 

But  as  some  little  glimpse  of  his  bright  beams 

Convey'd  into  a  dungeon,  to  remember 

The  dark  inhabitants  there,  how  much  they  wanted*. 

Open  these  long-shut  lips,  and  strike  mine  ears 

With  music  more  harmonious  thai'  the  spheres 

Yield  in  their  heavenly  motions  :  and  if  ever 

A  true  submission  for  a  crime  acknowledged, 

May  find  a  gracious  hearing,  teach  your  tongue, 

In  the  first  sweet  articulate  sounds  it  utters, 

To  sign  my  wish'd-for  pardon. 

Cleo.  I  forgive  you. 

Least.  H.JW  greedily  I  receive  this  !  Stay,  best  lady, 
And  let  me  by  degrees  ascend  the  height 
Of  human  happiness!  all  at  once  deliver'd, 
The  torrent  of  mv  joys  will  overwhelm  me  : — 
So  now  a  little  more  ;  and  prav  excuse  me, 
If,  like  a  wanton  epicure,  I  desire 
The  pleasant  taste  these  cates  of  comfort  yield  me, 
Should  not  too  soon  be  swallow'd.     Have  you  not, 
By  your  unspotted  truth  I  do  conjure  you 
To  answer  truly,  suiter "d  in  your  honour, 
By  force.  I  mean,  for  in  your  will  I  free  you, 
Since  I  left  Syracusa? 

Cleo.  I  restore 

This  kiss,  so  help  me  goodness !  which  I  borrow 'd, 
Wh«n  1  last  saw  you  f. 

Lfoit.  Miracle  of  virtue  ! 
One  pause  more,  I  beseech  you  ;  I  am  like 
A  man  whose  vital  spirits  consumed  and  wasted 
With  a  long  and  tedious  fever,  unto  whom 
Too  much  of  a  strong  cordial,  at  once  taken, 
Brings  death,  and  not  restores  him.     Yet  I  cannot 
Fix  here  ;  but  must  enquire  the  man  to  whom 
I  stand  indebted  for  a  benefit, 
Which  to  requite  at  full,  though  in  this  hand 
I  grasp  all  sceptres  the  world's  empire  bows  to, 


• to  remember 

The  dark  inhabitant*  there,  hmo   much    they   wanted.} 
In  this  most  beautiful  passage,  remember   is  u.-ed   lor  cause 
to  remember,  in  which  sense  it  ireqneiitly  occurs  in  our  old 
writers.     So  Bi-aumonl  and  Fletcher: 
"  f'roc.  Do  you  remember 
Her  to  come  after  yon,  that  she  may  behold 
Her  daughter's  charity." — The  Sea  f  oyaye. 
t  Cleo.  /  restore 

Thi-i  /.»*.»,  so  help  me  goodness!  which  I  borroiv'd, 
ll'!tf>7i  /  last  taw  you-}    This  is  a  modest  and  a  pretty 
imitation  01   SiMk^'i.ii e  : 

"  Now,  liy  tlie  jealom  queen  of  lieavt-n,  that  kiss 
I  carried  iroin  thce,  dear;  and  my  true  lip 
Hath  MI  tin'ii  it  e'er  since." — C'oriolaniu. 


Would  leave  me  a  poor  bankrupt.     Name  him  lady ; 

If  of  a  mean  estate,  I'll  gladly  part  with 

My  utmost  fortunes  to  him  ;  but  if  noble, 

In  thankful  duty  study  how  to  serve  him ; 

Or  if  of  higher  rank,  erect  him  altars, 

And  as  a  god  adore  him. 

Cleo.  If  that  goodness, 

And  noble  temperance,  the  queen  of  virtues, 
Bridling  rebellious  passions,  to  whose  sway- 
Such  as  have  conquer 'd  nations  have  lived  slaves, 
Did  ever  wing  great  minds  to  fiv  to  heaven, 
He  that  preserved  mine  honour,  may  hope  boldly 
To  fill  a  seat  among  the  gods,  and  shake  off 
Our  frail  corruption. 

Least.  Forward. 

Cleo.  Or  if  ever 

The  powers  above  did  mask  in  humsn  shapes 
To  teach  mortality,  not  by  cold  precepts 
Forgot  as  soon  as  told,  but  bv  examples, 
To  imitate  their  pureness,  and  draw  near 
To  their  celestial  natures,  I  believe 
He's  more  than  man. 

Leoit.  You  do  describe  a  wonder. 

Cleo.  Which  will  increase,  when  you  shall  under- 
lie was  a  lover.  [stand 

Lecst.  Not  vours,  lady  ? 

Cleo.  Yes;' 

Loved  me,  Leosthenes  ;  nay  more,  so  doted, 
(If  e'er  affections  scorning  gross  desires 
May  without  wrong  be  styled  so,)  that  he  durst  not 
With  an  immodest  syllable  or  look, 
In  fear  it  might  take  from  me,  whom  he  made 
The  object  of  his  better  part,  discover 
I  was  the  saint  he  sued  to. 

Least.  A  rare  temper*  ! 

Cleo.  I  cannot  speak  it  to  the  worth  :  all  praise 
I  can  bestow  upon  it  will  appear 
Envious  detraction.     Not  to  rack  you  further, 
Yet  make  the  miracle  full,  though,  of  all  men, 
He  hated  you,  Leosthenes,  as  his  rival ; 
So  high  yet  he  prized  my  content,  that,  knowing 
You  were  a  man  I  favour'd,  he  disdain 'd  not, 
Against  himself,  to  serve  you. 

Leost.   You  conceal  still 
The  owner  of  these  excellencies. 

Cleo.  'Tis  Marullo, 
My  father's  bondman. 

Leost.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Cleo.  Why  do  you  laugh?  [praise 

Leost.  To  hear  the  labouring  mountain   of  your 
Deliver'd  of  a  mouse. 

Cleo.  The  man  deserves  not 
This  scorn  I  can  assure  you. 

Leost.  Do  you  call 
What  was  his  duty,  merit? 

Cleo.  Yes,  and  place  it 
As  high  in  my  esteem,  as  ail  the  honours 
Descended  from  your  ancestors,  or  the  glory. 
Which  you  may  call  your  own,  got  in  this  action, 
In  which,  I  must  confess,  you  have  done  nobly; 
And  I  could  add,  as  I  desired,  but  that 
I  fear  'twould  make  you  proud. 

Leost.   Why,  lady,  can  you 
Be  won  to  give  allowance,  that  your  slave 
Should  dare  to  love  you  ? 

Cleo.  The  immortal  gods 


•  A  ran?  temper  I]  The  old  copies  read  tempter:  corrected 
by  Mr.  M.  Mason. 


112 


THE  BONDMAN. 


FAcrrlV 


[Aside. 


Accept  the  mennest  altars*,  that  are  raised 
Bv  pure  devotions  ;  and  sometimes  prefer 
An  ounce  of  frankincense,  honey  or  milk, 
'Wore  whole  hecatombs,  or  Sabrean  gums, 
Otl'-jr'd  in  ostentation. — Are  you  sick 
Of  your  old  disease?  I'll  fit  you. 

Leost.  You  seem  moved. 

Cleo.  Zealous,  I  grant,  in  the  defence  of  virtue. 
Why,  good  Leosthenes,  though  I  endured 
A  penance  for  your  sake,  above  example  ; 
I  have  not  so  far  sold  myself,  1  take  it, 
To  be  at  your  devotion,  but  I  may 
Cherish  desert  in  others,  where  I  find  it. 
How  would  you  tyrannize,  if  you  stood  possess'd  of 
That  which  is  only  yours  in  expectation, 
That  now  prescribe  such  hard  conditions  to  me? 

Leost.  One  kiss,  and  I  am  silenced. 

Cleo.  I  vouchsafe  it ; 
Yet,  I  must  tell  you  'tis  a  favour  that 
Marullo.  when  1  was  his,  not  mine  own, 
Durst  not  presume  to  ask  :  no  :  when  the  city 
Bow'd  humbly  to  licentious  rapes  and  lust, 
And  when  1  was,  of  men  and  gods  forsaken, 
Deliver'd  to  his  power,  he  did  not  press  me 
To  grace  him  with  one  look  or  syllable, 
Or  urged  the  dispensation  of  an  oath 
Made  for  your  satisfaction  : — the  poor  wretch, 
Having  related  only  his  own  sufferings, 
And  kiss'd  my  hand,  which  1  could  not  deny  him, 
Defending  me  from  others,  never  since 
Solicited  my  favours. 

Leost.  Pray  you,  end  ; 
The  story  does  not  please  me. 

Cleo.  Well,  take  heed 

Of  doubts  and  fears  ; — for  know,  Leosthenes, 
A  greater  injury  cannot  be  offer'd 
To  innocent  chastity,  than  unjust  suspicion. 
I  love  Marullo's  fair  mind,  not  his  person; 
Let  that  secure  you.     And  1  here  command  you, 
If  I  have  any  power  in  you,  to  stand 
Between  him  and  all  punisht^-*,  and  oppose 
His  temperance  to  his  folly;  if  you  fail- 
No  more;  I  will  not  threaten. 

Least.  What  a  bridge 
'Of  glass  I  walk  upon,  over  a  river 
Of  certain  ruin,  mine  own  weighty  fears 
Cracking  what  should  support  me  !  and  those  helps, 
Which  confidence  lends  to  others,  are  from  me 
Ravish 'd  by  doubts,  and  wilful  jealousy.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— Another  Poom  in  the  Same. 
Enter  TIMAGOUAS,  CLEON,  ASOTVS,  CORISCA,  and 

OLMIPIA. 
Clean.  But  are  you  sure  we  are  safe? 

•  Cleo.  The  immortal  god* 

Accept  the  meanent  altars,  &c.]    Milton's  invocation   on 
the  opening  of  Paradise  Lost,  is  not  unlike  this. 

"  And  chiefly  lluni,  O  fpirit,"  &c  —  COXETF.R 
I  cannot  discover  nm.-h   lUrurst   in    t|,e   two   quotations  • 
the  author  had  Horace  in  hit  Ibciaglia  : 
Jmmunit  aram  it  tvtiyit  mamtt, 
Non  nimptuoxa  tilandior  hottia 
Jllo/lirit  avrrsos  penatri 
Farre  pio,  salirnte  mica. 

A  beautiful  pHcsaiie,  which  ihe  critics,  with  Dacier  and  Sana- 
don  at  their  head,  strangely  maintain  to  be  ironical.  I 
believe  that  Horace  was  perfectly  ginn-ie.  The  lessons  of 
piety  are  so  consonant  to  hiini.ui  feelings  that  vrry  fre- 
quently those  who  do  not  experience  their  lull  influence 
themselves,  earnestly  and  honestly  labour  to  impress  them 
npo'j  others 


[Exit. 


Timag.  You  need  not  fear ; 
They  are  all  under  guard,  their  fangs  pared  off: 
The  wounds  their  insolence  gave  you,  to  be  cured 
With  the  balm  of  your  revenge. 

Asot.  And  shall  1  be 
Th«  thing  I  was  born,  my  lord  ? 

Timiig.  'I  he  same  wise  thing.  [neve? 

'Slight,  what  a  beast  they  have  made  thee  !    A  trie 
Produced  the  like. 

Asot.  I  think  so  : — nor  the  land  [walnuts, 

Where   apes   and    monkeys  grow,   like    crabs    and 
On  the  same  tree.     Not  all  the  catalocue 
Of  conjurers  or  wise  women  bound  together 
Could  have  so  soon  tran»form'd  me,  as  my  rascal 
Did  with  his  whip  ;  for  not  in  outside  only. 
But  in  my  own  belief,  I  thought  myself 
As  perfect  a  baboon 

Timug.  An  ass  thou  we-rt  ever.  [heart 

Asot.  And  would  have  given  one  leg,  with  all  my 
For  good  security  to  have  b>aen  a  man 
After  three  lives,  or  one  and  twenty  years, 
Though  1  had  died  on  crutches. 

Clean.  Never  varlets 
So  triumph 'd  o'er  an  old  fat  man  :  I  was  famish 'd. 

Timag.  Indeed  you  are  fallen  away. 

Asot.  Three  years  of  feeding 
On  cullises  nnd  jelly,  though  his  cooks 
Lard  all  he  eats  with  marrow,  or  his  doctors 
Pour  in  his  mouth  restoratives  as  he  sleeps, 
Will  not  recover  him. 

Timag.  But  your  ladyship  looks 
Sad  on  the  matter,  as  if  you  had  miss'd 
Your  ten-crown  amber  possets,  good  to  smooth 
The  cutis,  as  you  call  it,  and  prepare  you, 
Active  and  high,  for  an  afternoon's  encounter 
With  a  rough  gamester,  on  your  couch.    Fie  on't ! 
You  are  grown  thrifty,  smell  like  other  women; 
The  college  of  physicians  have  not  sat, 
As  they  were  used,  in  council,  how  to  fill 
The  crannies  in  your  cheeks,  or  raise  a  rampire 
With  mummy,  ceruses,  or  infants'  fat, 
To  keep  off  age  and  time. 

Com.  Pray  you,  forbear ; 
I  am  an  alter'd  woman. 

Timag.  So  it  sei  ms  ; 
A  part  of  your  honour's  ruff  stands  out  of  rank  too 

Cot-it.  So  matter,  1  have  other  thoughts. 

Timag.  O  strange  ! 

Not  leu  dnys  since  it  would  have  vex'd  you  more 
Than  the  loss  of  your  good  name  :  pity,  this  cure 
For    your    prcud    itch    came   no    sooner!    Marry 
Seems  to  bear  up  still.  [Olympif 

Oliim]>.  1  complain  not,  sir ; 
I  have  borne  my  fortune  patiently. 

Timug.  Thou  wert  ever 
An  excellent  hearer  ;  so  is  all  your  tribe, 
If  you  may  choose  your  carriage. 

Enter  LEOSTIIKNES  and  Dn'iui.us  with  a  Guard, 

How  now,  friend. 
Looks  our  Cleora  lovely  ? 

I  east.  In  my  thoughts,  sir. 

Timag.  But  why  this  gunrd  ? 

Diph.  It  is  Timoleon's  pleasure  ; 
The  slaves  have  been  examin'd,  and  confess 
Their  riot  took  beginning  from  your  house ; 
And  the  first  mover  of  them  t0  rebellion 
Your  slave  INh.rullo.  [Eieunt  Diph.  and  fiuarcL 

Least.   Ha  !   I  more  than  tear. 

Timag.  They  may  search  boldly. 


SCEXE  I.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


Enter  TIMANDP.A,  speaking  to  the  Guard  within. 

Timand.  You  are  uninanner'd  grooms 
To  pry  into  my  lady's  private  lodgings; 
There's  no  Marullos  there. 

Re-enter  DiruiLvs,  and  Guard  with  PISANDER. 

Timag.  Now  I  suspect  too : 
Where  found  you  him  ? 

Diph.  Close  hid  in  your  sister's  chamber. 

Timag.  Is  that  the  villain's  sanctuary '} 

Least.  This  confirms 
All  she  deliver'd,  false. 

Timag.  But  that  1  scorn 

To  rust  my  good  sword*  in  thy  slavish  Wood, 
Thou  now  wert  dead. 

Pisan.  He's  more  a  slave  than  fortune 
Or  misery  can  make  me,  that  insults 
Upon  unweapon'd  innocence. 

Timag.  Prate  you,  dog- ! 

Pisan.  Curs  snap  at  lions  in  the  toil,  whose  looks 
Friuhted  them,  being  free. 

Timag.  As  a  wild  beast, 


Drive  him  before  you. 

Pisan.  O  itivine  Cleora  ! 

Least.   I  'ar'st  thou  presume  to  name  her? 

Pisan.  Yes,  and  love  her  ; 
And  may  say,  have  deserved  her. 

Timag.  Stop  his  mouth, 
Load  him  with  irons  too. 

[Eail  Guard  with  Pitan<ler. 

Clean.  I  am  deadly  sick 
To  look  on  him. 

Asot.  If  he  get  loose,  I  know  it, 
I  cnjier  like  an  ape  again  :  1  feel 
The  whip  already. 

Timmid.  This  goes  to  my  lady.  [En'j. 

Timag.  Come,  cheer  you,  sir ;  we'll  urge  his  pun- 
ishment 
To  the  full  satisfaction  of  your  anger. 

Leiist.  He  is  not  worth  my  thoughts.     No  corner 

left 

In  all  the  spacious  rooms  of  my  vex'd  heart, 
lint  is  fill'd  with  Cleora,  and  the  lape 
She  has  done  upon  her  honour,  with  my  wrong, 
The  heavy  burthen  of  my  sorrow's  song.      [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — Tht  tame.     A  Room  in  AHCHIDAMVS'S 

House. 
Enter  AHCHIDAMUS  and  CLEORA. 

Archid.  Thou  art  thine  own  disposer.     Were  his 

honours 

And  glories  centupled,  as  I  must  confess, 
Leosthenes  is  most  worthy,  yet  1  will  not, 
However  1  may  counsel,  force  affection. 

Cteo.  It  needs  not,  sir ;  I  prize  him  to  his  worth, 
Nay,  love  him  truly  ;  yet  would  not  live  slaved 
To  his  jealous  humours :    since,  by  the   hopes  of 

heaven, 

As  I  am  free  from  violence,  in  a  thought 
I  am  not  guilty. 

Arch  id.  Ti.s  believ'd,  Cleora  ;  for't ! 

And  much   the  rather,  our  great  gods  be  praised 
In  that  I  find,  beyond  my  hopes,  no  sign 
Of  riot  in  my  house,  but  all  things  ordered, 
As  if  1  hnd  been  present. 

Cleo.  May  that  move  you 
To  pity  poor  Marullo? 

Archid.  '  I  is  my  purpose 
To  do  dim  all  the  good  1  can,  Cleora ; 
But  this  offence  being  against  the  state, 
Must  have  a  public  trial.     In  the  mean  time, 
Be  careful  of  yourself,  and  stand  engaged 
No  further  to  Leosthenes,  than  you  may 
Come  off  with  honour;  for,  being  once  his  wife, 
You  are  no  more  your  own,  nor  mine,  but  must 
llesolve  to  serve,  and  suffer  his  commands, 
And  not  dispute  them  : — ere  it  be  too  late, 
Consider  it  duly.     1  must  to  the  senate.  [Eiif. 

Cleo.  I  am  much  distracted  :  in  Leosthenes 
I  can  find  nothing  justly  to  accuse, 

•  To  nut  wy  good  ttcord,  &c.l  Good,  which  completes 
th*  metre,  is  <mly  found  in  the  fust  quarto:  llie  modern 
editors  fo  low  the  second,  ulik-h  abounds  ill  sin.il.tr  onus- 
tiuiu,  almost  beyond  credibility. 


But  his  excess  of  love,  which  I  have  studied 

To  cure  with  more  than  common  means  ;  yet  still 

It  grows  U|.on  him.     And,  if  1  may  call 

My  sufferings  merit*,  1  stand  bound  to  think  on 

Marullo's  dangers;  though  I  save  his  life, 

His  love  is  unrewarded  : — I  confess, 

Both  have  deserved  me.  yet  of  force  must  be 

Unjust  to  one  ;  such  is  my  destiny. 

Enter  TIMANDRA. 
How  now  !  whence  flow  these  tears  ? 

Timand.  I  have  met,  madam, 
An  object  of  sucli  cruelty,  as  would  force 
A  savage  to  compassion. 

Cleo.  Speak,  what  is  it  1 

Timand.  .Men  pity  beasts  of  rapine,  if  o'ermatch'd. 
Though  baited  for  their  pleasure  ;  but  these  mons- 
I'pon  a  man  that  can  make  no  resistance,          [ters, 
Are  senseless  in  their  tyranny-     Let  it  be  granted, 
Marullo  is  a  slave,  he's  still  a  man  ; 
A  capital  offender,  yet  in  justice 
Not  to  be  tortured,  till  the  judge  pronounce 
His  punishment. 

Cleo.  \Vhereishe? 

Timand.  Dragg'd  to  prison  [spit  on 

With  more  than   barbarous  violence  ;    spurn  YL  and 
By  the  insulting  officers,  his  hands 
Pinion 'd  behind  his  back  ;  leaden  with  fetters  : 
Yet,  with  a  saint-like  patience,  he  still  offers  , 
His  face  to  their  rude  buffets. 

Clea.  O  my  grieved  soul  ! 
By  whose  command  ? 

•  Mv  sufferings  merit.]  So  it  stood  in  every  edition  pie- 
vions  To  lh,,t  of  Mr.  M.  Mason,  »ho  reads,  his  tufferiny* 
tni-rit.  It  is  evident  that  lie  mi.-look  llic  sense  oi  the  pas- 
sage. Three  line*  bel..\v,  lie  leads,  after  CoWtW,  indeed, 
ytt  of  farce  \  mvxt  I.e.-—  the  proiioup,  uhicri  Hestrnyi  both 
Ihe-iiie.iMire  and  the  rh.wue,  is  n«,t  in  the  old  copies:  but 
these  are  nul  the  oi.lj"  errors  in  this  shoit  speecn,  which 
disgrace  tile  modern  editions. 


It* 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[ACT  V 


Timand.  It  seems,  my  lord  your  brother's, 
For  he's  a  looker-on  :  and  it  takes  from 
Honour'd  Leosthenes,  to  suffer  it, 
For  his  respect  to  you,  whose  name  in  vain 
The  grieved  wretch  loudly  calls  on. 

Cleo.  By  Diana, 

'Tis  base  in  both ;  and  to  their  teeth  I'll  tell  them 
That  I  am  wrong'd  in't.  \_Goingfmlh. 

Timand,  What  will  you  do  ? 

Cleo.  In  person 
Visit  and  comfort  him. 

Timand.   That  will  bring  fuel 
To  the  jealous  fires  which  burn  too  hot  already 
In  lord  Leosthenes. 

Cleo.  Let  them  consume  him  ! 
I  am  mistress  of  myself.     Where  cruelty  reigns, 
There  dwells  nor  love,  nor  honour.  [Exit. 

Timand.  So  !  it  works. 

Though  hitherto  I  have  run  a  desperate  course 
To  serve  my  brother's  purposes  :  now  'tis  fit 

Enter  LEOSTHENES  and  TIMAGORAS. 

I  study  mine  own  ends.    They  come :  assist  me 
In  these  my  undertakings,  Love's  great  patron, 
As  my  intents  are  honest ! 

Least.  'Tis  my  fault*  : 
Distrust  of  others  springs,  Timagoras, 
From  diffidence  in  ourselves :  but  I  will  strive, 
With  the  assurance  of  my  worth  and  merits, 
To  kill  this  monster,  jealousy. 

Tinvig.  'Tis  a  guest, 
In  wisdom,  never  to  be  entertain'd 
On  trivial  probabilities  ;  but,  when 
He  does  appear  in  pregnant  proofs,  not  fashion'd 
By  idle  doubts  and  fears,  to  be  received : 
Tiiey  make  their  own  horns  that  are  too  secure, 
As  well  as  such  as  give  them  growth  and  being 
From  mere  imagination.     Though  1  prize 
Cleora's  honour  equal  with  mine  own, 
And  know  what  li.rge  additions  of  power 
This  match  brings  to  our  family,  I  prefer 
Our  friendship,  and  your  peace  of  mind,  so  far 
Above  my  own  respects,  or  hers,  that  if 
She  hold  not  her  true  value  in  the  test, 
'Tis  far  from  my  ambition,  for  her  cure 
That  you  should  wound  yourself. 

Timand.  This  argues  for  me. 


•  Leost.     'Tit  my  fault: 

Diitrutt  of  others  ipringt,  Timagoras, 

From  diffidence  in  ournelvet :}  My  fault,  i.  e.  my  mis- 
fortune, lliat  the  word  anciently  ha.l  this  iiieanin«,  1  could 
prove  by  many  examples;  one,  however,  will  be  thou  ht 
sufficiently  deci-ive  : 

"Bawd.  Yon  are  lit  into  my  hands,  where  yon  are  like 
to  live. 

Marina.  The  more  my  fault, 
To  'scape  liis  hands,  where  I  was  like  to  die." 

Pericles,  Act.  IV.  ic.  iii. 

This  too  will  ascertain,  beyond  a  donbi,  the  meanine  of 
Shallow,  which  Steevens  evidently  mistook  and  Mr  'Ma- 
lone  delivered  wilh  some  degiee  of  hesitation: 

"  titen.  How  does  your  fallow  greyhound,  sir  ?  I  heard 
fay,  he  was  out-run  on  Cotsale. 

Page.  It  could  not  be  judg'd,  sir. 

Xtrn.  You'll  not  confrfg,  you'll  not  confess. 

S'fial.  That  he  will  not ;— 'tis  yo»r fault,  'tis  yvur  fault  •— 
Tis  a  good  d.)g." 

c 


Poor  Slender  is  one  of  Job's  comforters,  as  they  i>ay  •  he 
'rsists  in  reminding  Pas;e,  who  evidently  dislike's  t||H  'Sl,|,_ 
ject,  of  his  defeat:  hence  tlic  good-natured  consul,) t ion  of 
Shallow:  "  He  needs  not  confess  it,  cousin; — you  were  un- 
fortun  ite,  sir;  your  loss  must  be  attributed  to  accident  lor 
your  dog  it  a  good  dog." 


Timag.  Why  she  should  he  so  passionate  for  a 

bondman, 

Falls  not  in  compass  of  my  understanding, 
But  for  some  nearer  interest :  or  he  ruise 
This  mutiny,  if  he  loved  her,  as,  you  sav, 
She  does  confess  he  did,  but  to  enjoy, 
By  fair  or  foul  play,  what  he  ventured  for, 
To  me's  a  riddle. 

Leost.  Pray  you,  no  more  ;  already 
I  have  answer'd  that  objection,  in  my  strong 
Assurance  of  her  virtue. 

Timag.  'Tis  unfit  then, 
That  I  should  press  it  further. 

Timand.  Now  I  must 
Make  in,  or  all  is  lost.     [Rushes  forward  distractedly 

Timag.  What  would  Timandra? 

Leost.  How  wild  she  looks  !     How  is  it  with  thy 

Timag.  Collect  thyself,  and  speak.  [lady! 

Timand.  As  you  are  noble, 
Have  pity,  or  love  piety  *. — Oh  ! 

7  east.  Take  breath. 

Timng.  Out  with  it  boldv. 

Timand.  O,  the  best  of  ladies, 
I  fear,  is  gone  for  ever. 

/  eoit.  Who,  Cleora? 

Timag.  Deliver,  how  ?  'Sdeath,  be  a  man,  sir  !— 
Speak. 

Timand.  Take  it  then  in  as  many  sighs  as  words, 
My  lady 

'Timag.  What  of  her? 

Timand.  No  sooner  heard 
Marullo  was  imprison'd,  but  she  fell 
Into  a  deadly  swoon. 

Ttmufr.  But  she  recover'd 
Say  so,  or  he  will  sink  too  ;  hold,  sir  ;  fie  ! 
This  is  unmanly. 

Timand.  Brought  again  to  life. 
But  wiih  much  labour,  she  awhile  stood  silent, 
Yet  in  that  interim  vented  sighs,  as  if 
They  labour'd,  from  the  prison  of  her  flesh, 
To  {jive  her  grieved  soul  freedom.      On  ihe  sudden 
Transported  on  the  wings  of  rage  and  sorrow, 
She  flew  out  of  the  house,  and,  unattended, 
Enter'd  the  common  prison. 

Leost.  This  confirms 
What  but  before  I  fear'd. 

Timand.  There  you  may  find  her; 
And,  if  you  love  her  as  a  sister 

Timag.  Damn  her  ! 

Tinun.d.  Or  you  respect  her  safety  as  a  lover, 
Procure  Marullo's  liberty. 

Timng.  Impudence 
Beyond  expression  ! 

Least.  Shall  1  be  a  bawd 
To  her  lust,  and  my  dishonour? 
Timand.  She'll  run  mad,  else, 
Or  do  some  violent  act  upon  herself: 
My  lord,  her  father,  sensible  of  her  sufferings, 
Labours  to  gain  his  freedom. 

Leost.  O,  the  devil  ! 
Has  she  bewitch'd  him  too? 
Timag.  I'll  hear  no  more. 

Come,  sir,  we'll  follow  her  ;  and  if  no  persuasion 
Can  make  her  take  again  her  natural  form. 
Which  by  lust's  powerful  spell  she  has  cast  off, 
This  sword  shall  disenchant  her. 


*  Have  pity,  or  love  piety.—]  So  the  old  copies :  the 
modern  editors,  here,  as  almost  everywhere  else,  corrupt 
this  last  word,  and  Icebly  read,  haw  pity,  or  loie  pity. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


Least.  O  my  heart-strings  ! 

[Eieunt  Leosthenes  and  Timngoras. 
Timand.    I  knew  'uvould  take.     Pardon  me,  lair 

Cleora, 

Though  1  appear  a  traitress  ;  which  tliou  wilt  do, 
In  pity  of  my  woes,  when  1  make  known 
My  lawful  claim,  and  only  seek  mine  own.        [Exit. 


SCENE  II. — A  Prison.     PISANDER  discovered  in 
chains. 

Enter  CLEORA  ami  Gaoler. 

Cleo.  There's  for  your  privacy.     Stay,  unbind  his 

Gaol.  I  dare  not,  madam.  [hands. 

Cleo.  I  will  buy  thy  danger : 

Take  more  gold  : — do  not  trouble  me  with  thanks, 
I  do  suppose  it.  done.  [E.u't  Gaaler. 

Ptian.  My  better  angel 

Assumes  this  shape  to  comfort  me,  and  wisely ; 
Since,  from  the  choice  of  all  celestial  figures, 
He  could  not  take  a  visible  form  so  full 
Of  glorious  sweetness.  [Kneels. 

Cleo.  Rise.     I  am  flesh  and  blood, 
And  do  partake  thy  tortures. 

Pisait.  Can  it  be, 

That  charity  should  persuade  you  to  descend 
So  far  from  your  own  height,  as  to  vouchsafe 
To  look  upon  my  sufferings  ?      How  1  bless 
My  fetters  now,  and  stand  engaged  to  fortune 
For  my  captivity — no.  my  freedom,  rather! 
For  who  dare  think  that  place  a  prison,  which 
You  sanctify  with  your  presence?  or  believe, 
Sorrow  lias  power  to  u>e  her  st.ng  on  him, 
That  is  in  your  compassion  arm'd,  and  made 
Impregnable,  though  tyranny  raise  at  once 
All  engines  to  assault  him? 

Cteo.  Indeed  virtue, 

With  which  you  have  made  evident  proofs  that  you 
Are  strongly  fortified,  cannot  fall,  though  shaken 
With    the    shock   of   tierce   temptations :    but   still 
In  spite  of  opposition.     For  myself,  [triumphs 

I  may  endeavour  to  confirm  your  goodness, 
(A  sure  retreat,  which  never  will  deceive  you,) 
And  with  unsigned  tears  express  my  sorrow 
For  what  I  cannot  help. 

Pimn.  Do  you  weep  for  me! 
O,  save  that  precious  balm  for  nobler*  uses: 
1  am  unworthy  of  the  smallest  drop, 
Which,  in  your  prodigality  of  pity, 
You  throw  away  on  me.     Ten  of  these  pearls 
Were  a  large  ransom  to  redeem  a  kingdom    [geance, 
From   a  consuming  plague,  or   stop  heaven's   ven- 
Call'd  down  by  crying  sins,  though,  at  that  instant, 
In  dreadful  Hashes  fulling;  on  the  roots 
Of  bold  blasphemers.     1  am  justly  punish 'd 
r'ur  my  intent  of  violence  to  such  pureuess; 
And  all  the  torments  flesh  is  sensible  of, 
A  soft  and  gc-ntle  penance. 

Cleo.    \\  hi  h  is  ended 
In  this  your  free  confession. 

Enter  LEOSTHLNES  and  TIMAGORAS  behind. 

Least.   What  an  object 
Have  I  encountered  ! 


•  O  lave  that  precious  halm  fur  nobli.r  vxr* :]  \obltris 
ll.e  i-u.uli.ij/  01  iln;  fn-t  qu.it.,  and  is  evi.luiil!)  riglil. 
<  <  •  ''it/i  and  Mr.  M.  M.ISO.I,  I'./ilow  ilie  secuuil,  which  IMS 
MHft 


Titnag.  I  am  blasred  too : 
Yet  hear  a  little  further. 

Pisnn.  Could  I  expire  now,  [thus, 

The.-e  white  and  innocent   hands  closing  my  eyes 
T were  not  to  die,  but  in  a  heavenly  <  ream 
To  be  transported,  without  the  help  of  Charon, 
To  the  Elysian  shades.     You  make  me  bold ; 
And,  but  to  wish  such  happiness,  I  tear, 
May  give  offence. 

Cleo,  No;  for  believe  it,  Marul'o, 
You've  won  so  much  upon  me,  that  I  know  not 
That  happiness  in  my  gilt,  but  vou  may  challenge. 

Least.   Are  you  yet  satisfie*.  ] 

Cteo.  Nor  can  you  wish 

But  what  my  vows  will  second,  though  it  were 
Your  freedom  first,  and  then  in  me  full  power 
To  make  a  second  tender  of  myself, 
And  you  receive  the  present.     By  this  kiss, 
From  me  a  virgin  bounty*,  I  wi  1  practise 
All  arts  for  your  deliverance  ;  and  that  purchased, 
In  what  concerns  your  further  aims,  I  speak  it, 

Do  not  despair,  but  hope 

[Timtgerui  and  Leosthenes  come  forward. 

Timag.  To  have  the  hangman, 
When  lie  is  married  to  the  cross,  in  scorn 
To  say,  Gods  give  you  joy  ! 

/  eost.  But  look  on  me, 
And  be  not  too  indulgent  to  your  folly  ; 
And  then,  hut  that  grief  stops  my  speech,  imagine 
What  language  I  should  use. 

Cleo.  Against  thyself. 
Thv  malice  cannot  reach  me. 

Tiirnig.  How? 

Cleo.  IV  o,  brother, 

Though  you  join  in  the  dialogue  to  accuse  me: 
What  I  have  done,  Til  justify;  and  these  favour* 
\\  hich,  you  presume,  will  taint  me  in  my  honour, 
'I  hough  jealousy  use  all  her  eyes  to  spy  out 
One  stain  in  my  behaviour,  or  envy, 
As  many  tongues  to  wound  it,  shall  appear 
My  best  perfections,      tor,  to  the  word, 
I  can  in  my  defence  allege  such  reasons. 
As  my  accusers  shall  stand  dumb  to  hear  them: 
When  in  his  fetters  this  man's  worth  and  virtues, 
But  truly  told,  sh.i'l  shame  your  boasted  glories, 
Which  fortune  claims  a  share  in. 

Timag.  The  base  villain 
Shall  never  live  to  hear  it.  [Draws  his  sword. 

Cleo.  Murder!  help  ! 
Through  me  you  shall  pass  to  him. 

Enter  AiiCHiDAMi-s,  DIPHILUS,  and  Officers. 

Archid.  What's  th*-  matter? 

On  whom  is  your  sword  drawn?  Are  you  a  judge? 
<>r  else  ambitious  of  the  hangman  s  omce, 
Before  it  be  design 'd  vou  ?   Vou  are  bold,  too  ; 
Unhand  my  daughter. 

Leost.  She's  my  valour's  prize.  lur? 

Archid.  \\ith  her  consent,  not  otherwise.  You  may 
Your  title  in  the  court ;  it'  it  pro»e  good, 
Possess  her  freely.     Guard  him  safely  off  too. 

Timxg.  You'll  hear  me,  sir? 

Archid.  If  you  have  aught  to  say, 
Deliver  it  in  public  ;  all  shall  find 
A  just  judge  of  Timoleon. 


• Ky  this  km, 

From   me   a    vu^in    bounty,]    Meaning,   1    presume,  M 
Pi»andei  ;  tor  ,-hv  li.id  giveti  oi.t  to  Lcustln-iits  bUWK. 


116 


THE  BONDMAN. 


[Acr  V. 


Diph.  You  must 
Of  force  now  use  your  patience. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Timagorus  and  Leoslhene\ 

Timag.  Vengeance  rather! 

Whirlwinds  of  rage  possess  me  :  you  are  wrong  a 
Beyond  a  stoic  sufferance ;  yet  you  stand 
As  you  were  rooted. 

Least.  I  feel  something  here, 
That  boldly  tells  me,  all  the  love  and  service 
I  pay  Cleora  is  another's  due, 
And  therefore  cannot  prosper. 

Timag.  Melancholy; 
Which  now  you  must  not  yield  to. 

Least.  Tis  apparent: 
In  fact  your  sister's  innocent,  however 
Changed  by  her  violent  will. 

Timag.  If  you  believe  so, 
Follow  the  chase  still ;  and  in  open  court 
Plead  your  own  interest:  we  shall  find  the  judge 
Our  friend,  I  fear  not. 

Least.  Something  I  shall  say, 
But  what 

Timag,  Collect  yourself  as  we  walk  thither. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— The  Court  of  Justice. 
Enter  TIMOLEON,  ARCHIDAMUS,  CLEORA,  and  Officers. 

Timol.   'Tis  wonderous  strange !    nor  can  it  fall 
The  reach  of  ray  belief,  a  slave  should  be       [within 
The  owner  of  a  temperance  which  this  age 
•Can  hardly  parallel  in  freeborn  lords, 
Or  kings  proud  of  their  purple. 

Archid.  'Tis  most  true  ; 
And,  though  at  first  it  did  appear  a  fable, 
All  circumstances  meet  to  give  it  credit ; 
Which  works  so  on  me,  that  I  am  compell'd 
To  be  a  suitor,  not  to  be  denied, 
He  may  have  equal  hearing. 

Cleo.  Sir.  you  graced  me 

With  the  title  of  your  mistress* ;  but  my  fortune 
Is  so  far  distant  from  command,  that  I 
Lay  by  the  power  you  gave  me,  and  plead  humbly 
For  the  preserver  of  my  fame  and  honour. 
And  pray  you,  sir,  in  charity  believe, 
That  since  I  had  ability  of  speech, 
My  tongue  has  been  so  much  inured  to  truth, 
I  know  not  how  to  lie. 

Timol.  I'll  rather  doubt 
The  oracles  of  the  gods,  than  question  what 
Your  innocence  delivers ;  and,  as  far 
As  justice  and  mine  honour  can  give  way, 
He  shall  have  favour.     Bring  him  in  unbound : 

[Exeunt  Officers. 

And  though  Leosthenes  may  challenge  from  me, 
For  his  late  worthy  service,  credit  to 
All  things  he  can  allege  in  his  own  cause, 
Marullo,  so,  I  think,  you  call  his  name, 
Shall  find  I  do  reserve  one  ear  for  him, 


•  C'eo.  Sir  you  graced  me 

With  the  title  of  your  mistreM;]  This  alludes  to  the  re- 
quest in  the  first  act,  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  wear 
her  colour*.  In  those  days  <<f  gallantry,  I  mean  those  of 
Massinger,  not  certainly,  those  of  Tiniolron,to  wear  a  lady's 
colours,  that  is,  a  scarf,  or  a  riband,  taken  from  her  person, 
was  to  become  b»r  authorised  champion  and  servant. 


Enter  CLEON,  Asorus,   DIPHILVS,   OLYMPIA,  and 
Con  isc  A. 

To  let  in  mercy.  Sit,  and  take  your  places  ; 
The  right  of  this  fair  virgin  first  determined, 
Your  bondmen  shall  be  censured*. 

Clean.   With  all  rigour, 
We  do  expect. 

Com.  Temper'd,  I  say,  with  mercy. 

Enter  at  one  dour,   LEOSTIIENFS  and  TIMAGOHAS;    at 

the  other,  Officers  with  PiSASDunaxd  TIMANDI-A. 

Timol.  Your  hand,  Leosthenes  :  I  cannot  doubt 
You,  that  have  been  victorious  in  the  war, 
Should,  in  a  combat  fought  with  words,  come  off 
But  with  assured  triumph. 

Least.  My  deserts,  sir, 

If,  without  arrogance,  I  may  style  them  such, 
Arm  me  from  doubt  and  fear. 

Timol.  'Tis  nobly  spoken. 
Nor  be  thou  daunted  (howsoe'er  thy  fortune 
Has  mark'd  thee  out  a  slave)  to  speak  thy  merits: 
For  virtue,  though  in  rags,  may  challenge  more 
Than  vice,  set  off  with  all  the  trim  of  greatness. 

Pism.  I  ha-l  rather  Aill  under  so  just  a  judge, 
Than  be  acquitted  by  a  man  corrupt 
And  partial  in  his  censure. 

Arch-d.  Note  his  language  ; 
It  relishes  of  better  breeding  than 
His  present,  state  dares  promise. 

Timol.  1  observe  it. 

Place  the  fair  lady  in  the  midst,  that  both, 
Looking  with  covetous  eyes  upon  the  pri/.e 
They  are  to  plead  for,  may,  from  the  fair  object, 
Teach  Hermes  eloquence. 

Least.  Am  I  fallen  so  low  ? 

My  birth,  my  honour,  and  what's  dearest  to  me, 
My  love,  and  witness  of  my  love,  my  service, 
So  undervalued,  that  1  must  contend 
With  one,  where  my  excess  of  glory  must 
Make  his  o'ertbrow  a  conquest!  Shall  my  fulness 
Supply  defects  in  such  a  thing,  that  never 
Knew  any  thing  but  want  and  emptiness. 
Give  him  a  name,  and  keep  it  such,  from  this 
Unequal  competition  1  If  my  pride, 
Or  any  bold  assurance  of  my  worth, 
Has  pluck'd  this  mountain  of  disgrace  upon  me, 
1  am  justly  punish'd,  and  submit;  but  if 
I  have  been  modest,  and  esteem 'd  myself 
More  injured  in  the  tribute  of  the  praise, 
Which  no  desert  of  mine,  prized  by  self-love, 
Ever  exacted,  may  this  cause  and  minute 
For  ever  be  fogotten.     1  dwell  long 
Upon  mine  anger,  and  now  turn  to  you, 
Ungrateful  fair  one ;  and,  since  you  are  such, 
'Tis  lawful  for  me  to  proclaim  myself, 
And  what  I  have  deserved. 

Cleo.  Neglect  and  scorn 
From  me,  for  this  proud  vaunt. 

Least.  You  nourish,  lady, 
Your  own  dishonour  in  this  harsh  reply, 
And  almost  prove  what  some  hold  of  your  sex  , 
You  are  all  made  up  of  passion  :   for,  if  reason 
Or  judgment  could  find  entertainment  with  you, 


•  Your  bondmen  thall  be  censured]   i.e.  judged.    To 
prevent  the  necessity  of  recurring  to  this  word,  ah.nil  ulm 
inure  than  sufficient  has  been  wriltrn,  it   may  be  proper   i 
observe,  tli.it  our  ancestors  used  censure  precisely  as  we  now 
do  judgment :  sometime*    for  a  quality  of  the  mind,   and 
sometimes  for  a  judicial  determination. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


Or  that  you  would  distinguish  of  the  objects 

You  loo'k  on,  in  a  true  glass,  not  seduced 

By  the  false  light  of  your  !oo  violent  will, 

I  should  not  need  to  plead  for  that  which  you 

With  joy  should  offer.     Is  my  high  birth  a  blemish  ? 

Or  does  my  wealth,  which  all  the  vain  expense 

Of  women  cannot  waste,  breed  Lathing  in  you? 

The  honours  1  can  call  mine  own,  thought  scandals? 

Am  I  deform 'd,  or,  for  my  father's  sins, 

Mulcted  by  nature?  If  you  interpret  these 

As  crimes,  'tis  fit  I  should  yield  up  myself 

Most  mist-rably  guilty.     But,  perhaps, 

(Which  yet  I  would  not  credit,)  you  have  seen 

This  gallant  pitch  the  bar,  or  bear  a  burthen 

Would  crack  the  shoulders  of  a  weaker  bondman  ; 

Or  any  other  boisterous  exercise. 

Assuring  a  strong  back  to  satisfy 

Your  loose  desires,  insatiate  as  the  grave 

Cleo.  You  are  foul-mouth'd. 

Archid.  111-manner'd  too. 

Least.  I  speak 

In  the  way  of  supposition,  and  entreat  you, 
With  all  the  fervour  of  a  constant  lover, 
That  you  would  free  yourself  from  these  aspersions, 
Or  any  imputation  black-tongued  slander 
Could  throw  on  your  unspotted  virgin  whiteness: 
To  which  there  is  no  easier  way,  than  by 
Vouchsafing  him  your  favour, — him,  to  whom, 
Next  to  the  general,  and  the  gods  and  fautors*, 
The  country  owes  her  safety. 

T-mag.  Are  you  stupid  ? 

'Slight,  leap  into  his  arms,  and  there  ask  pardon — 
Oh  !  you  expect  your  slave's  reply  ;  no  doubt 
We  shall  have  a  fine  oration  :  I  will  teach 
My  spaniel  to  howl  in  sweeter  language, 
And  keep  a  better  method. 

Arclii-i.  You  forget 
The  dignity  of  the  place. 

Diph.  Silence ! 

Timot.  [To  Pisander.']  Speak  boldly. 

Pisan.  'Tis  your  authority  gives  me  a  tongue, 
I  should  be  dumb  else  ;  and  I  am  secure, 
I  cannot  clothe  my  thoughts,  and  just  defence, 
In  such  an  abject  phrase,  but  'twill  appear 
Equal,  if  not  above  my  low  condition. 
I  need  no  bombast  language,  stolen  from  such 
As  make  nobility  from  prodigious  terms 
The  hearers  understand  not ;  I  bring  wilh  me 
No  wealth  to  boast  of;  neither  can  I  number 
Uncertain  fortune's  favours  with  my  merits; 
I  dare  not  force  affection,  or  presume 
To  censure  her  discretion,  that  looks  on  me 
Asa  weak  man,  and  not  her  fancy's  idol. 
How  I  have  loved,  and  how  much  I  have  suffer'd, 
And  with  what  pleasure  undergone  the  burthen 
Of  my  ambitious  hopes,  (in  aiming  at 
The  glad  possession  of  a  happiness, 
The  abstract  of  all  goodness  in  mankind 
Can  at  no  part  deserve,)  with  my  confession 
Of  mine  own  wants,  is  all  that  can  plead  for  me. 
But  if  that  pure  desires,  not  blended  with 


*  Next  to  the  general,  and  the  gods  and  Cantors,]  So  road 
both  the  quartos:  tlie  modern  ixlitors  not  know  ins;  what  to 
make  of  the  gods  and  fautors,  (which,  in  the  language  of 
(he  author,  means  the  favouring  gods),  accommodate  the 
line  to  their  own  conceptions  with  wondrous  facility,  and 
lead: 

AVjrf  to  the  general,  and  to  the  god*, 
Alas  i  for  Massinger. 

11 


Foul  thoughts,  that,  like  a  river,  keeps  bis  course^ 
Retaining  still  the  clearness  of  the  spring 
Fiom  whence  it  took  beginning,  may  be  thought 
Worthy  acceptance ;  then  1  dare  rise  up, 
And  tell  this  gay  man  to  his  teeth,  I  never 
Durst  doubt  her  constancy,  that,  like  a  rock, 
Beats  off  temptations,  as  that  mocks  the  fury 
Of  the  proud  waves  ;  nor,  from  my  jealous  fears, 
Question  that  goodness  to  which,  as  au  altar 
Of  all  perfection,  he  that  truly  loved 
Should  rather  bring  a  sacrifice  of  service, 
Than  raze  it  with  the  engines  of  suspicion  : 
Of  which,  when  he  can  wash  nn  --L'thiop  white, 
Leosthenes  may  hope  to  free  himself; 
But,  till  then,  never. 

Timag.  Bold,  presumptuous  villain  ! 

Pisan.  I  will  yo  further,  and  make  good  upon  him 
I'  the  pride  of  all  his  honours,  birth,  and  fortunes, 
He's  more  unworthy  than  myself. 

I.eo.>t.  Thou  liest.  [decided, 

Timag.  Confute  him  with  a  whip,  and,  the  doubt 
Punish  him  with  a  halter. 

Pi»m.  O  the  gods  ! 

My  ribs,  though  made  of  brass,  cannot  contain 
My  heart,  swollen  big  with  rage.    The  lie! — a  whip! 
Let  fury  then  disperse  these  clouds,  in  which 
I   long  have   march'd   disguised* ;    [Throws  off  his 
disguise.']  that,  when  they  know  ("horror 

AVhom    they   have    injured,   they   may    faint   with 
Of  my  revenge,  which,  wretched  men,  expect, 
As  sure  as  fate,  to  suffer. 

I.ecst.  Ha!  Pisander! 

Timag.  'Tis  the  bold  Theban  ! 

AMI.  There's  no  hope  for  me  then : 
I  thought  1  should  have  put  in  for  a  share, 
And  borne  Cleora  from  them  both  ;  but  now 
This  stanger  looks  so  terrible,  that  I  dare  not 
So  much  as  look  on  her. 

Pisan.  Now  as  myself, 
Thy  equal  at  thy  best,  Leosthenes. 
For  you,  Timagoras,  praise  heaven  you  were  born 
Cleora's  brother,  'tis  your  safest  armour. 
But  I  lose  time, — 'I  he  base  lie  c**t  upon  me, 
I  thus  return :  Thou  art  a  perjured  man, 
False,  and  perfidious,  ami  hast  made  a  tender 
Of  love  and  service  to  this  lady,  when 
Thy  soul,  if  thou  hast  any,  can  bear  witness, 
That  thou  wert  not  thine  own  :  for  proof  of  this, 
Look  better  on  this  virgin,  and  consider, 
This  Persian  shape  laid  byf,  and  she  »ppearing 
In  a  Greekish  dress,  such  as  when  first  you  saw  her 
If  she  resemble  not  Pisander's  sister. 
One  call'd  Statilia  ? 

Leost.  'Tis  the  same     my  guilt 
So  chokes  my  spirits,  I  cannot  deny 
My  falsehood,  nor  excuse  it. 

Pisan.  This  is  she, 

To  whom  thou  wert  contracted  :  this  the  lady, 
That,  when  thou  wert  my  prisoner,  fairly  taken 

*  Let  fury  then  disperse  these  clouds  in  which 
I  long  have    maich'd  disguised;]    The    old    copies  re: 
mash'd ;  but   this  seems   to  unworthy  of  the   author,  that 
have  not  scrupled  to  place  the  other  wi.rrt  (march'd)  in   lh«, 
text.     I    believe    Mastinger    bad    the    fust  ^Eueid   hi    hit 
thoughts. 

t  '1'his  Persian  shape  laid  by,]  I.  e.  this  Persian  drtis  ; 
a  term  borrowed  from  th<-  tiring-room  of  the  theatres.  IB 
the  list  of  dramatis  persoi  a;  prefixed  to  the  Virgin  Afartyr, 
Harpax  is  said  to  be,  "  ati  evil  spirit  ft  Ujivjng  Thsfrfcliia 
in  the  shape  (habit)  of  a  &c  -clary  '' 


118 


THE    BONDMAN. 


(Aer  V 


In  the  Spartan  war,  that  begg'd  thy  liberty, 
And  with  it  gave  herself  to  thee,  ungrateful!  ^ 

Statil.  No  more,  sir,  I  entreat  you  :  I  perceive 
True  sorrow  in  his  looks,  and  a  consent 
To  make  me  reparation  in  mine  honour ; 
And  then  I  am  most  happy. 

Pisan.  The  wrong  done  he* 

Drew  me  from  Thebes,  with  a  full  intent  to  kill  thee: 
But  this  fair  object  met  me  in  my  fury, 
And  quite  disarm fd  me.     Being  denied  to  have  her, 
By  you,  my  lord  Archidamus,  and  not  able 
To  live  far  from  her  ;  love,  the  mistress  of 
All  quaint  devices,  prompted  me  to  treat 
With  a  friend  of  mine,  who,  as  a  pirate,  sold  me 
For  a  slave  to  you,  my  lord,  and  gave  my  sister 
As  a  present  to  Cleora. 

Timol.  Strange  meanders ! 

Pwa«.  There  how  I  bare  myself,  needs  no  relation ; 
But,  if  so  far  descending  from  the  height 
Of  my  then  flourishing  fortunes,  to  the  lowest 
Condition  of  a  man,  to  have  means  only 
To  feed  my  eye  with  the  sight  of  what  I  honour'd  j 
The  dangers  too  I  underwent,  the  sufferings ; 
The  clearness  of  my  interest ;  may  deserve 
A  noble  recompense  in  your  lawful  favour ; 
Now  'tis  apparent  that  Leosthenes 
Can  claim  no  interest  in  you,  you  may  please 
To  think  upon  my  service. 

Cleo.  Sir,  my  want 
Of  power  to  satisfy  so  great  a  debt, 
Makes  me  accuse  my  fortune :  but  if  that 
Out  of  the  bounty  of  your  mind,  you  think 
A  free  surrender  of  myself  full  payment, 
I  gladly  tender  it. 

Archid.  With  my  consent  too, 
All  injuries  forgotten. 

Timug.  I  will  study, 

In  my  future  service,  to  deserve  your  favour, 
And  good  opinion. 

Leost.   1  bus  I  gladly  fee 
This  advocate  to  plead  for  me.  [Kissing  StatUia. 

Pisan.  You  will  find  me 
An  easy  judge.     When  1  have  yielded  reasons 
Of  your  bondmen's  tailing  off  from  their  obedience, 
Then  after,  as  you  please,  determine  of  me. 
I  found  their  natures  apt  to  mutiny 
From  your  too  cruel  usage,  and  made  trial 
How  far  they  might  be  wrought  on  ;  to  instruct  you 
To  look  with  more  prevention  and  care 
To  what  they  may  hereafter  undertake 
Upon  the  like  occasions.     The  hurt's  little 
They  have  committed,  nor  was  ever  cure 
But  with  some  pain  effected.     I  confess, 
In  hope  to  force  a  grant  of  fair  Cleora, 
I  urged  them  to  defend  the  town  against  you  : 
Nor  had  the  terror  of  your  whips,  but  that 
I  was  preparing  for  defence  elsewhere, 
So  soon  got  entrance*  :  in  this  I  am  guilty  ; 
Now,  as  you  please,  your  censure. 

Timol.  Bring  them  in  ; 

And,  though  you've  given  me  power,  I  do  entreat 
Such  as  have  undergone  their  insolence, 
It  may  not  be  offensive  though  I  study 


•  Nor  had  the  terror  of  your  whip*,  but  that 

I  teat  prrpariny  for  defence  elttwhere, 

Sofoonyot  entrance:]  I  am  pleased  with  this  becanse  it 
look*  as  if  the  Author  was  sensible  of  the  improbability  of 
(he  rirriiin.it.nite.  It  i-,  indeed,  the  only  defective  part  of 
tbif  beautiful  Moiy. 


Pitv,  more  than  revenge. 

Con's.  'Twill  best  become  you. 

Clean.  I  must  consent. 

Asot.   For  me,  I'll  find  a  time 
To  be  revenged  hereafter. 

Enter   GHACCULO,    CIMBRIO,    PoLtPRROlf,    XANTHM. 
and  the  rest,  with  halters  about  their  necki. 

Gruc.  Give  me  leave  ; 
I'll  speak  for  all. 

Timol.  What  canst  thou  say,  to  hinder 
The  course  of  justice? 

Grac.  Nothing.  —  You  may  see 
We  are  prepared  for  hanging,  and  confess 
We  have  deserved  it :  our  most  humble  suit  is, 
We  may  not  twice  be  executed. 

Timol.  Twice ! 
How  mean'st  thou  1 

Grac.  At  the  gallows  first,  and  after  in  a  ballad 
Sung  to  some  villanous  tune.     There  are  ten-groat 

rhymers 

About  the  town,  grown  fat  on  these  occasions. 
Let  but  a  chapel  fall,  or  a  street  be  fired*, 
A  foolish  lover  hang  himself  for  pure  love, 
Or  any  such  like  accident,  and,  before  [made, 

They  are  cold  in  their  graves,  some  damn'd  dittv's 
Which  makes  their  ghosts  walk. — Let  the  state  take 
For  the  redress  of  this  abuse,  recording  [order 

'Twas  done  by  my  advice,  and,  for  my  part, 
I'll  cut  as  clean  a  caper  from  the  ladder, 
As  ever  merry  Greek  did. 

Timol.  Yet  1  think 

You  would  shew  more  activity  to  delight 
Your  master  for  a  pardon. 

Grac.  O  !  1  would  dance 
As  I  were  all  air  and  fire.  [Capert. 

Timol.  And  ever  be 
Obedient  and  humble ; 

Gruc.  As  his  spaniel, 

Though  he  kick'd  me  for  exercise  j  and  the  like 
I  promise  for  all  the  rest. 


*  Let  but  a  chapel  fall,  or  a  stieet  he  fired,  &c.\  There 
is  inrn-.h  good  humour,  us  wtll  as  irnth,  in  these  mituiks. 
They  are,  it  must  be  confessed,  strangely  out  of  time,  anil 
Mill  more  strangely  out  of  place  ;  bin  the  readers  of  oar  old 
dramatists  ::mst  be  prepared  (o  oveilook  thoe  anomalies. 

Much  of  (he  wit,  ami  more,  perhaps,  oi  the  inteie^t,  of 
our  old  dramas,  is  irretrievably  lost  through  our  ignorance 
of  collateral  circu instances.  A  thousand  temp*  rary  allu- 
sions are  received  with  indifference,  or  perhaps  escape  us 
altogether,  which  excited  the  strongest  sciisalim.s  of  pleasure 
and  pain  in  th.'  bosoms  of  our  ancestor*.  This  pl.iy  was 
performed  for  the  first  lime,  Deceii.ber  3,  Ifii.'t;  «iid  on  the 
24th  of  October,  in  the  s.mie  year,  a  chapel,  or,  as  Hie  cou- 
thm.iuir  of  Slow  calls  it,  a  chamber  Jell  down  "  in  Mnnt- 
<1en  House,  in  the  Black  Fry«i>.  where  was  assembled  above 
three  hundred  men,  women,  and  jonths,  to  heat  a  Humane 
Catholicque  priest  preach,  in  which  fall  w,i*  M..ine  the 
preacher,  and  almost  one  hundred  of  his  auditory,  arid  well 
nigh  as  many  more  hurt."  Immediately  alter  this,  follows 
an  aiticle  of  firing  a  ttreet.  "Wednesday,  the  l'2lh  of  No- 
vember, 1023,  one  of  the  warehouses  of  Sir  W.  C->ckayne," 
'a  name  familiar  to  Massingcr,)  "  kni.hl,  alderman  of  Lon- 
don, in  Broad  Street,  took  fire  in  the  evening,  and  Ceased 
not  till  two  o'  the  rlock  the  next  morning,  in  which  >p.ice 
it  burnt  his  whole  house,  and  three  of  In-  neighbour's  hon.-cs, 
to  the  great  danger  and  damage  of  many  neere  inhabitants," 
&c.— Annales,  p.  10:«J,  ed.  I6:il. 

These  appo-ite  references,  for  which  I  am  indebted  to 
Mr.  Gilchrist,  prove,  I  think,  that  the  tragical  events  in 
Oracculo's  speed'  were  not  the  miggrrtiniift  of  fancy.  The 
foolixh  later,  who  hung  himself  for  pure  love,  was,  perhaps, 
beneath  the  notice  of  the  Chronicler;  but  I  suspect  that, 

if  we  could  have  recourse  to  the  d d  dittiri  of  ihe  day, 

we  should  (in  I  his  melancholy  story  to  be  no  less  real  th»« 
the  other  iiii:orttinate  occurrences 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  BONDMAN. 


bids  hi 


treat  he 


ith   p 


mice."  tlie  very  cirrumslaiice  which  gains  her  Htlecliong. 
In  The  Unite  of  Milan  loo,  Siurza  and  Marcelia  wish  thai, 
after  a  life  of  unvaried  happ'iiess,  "  one  grave  may  receive 
them  ;"  and  they  are  buried  together,  alter  she  has  r'.ill.  n 
by  hU  hand.  He  it  fund  of  reserving  some  injured  person, 


Timol.  Rise  then,  you  have  it. 
Ait  the  Slaves.  Timoleon  !  Timoleon  ! 
Timol.  Cease  these  clamours. 
And  now,  the  war  being  ended  to  our  wishes, 


*  Massingcr  never  vrftei  with  more  effect,  than  when  he 
-ombines  his  own  fancy  with  somewhat  of  real  history.  In 
tins  c.ise,  the  reader  will  1101  ex[  ect  that  the  history  should  j 
proceed  in  a  regular  order,  or  without  the  admission  of  to-  ) 
reign  incidents,  or  that  it  should  maintain  to  the  end,  the 
commanding  interest  with  which  it  begins.  It  is  enough 
for  Massiuger,  if  he  can  secure  attention  at  the  outset, 
tlirrugh  the  remembrance  of  some  important  event,  and 
it,  under  cover  of  ihis,  he  can  prepare  the  part  which  ima- 
gination is  to  supply.  It  is  on  these  principles  he  has 
proceeded  in  The  Hondman,  and  produced  a  piece  which, 
with  a  few  exceptions,  is  at  once  stately  and  playful,  im- 
pressive and  tender,  lie  mature*  the  love,  under  cover  of 
the  history  ;  till  at  length  the  interest  changes,  and  the  his- 
tory becomes  subordinate  10  the  love. 

The  character-*  are  drawn  with  much  variety  and  interest ; 
the  modest  gravity  and  self  command  of  'I'imoleon  well 
agree  with  the  ancient  desciiplious  61  the  man,  from  whose 
mouth  nihil  unqiiain  insolent,  neque  yloriosum  e.iiit;  and 
our  admiration  of  the  heroic  Pisdmler,  who  ramiot  appear 
in  his  proper  character  till  towaidg  the  conclusion,  is  skil- 
fully excited  by  early  notices,  apparently  incidental,  of  his 
great  powers  of  body,  his  language,  sentiments  &c.,  far 
above  hi*  supposed  condiiion.  Hi-  >ignal  temperance,  the 
charm  which  wins  the  pure  Cleora,  is  well  contrasted  with 
the  unreasonable  distrust  and  jealou>y  of  Leostheiies,  who, 
however,  observes,  with  much  self  complacency,  while  he 
mars  his  own  happiness  by  his  impatience, that  woimn  have 
b  ii  litlie  judgment,  and  are  mo-tly  made  up  i-f  passion!  It 
may  be  remarked  here,  that  Ma-sin;;er  seems  fond  of  punish- 
ing his  men  lor  undue  suspicions  and  alarms  in  maittrs  of 
love;  and  that  this  is  one  of  the  methods  he  takes  to  exalt 
the  character  of  his  females,  and  to  exhibit,  as  in  Cleora, 
the  complete  ascendency  of  c;-aslily  over  jealouyy.  Other 
m  iks  of  his  accustomed  man  igeiuenl  ap^e.ir  in  this  plav . 
H-  is  fond  of  fulnllint;  expressions  in  a  M  n?e  iu>t  intended 
by  the  speakers.  Tima^oras  unconsciously  siys  that  Pi- 
ffimler  was  "  bought  for  his  si?tcr's  service;"  and  Archi* 


And  such  as  went  the  pilgrimage  of  love, 
Happy  in  full  fruition  of  their  hope, 
'Tis  lawful,  thanks  paid  to  the  powers  divine, 
To  drown  our  cares   in  honest  minh  and  wine. 


[Exeunt9 


whose  late  appearance  may  justify  what  has  been  done,  and 
hasten  the  conclusion  of  the  plot.  He  reserves  Matilia 
for  me  sake  of  vindicating  I'isander,  and  rcn.inds  us  of  Ku- 
genia,  whose  wrong«  explain  the  vengeance  of  Franci-co. 
He  is  also  fond  of  ihi  owing  his  lovers  into  difficulties,  by 
confessing  their  attachment,  while  those  who  are  iuiererlcd 
in  opposing  it,  listen  from  behind.  Cleora  precipitates  her 
expressions  of  kindness  for  1'isandcr,  that  her  family  may 
be  enraged  at  the  discovery.  And  a  simd.ir  contrivance  will 
by  and  by  strike  the  reader,  in  the  plot  of  The  Kenryado, 
where  Douusa  and  Vitelli  are  overheard  by  Asambeg  and 
Mustapha. 

The  ludicrous  characters  arc  not  without  their  merit, 
always  excepting  the  licentiousness  which  stains  them  ;  licen- 
tiousness, however,  which,  lortunately,  is  neither  spniied 
nor  attractive.  The  slave*  turned  masters,  "  frtt  their  hour" 
in  their  new  dignity  with  becoming  insolence.  It  is  a  line 
stroke  of  nature  which  Plaiitus  has  given  to  one  of  his 
slaves:  suddenly  growing  rich,  and  laying  the  plan  of  his 
future  enjoyments,  he  determines  to  have  slates  of  his 
owu  : 

-  domum  itittruam,  ayrum,  eedet,  mancipU. 

Jtiulrru,  Act    IV.  sc.  ii. 

If  Ma<singer  is  to  be  suspected  of  pul  tical  a  lusions,  this 
play  betrays  him.  The  characirr  of  Cisco  ilie  ad.i-iral  does 
not  suit  him,  but  agrees  very  well  with  the  l)uke  of  Buck- 
ingham : 

"  --  a  raw  young  fellow, 
One  never  tr..in'd  in  anus,  but  rather  fashion'd 
To  tilt  with  ladies'  lips,  than  crack  a  lance,"  \c. 
The  "  green   heads  that  determine   of  the  slate   ov»r  Ihrir 
cups,"  «;c.,  were  oow  in  posse.sion  of  all  pow<  r,  ami  playing 
their  wildest  schemes.     And   towards  the  «-u  '   ol  il-e  reign 
of  James,  <lhe  date  of  tl  is  play,)  it  might  well   be  said,  Ly 
the  friends  to  Ihe  safety  of  their  country  : 

"  -  in  this  plenty 

And  fat  of  peace,  your  voting  men  ne'er  were  >:ainM 

In  martial  discipline  ;  and  your  ships  unrigg'd 

Rot  in  the  harbour."  -  • 

One  of  show  fr-rnds  of  his  country  was  Ma>Mng« 
is   hardly   possible   to   point  out,  in   an>  wriier, 
modern,  a  finer  strain  of  patriotism  amidst   the   i 
er,  than  that  which  animates  the  last  scene  af  r 


ger, 

1)K. 


:  and  it 
cieiit  or 
-'ic  dan 
first  *c 


THE  EEFEGADO. 


THK  RENEOADO.]  This  tragi-comedy,  for  so  Massinger  terms  it,  appears  from  the  office-book  of  the 
master  of  the  revels,  to  have  been  first  produced  on  the  stage,  April  17th,  1624  :  it  was  not  given  *c  di? 
public  till  several  years  after, — the  entry  in  the  stationers'  register  bearing  date  March  6th,  1629-30. 

The  story,  though  wild  and  extravagant,  is  not  all,  perhaps,  invention  ;  the  pirates  of  Tunis  and  Algiers 
ravaged  the  northern  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean  at  pleasure  ;  and  the  Spanish  and  Italian  writers  of 
those  days  are  full  of  adventures  similar  to  this  before  us  ;  some  of  which  were  undoubtedly  founded  in 
fact. 

The  language  and  ideas  of  this  play  are  strictly  catholic  ;  notwithstanding  which,  it  seems  to  have  been 
a  favourite  with  the  public  ;  and  even  the  modest  author  speaks  of  its  merits  with  some  degree  of  compla- 
cency. It  was  not,  however,  reprinted. 

It  is  said,  in  the  title-page,  to  have  been  "often  acted  by  the  queen's  majesties  servants,  at  the  private 
play-house  in  Drury  Lane."  After  the  death  of  Queen  Anne,  in  1618,  (as  Mr.  Malone  informs  me,)  the 
players  et  this  house  were  called,  the  Lady  Elizabeth's  servants,  (i.  e.  James's  daughter,  then  married  to  the 
Palsgrave,)  although  she  was  not  in  England  :  but  after  the  marriage  of  Charles,  they  took  the  nam,e  of  the 
queen's  servants;  i.  e.  of  Henrietta  Maria.  The  denomination,  therefore,  in  the  litle-page  of  the  old  play, 
alludes  to  the  lime  of  its  publication,  and  not  to  that  of  its  "  allowance  ;"  when,  as  appears  from  the  first 
edition  of  The  Bondman,  1624,  the  players  were  still  in  possession  of  the  former  appellation. 


TO  THE    RIGHT   HONOUIIABI.K 

GEORGE    HARDING, 

BARON  BERKELEY,  OF  BERKELEY   CASTLE,  AND   KNIGHT  OF  THE 
HONOURABLE  ORDER  OF  THE  BATH*. 

MY  GOOD  LORD, 

To  be  honoured  for  old  nobility,  or  hereditary  titles,  is  not  alone  proper  to  yourself,  but  to  some  few  of  your 
rank,  who  may  challenge  the  like  privilege  with  you  :  but  in  our  age  to  vouchsafe  (as  you  have  often  done) 
a  ready  hand  to  raise  the  dejected  spirits  of  the  contemned  sons  of  the  muses ;  such  as  would  not  suffer  the 
glorious  fire  of  poesy  to  be  wholly  extinguished,  is  so  remarkable  and  peculiar  to  your  lordship,  that  with  a 
full  vote  and  suffrage,  it  is  acknowledged  that  the  patronage  and  protection  of  the  dramatic  poem  is  vours, 
and  almost  without  a  rival.  I  despair  not  therefore,  but  that  my  ambition  to  present  my  service  in  this'  kind, 
may  in  your  clemency  meet  with  a  gentle  interpretation.  Confirm  it,  my  good  lord,  in  your  gracious  accept- 
ance of  this  trifle ;  in  which,  if  I  were  not  confident  there  are  some  pieces  worthy  the  perusal,  it  should 
have  been  taught  an  humbler  flight  ;  and  the  writer,  your  countryman,  never  yet  made  happy  in  your  notice 
anrl  favour,  had  not  made  this  an  advocate  to  plead  for  his  admission  among  such  as  are  wholly  and  sincerely 
devoted  to  your  service.  1  may  live  to  tender  my  humble  thankfulness  in  some  higher  strain ;  and  till  then, 
comfort  myself  with  hope,  that  you  descend  from  your  height  to  receive 

Your  honour's  commanded  servant, 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  RENEGADO. 


121 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


ASAMBEG*,  viceroy  of  Tunis, 
MUSTAPHA,  hasha  of  Aleppo, 
VITELLI,  a  Venetian  gentleman, 

disguised  as  a  merchant, 
FRANCISCO,  a  Jesuit, 
ANTONIO  GRIMALDI,  tht  Rene- 

gado, 

CARAZIE,  an  tiniuch, 
GAZET,  servant  to  Vitelli, 
Aga. 


Act  art'  Name*. 
John  Blanye. 
John  Sumner. 

Mich.  Bowyer. 
Wm.  Reignalds. 


Wm.  Allen. 
Wm.  Robins. 
Ed.  Shakerley. 


Actor*'  Nt 


Capiaga. 

Janizaries. 

Master. 

Boatswain. 

Sailors. 

A  Gaoler.     Turks. 


DONUSA,  niece  to  Amurath, 
PAULINA,  sister  to  Vitelli, 
MAN-TO,  servant  to  Donusa. 

SCENE,  Tunis. 


Ed.  Rogers. 
Theo.  Bourne 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — A  Street  near  thf  Bazar. 
Enter  VITELLI,  and  GAZET. 

Vitel.  You  have  hired  a  shop,  then  ? 

Gaz.  Yes,  sir ;  and  our  wares, 
Though  brittle  as  a  maidenhead  at  sixteen, 
Are  safe  unladen  ;  not  a  crystal  crack'd, 
Or  china  dish  needs  soldering  ;  our  choice  pictures, 
As  they  came  from  the  workman,  without  blemish  : 
And  1  have  studied  speeches  for  each  piece, 
And,  in  a  thrifty  tone,  to  sell  them  off, 
Will  swear  by  Mahomet  and  Termagantf, 
That  this  is  mistress  to  the  great  Duke  of  Florence, 
That,  niece  to  old  King  Pepin,  and  a  third, 
An  Austrian  princess  by  her  Roman  nose, 
llowe'er  my  conscience  tells  me  they  are  figures 
Of  bawds  and  common  courtezans  in  Venice. 

Vitel.  You  make  no  scruple   of  an  oath,  then  t 

Gaz.  Fie,  sir ! 

'Tis  out  of  mv  indentures  ;  I  am  bound  there 
To  swear  for  my  master's  profit,  as  securely 
As  your  intelligencer  J  must  for  his  prince, 


•  Or,  as  we  should  now  say,  Hassan  Bey. 

t  Will  swear  by  Mahomet  and  Termagant,]  Dr.  Percy, 
in  his  remarks  on  the  ancient  ballad  of  King  Extmere, 
rays,  that  Termagant  is  the  name  given  by  the  authors  of 
the  old  romances  to  the  god  of  the  Saracens :  and  as  he  was 
generally  represented  as  a  very  furious  being,  the  word 
termagant  was  applied  to  any  person  of  a  turbulent  out- 
rageous disposition,  though  at  present  it  is  appropriated  to 
the  female  sex.  M.  MASON. 

I  have  retained  a  part  of  this  note,  though  there  is  little 
in  it.  Our  zealous  ancestors,  who  were  somewhat  of  Sir 
Andrew's  way  of  thinking,  and  cordially  dispo-ed  to  beat 
the  Turks  like  dogs,  for  being  Mahomedans,  innocently 
charged  them  with  deities  whom  they  never  acknowledged. 
Termagant,  whether  derived  from  the  Saxon,  or  (which,  in 
thin  case,  is  nearly  the  same),  from  the  Latin,  cannot  pos- 
(ibly  be  a  Saracenic  divinity  ;  the  word  was  originally  used, 
I  suppose,  as  an  attribute  of  the  Supreme  Being  of  the 
Saxons,  a  people  little  less  odious  to  our  romance  writers, 
than  the  Saracens,  and  sometimes  confounded  with  them. 

J /  am  bound  there 

To  swear  for  my  master's  profit,  as  securely 

As  your  intetliyencer.  &c  ]  Here  is,  pn.bably,  an   allusion 
to  the  celebrated  definition  of  an  ambassador,  by  Sir  Henry    : 
Wutton  :  "  An  honest  man  appointed  to  lye  abroad  for  the    j 
good  of  his  country," — a  definition,  by  the  bye,  which  cost    | 
him  dear ;  for  Sir  Henry,  not  satisfied  with  entertaining  his 


That  sends  him  forth  an  honourable  spy, 

To  serve  his  purposes.     And  if  it  be  lawful 

In  a  Christian  shopkeeper  to  cheat  his  father, 

I  cannot  find  but  to  abuse  a  Turk 

In  the  sale  of  our  commodities,  must  be  thought 

A  meritorious  work. 

Vitel.  1  wonder,  sirrah, 
What's  your  religion  ? 

Gaz.  Troth,  to  answer  truly, 
I  would  not  be  of  one  that  should  command  me 
To  feed  upon  poor  John*,  whenl  see  pheasants 
And  partridges  on  the  table :  nor  do  I  like 
The  other,  that  allows  us  to  eat  flesh 
In  Lent,  though  it  be  rotten,  rather  thaii  Le 
Thought  superstitious  ;  as  your  zealous  cobler,   • 
And  learned  botcher  preach  at  Amsterdam, 
Over  a  hotchpotchf.     I  would  not  be  confined 
In  my  belief:  when  all  your  sects  and  sectaries 
Are  grown  of  one  opinion,  if  I  like  it 
I  will  profess  myself, — in  the  mean  time, 
Live  I  in  England,  Spain,  France,  Rome,  Geneva, 
I'm  of  that  country's  faith. 

Vitel.  And  what  in  Tunis? 
Will  you  turn  Turk  here? 


countrymen,  would  needs  translate  his  wit  into  Latin,  for 
the  amusement  of  foreigners.  1-ye,  which  was  then  the 
term  for  lodge  or  dwell,  made  a  tolerable  pun  ;  but  menticn- 
dum,  into  which  it  was  turned,  had  neither  humour  nor 
ambiguity  in  it,  and  sorely  scandalized  the  corps  diplo 
matic. 

*  To  feed  upon  poor  John,]- Poor  John,  Mr.  Malone  says, 
is  hake,  dried,  and  raited. 

t  as  your  sealous  cobler 

And  framed  botcher  preach  at  Amsterdam, 

Over  a  hotchpotch.]  The  religious  troubles  of  Holland,  in 
the  16th  century,  arose   principally  from   the    Anabaptists. 
There  was  an  insurrection  at  Amsterdam,  headed  by  a  tailor, 
a  disciple  of  John   of  l.eyden  (the   Minister  king),  himself 
a  tailor:    but,  indeed,  the   toleration   allowed   to   religious 
sects  of  all  denominations,  had,  about  this   time,  filled  Am 
sterdam  with  fanatics  Irom   every  country  in    Europe.     To 
this  aggregation  of  zealots,  there  are   perpetual  allusions  in 
our  old  writers.     Thus  Shirley  :  "  Well,  if  I  live,  I  will   to 
Amsterdam,  and  ad<l  another  re'  ism   to  the   two   hundred 
four  score,  and   odd."     Gentleman  of  I'enice.     And    Beau 
mont  and  Fletcher:    "  1  am  a  schoolmaster,  sir,  and  would 
fain  confer  with  you  about  erecting   four  new  peels  of  reli 
gion  at  Amsterdam."    The  fair  Maid  <jr'  the  Inn. 


1*2 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr 


Gut.  No :  so  I  should  lose 
A  rollop  of  that  part  my  Doll  enjoin 'd  me 
To  bring  home  as  she  left  it:  'tis  her  venture, 
Nor  dare  I  barter  that  commodity, 
Without  her  special  warntnr. 
Vitt-l.  You  sire  a  knave,  sir : 
Leaving  vour  roguery,  think  upon  my  business, 
It  is  no  time  to  fool  now.  [time 

Remember  where  you   are  too :   though  this  uiart- 
We  aiv  allow'd  tree  trading,  nnd  with  safety. 
Temper  your  tongue,  and  meddle  not  with  tlie  Turks, 
Th^ir  manners,  nor  religion. 

Guz.    Hike  you  heed,  sir,  | there  landed 

What   colours    you   wear.     Not    two    hours   since, 
An  English  pirate's  whore,  with  a  green  apron*. 
And,  as  she  walk'd  the  streets,  one  of  their  muftis, 
We  (all  them  priests  at  Venice,  wish  a  razor 
Cuts  it  off,  petticoat,  smock  and  all,  aad  leaves  her 
As  naked  as  my  nail  ;  the  young  fry  wondering 
What    strange    beast   it   should    be.       1    scaped   a 

scouring 

My  mistress's  busk  point,  of  that  forbidden  colour, 
Then  tied  my  codpiece ;  had  it  been  discover'd 
1  had  been  capon'd. 

Vitel.  And  had  been  well  served. 
Haste  to  the  shop,  and  set  my  wares  in  order, 
1  will  no'  long  be  absent. 

GHZ.  Though  I  strive,  sir. 
To  put  off  melancholy,  to  which  you  are  ever 
Too  much  inclined,  it  shall  not  hinder  me, 
With  my  best  care,  to  serve  you.  [Exit. 

Enter  FRANCISCO. 
Vitel.  1  believe  thee. 

O  welcome  sir!  stay  of  my  steps  in  this  life, 
And  guide  to  all  my  blessed  hopes  hereafter.  [per'J? 
What  comforts,  sir?     Have  your  endeavours  pros- 
Have  we  tired  fortune's  malice  with  our  sufferi  ngs? 
Is  she  at  length,  after  so  many  frowns. 
Pleased  to  vouchsafe  one  cheerful  look  upon  us  ? 
Fran.  You    give  too  much  to  fortune  and  your 

passions, 

O'er  which  a  wise  man,  if  religious,  triumphs. 
That  name  fools  worship  ;  and  those  tyrants,  which 
\Ve  arm  against  our  better  part,  our  reason, 
May  add,  but  never  take  from  our  afflictions. 

Vimt.  Sir,  as  I  ana  a  sinful  man,  I  cannot 
But  like  one  suffer. 

Fian.  I  exact  not  from  you 

A  fortitude  insensible  of  calamity,  •     [shownf 

To  which  the  saints  themselves  have  bow'd,  and 
They  are  made  of  flesh  and  blood  ;  all  that  I  chal- 
lenge 

Is  manly  pa'iem-e.     Will  you,  that  were  train'd  up 
In  a  religious  school,  where  divine  maxims, 
Scorning  comparison  with  moral  precepts, 
V\  ere  daily  taught  you,  hear  your  cons:ancy's  trial. 
Not  like  Vitelli,  but  a  village  nurse, 
With  curses  in  your  mouth,  tears  in  your  eyes  ?— 
How  poorly  it  shows  in  you. 

Viicl.  I  am  scbool'd,  sir, 
And  will  hereafter,  to  my  utmost  strength, 
Study  to  be  myself. 


*  — ; with  a  green  apron.}  It  should  be  observed, 

that  this   colour   is  appropriated  solely    to   tlie  descendants 
of    Mahomet.     To    "  land    at   Tunis,"   or   any  other  town 
professing    ilic    Mahometan   religion,   in   a  green  dress,  at 
Urn  day,  would  perhaps  cost  the  unwary  stranger  his  life. 
and  shown,]  So  the  old  copy  :  the  modern  edi- 


lon  lead,  and  show. 


Frrm.  So  shall  you  find  me 
Most  ready  to  assist  you ;  neither  have  I 
Slept  in  your  great  occasions  :  since  I  left  you, 
I  have  been  at  the  viceroy's  court,  and  press'd 
As  far  as  they  allow  a  Christian  entrance: 
And  something  I  have  learn 'd,  that  may  concern 
The  purpose  of  this  journey. 
Vnet.  Dear  sir,  what  is  it? 

Fran.  By  the  command  of  Asambeg,  the  viceroy 
The  city  swells  with  barbarous  pomp  and  pride, 
For  the  entertainment  of  stout  Mustapha, 
The  basha  of  Aleppo,  who  in  person 
Comes  to  receive  the  niece  of  Amurath, 
The  fair  Donusa,  for  his  bride. 

Vitel.  1  find  not 
How  this  may  profit  us. 

Fran.  Pray  you  give  me  leave. 
Among  the  rest  that  wait  upon  the  viceroy, 
Stub  as  have,  under  him,  command  in  Tunis, 
Who,  a*  you've  often  heard,  are  all  false  pirates, 
I  saw  the  shame  of  Venice,  and  the  scorn 
Of  all  good  men,  the  perjured  HENEGADO, 
Antonio  Grimaldi. 

Vitel.  Ha !  his  name 
Is  poison  to  me. 
Fran.  Yet  again  ? 
Vitel.  I  have  done,  sir. 
Fran.    This  dehauch'd   villain,   whom   we  erer 

thought 

(After  his  impious  scorn  done  in  St.  Mark's, 
To  me,  as  I  stood  at  the  holy  altar) 
The  thief  that  ravish 'd  your  fair  sister  from  you, 
The  virtuous  Paulina,  not  long  since, 
As  I  am  truly  given  to  understand, 
Sold  to  the  viceroy  a  fair  Christian  virgin ; 
On  whom,  maugre  his  fierce  and  cruel  nature, 
Asambeg  dotes  extremely. 

Vitel.  'Tis  my  sister: 
It  must  be  she,  my  better  angel  tells  me 
Tis  poor  Paulina.     Farewell  all  disguises! 
I'll  show,  in  my  revenge,  that  I  am  noble. 
Fran.  You  are  not  mad? 
Vitel.  No,  sir  ;  mv  virtuous  anger 
Makes  every  vein  an  artery  ;  I  feel  in  me 
The  strength  of  twenty  men  ;  and,  being  arm'd 
With  my  good  cause,  to  wreak*  wrong'd  innocence, 
I  dare  alone  run  to  the  viceroy's  court, 
And  with  this  poniard,  before  his  face. 
Dig  out  Grimaldi's  heart. 
.Fran.  Is  this  religious? 
Vitel.  Would  you  have  me  tame  now?    Can  I 

know  my  sister 

Mew'd  up  in  his  seraglio,  and  in  danger 
Not  alone  to  Jose  her  honour,  but  her  soul ; 
The  hell-bred  villain  by  too,  that  has  sold  both 
To  black  destruction,  and  not  haste  to  send  him 
To  the  devil,  his  tutor?  To  be  patient  now, 
Were,  in  another  name,  to  play  the  pander 
To  the  viceroy's  loose  embraces,  and  cry  aim  f! 
While  he,  by  force  or  flattery,  compels  her 
'1  o  yield  her  fair  name  up  to  his  foul  lust, 
And,  after,  turn  apostata  to  the  faith 
That  she  wus  bred  in. 

Fran.  Do  but  give  me  bearing, 


*  to  wreak  urrono'd  innocmce,}  \.  e.  lo  rrveuge : 

so  in  The  Fatal  Dowry. 

"J.ut  there's  a  heaven  above,  from  whose  jusi  wreak 
No  mists  of  policy  can  hide  offenders." 
* ««</  cry  aim !]  See  tht  Bondman. 


ll.J 


THE  RENEGADO. 


123 


And  you  sliall  soon  grant  how  ridiculous 

This  childish  fury  is.     A  wise  man  never 

A  teuiptts  impossibilities;  'ti.  as  easy 

For  anv  single  arm  to  quell  an  army, 

As  to  effect  your  wishes.     \Ve  come  hither 

Ti.  leant  Paulina's  fate*,  and  to  redeem  her: 

Leave  your  revenge  to  heaven  :   I  oft  have  told  you, 

Of  a  relict  that  I  gave  her,  which  has  power, 

If  we  may  credit  holy  men's  tiaditions, 

'lv>  keep  the  owner  tree  f'om  violence  : 

This  mi  her  breast  she  wears,  and  does  preserve 

The  virtue  of  it,  by  her  daily  prayers. 

So,  if  she  fall  not  by  her  own  consent, 

\\  Inch  it  were  sin  to  think,  1  fear  no  force. 

Ik1,  therefore,  patient;  keep  this  borrow'd  shape, 

Till  tiint-  and  opportunity  present  us 

With  .some  tit  means  to  see  her;  which  perform *d 

I'll  join  with  you  ia  any  desperate  course 

F«T  her  delivery. 

Vital.    You  have  charm'd  me,  sir, 
And  I  obey  in  all  things  :  pray  you,  pardon 
'I  IIH  weakness  of  my  passion. 

I'niH.  And  excuse  it. 

Be  cheerful  man;  for  know  that  good  intents 
Are,  in  the  end,  crown'd  with  as  fair  events. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENT.  II. — A  1'oomin  DONUSA'S  Palace. 
F.nti'r  DOXUSA,  MAXTO,  «nrf  CAIIAZIE. 

DHH.  Have  you  seen  the  Christian  captive, 
The  great  basha  is  so  enamour'd  of? 

Mant.    Yes,  an  it  please  your  excellency, 
I  took  a  full  view  of  her,  when  she  was 
Presented  to  him. 

Don.  .And  is  she  such  a  wonder, 
As  'tis  reported  ? 

Mant.  She  was  drown'd  in  tears  then, 
Which  took  much  from  her  beauty  ;  yet,  in  spite 
Of  sorrow,  she  appear'd  the  mistress  of 
Most  rare  perfections  .  and.  though  low  of  stature, 
HtT  well-proportion'd  limbs  invite  affection  : 
And,  when  she  speaks,  each  syllable  is  music 
That  does  enchant  the  hearers  :   but  your  highness^, 
That  are  not  to  be  parallell'd,  I  yet  never 
Beheld  her  equal. 

Di<n.  Come,  you  flatter  me  ; 
But  1  forgive  it.     We,  that  are  born  great, 
Seldom  distaste§  our  servants  though  they  give  us 
More  than  we  can  pretend  to.     I  have  heard 
That  Christian  ladies  live  with  much  more  freedom 

•  To  learn  Paulitia'*  fate.]  The  old  copy  reads  faith  ; 
the  ;tlUT..iiuii,  which  items  judicious,  WAS  made  by  Mr.  M. 
If  wan. 

t /  oft  have  told  you 

Of  a  relic  that  I  gave  her,  &c. |  I  have  already  observed, 
thai  the  language  of  this  pl.n  is  catholic  ;  the  idea,  how- 
ever, of  tht  power  of  relics,  in  the  preservation  of  chattily, 
may  be  found  in  HMDS  old  romances  and  books  of  knight- 
errantry,  which  were  undoubtedly  familiar  to  .Mas-inj;<-r. 

j  —  —  but  your  hiy/mess,]  i.  e.  rjra'pt  your  Irghness, 
tic.  In  the  next  line,  the  modern  editors  had  so  trans- 
posed the  words,  as  to  make  it  downright  prose:  it  is  now 
reformed. 

$  ft  'e,  that  are  born  great, 

.Seldom  distaste  our  servant!  thovyh  they  yive  u* 

A/ore  than  we  can  pretend  to  }  i.  e.  dislike;  in  which 
•elite  Ihe  word  fm|iin,tly  occurs.  Thus  Shirley,  in  the 
epilogue  to  Love  in  a  Mti~e : 

" he  desires  that  yon 

Should  not  distaste  his  muse,  because  of  late 
Traiisjilautcd,"  &c. 


Than  such  as  are  born  here.     Our  jealous  Turks 
Never  permit  their  fair  wives  to  be  seen, 
But  at  the  public  bagnios,  or  the  mosques, 
And,  even  then,  veil'd  and  guarded.     Thou,  Carazie, 
Wert  born  in  England  ;  what's  the  custom  there, 
Among  your  women  1     Come,  be  free  and  merry: 
I  am  no  severe  mistress  :  nor  Last  thou  met  with 
A  heavy  bondage. 

Car.  Heavy  !   I  was  made  lighter 
By  two  stone  weight,  at  least,  to  be  fit  to  serve  you. 
Hut  to  your  question,  madam  ;  women  in  England, 
For  the  most  part,  live  like  queens.     Your  country 
Have  liberty  to  hawk,  to  hunt,  to  feast,          [ladies, 
To  give  free  entertainment  to  all  comers, 
To  talk,  to  kiss  ;  there's  no  such  tiling  known  there 
As  an  Italian  girdle.     Your  city  dame. 
Without  leave,  wears  the  breeches,  has  her  husband 
At  as  much  command  as  her  'prentice  ;  and,  if  need 
Can  make  him  cuckold  by  her  father's  copy.         [be, 

Don.   But  your  court  lady  ? 

C«r.  She,  I  assure  you,  madam, 
Knows  nothing  but  her  will ;  must  be  allow'd 
Her  footmen,  hercaroch",  her  ushers,  pages, 
Her  doctor,  chaplains  ;  and,  as  I  have  heard, 
They're  grown  of  late  so  learn'd,  that  they   maintain 
A  strange  position,  which  their  lords,  with  all 
Their  wit,  cannot  confute. 

Don.   What's  that,  1  prithee  ? 

Car.  Marry,  that  it  is  not  only  fit,  but  lawful, 
Y'our  madam  there,  her  much  rest  and  high  feeding 
Duly  consider'd,  should,  to  ease  her  husband, 
Be  allow'd  a  private  friend  :  they  have  drawn  a  bill 
To  this  good  purpose,  and,  the  next  assembly, 
Doubt  not  to  pass  it. 

Don.   We  enjoy  no  more, 

That  are  o'  the  Othoman  race,  though  our  religion 
Allows  all  pleasure.     1  am  dull :  some  music. 
Take  my  chapinesf  off.     So,  a  lusty  strain. 

\_A  galliard.     Knocking  within. 
Who  knocks  there? 

[Manto  goes  to  the  door,  and  return*. 

Mant.  'Tis  the  basha  of  Aleppo, 
W  ho  humbly  makes  request  he  may  present 
His  service  to  you. 

Don.  Reach  a  chair.     We  must 
I   Receive  him  like  ourself,  and  not  depart  $  with 
j   One  piece  of  ceremony,  state,  and  greatness, 
|   That  may  beget  respect  and  reverence 
In  one  that's  born  our  vassal.     J»Tow  admit  Lim. 

Enter  MUSTAPIIA  ;  he  puts  of  his  yellow  pantoflet. 

Nusla.  The  place  is  sacred  ;  and  I  am  to  enter 
The  room  where  she  abides,  with  such  devotion 
As  pilgrims  pay  at  Mecca,  when  they  visit 
The  tomb  of  our  great  prophet.  [Kneck. 


*  Her  footmen,  her  caroch,  her  tiihers,  page*,}  If  the 
reader  would  have  a  pn.ini>iiig  specimen  of  what  can  be 
done  by  a  nice  ear,  in  editing  an  ancient  pott,  let  him  cast 
an  eye  on  this  line,  as  it  stands  in  Coxetei,  and  Mr.  M. 
Mason  : 

Her  footmen,  her  coach,  her  ushers,  her  page*, 
tum-ti-ti,  tum-ti-ti,  &c. 

»  Take  my  chapines  off.]  Chapinf*  (Spanish,  and  not 
Italian,  an  the  commentators  on  .Sh.ikspt-are  assert)  are  a 
kind  of  cloys  with  thick  cork  soles,  which  the  ladies  wear 
on  their  shoes  when  the)  go  abroad. 

—  and  not  dep.,rt  with,  &c.]    To  depart  and  part 


were  anciently  s-\  nonymoits.  Thus  Jonson  : 
"  He  that  deparii  with  I  is  own  honesty 
For  vuljjar  praise,  doth  it  loo  dearly  buy." 


Epig.  li. 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acrl. 


Don.  Rise ;  the  sign 

[Carazie  takes  tip  the  pantofies. 
That  we  vouchsafe  your  presence. 

Musta.  May  those  powers 

That  raised  the  Othoman  empire,  and  still  guard  it, 
Reward  your  highness  for  this  gracious  favour 
You  throw  ujion  your  servant !   It  hath  pleased 
The  most  invincible,  mightiest  Amurath, 
(To  speak  his  other  titles  would  take  from  him 
That  in  himself  does  comprehend  all  greatness,) 
To  make  me  the  unworthy  instrument 
Of  his  command.     Receive,  divinest  lady, 

[Delivers  a  letter. 

This  letter,  sign'd  bv  his  victorious  hand, 
And  made  authentic  by  the  imperial  seal.  [y°u 

There,  when  you  find  me  mention'd,  far  be  it  from 
To  think  it  my  ambition  to  presume 
At  such  a  happiness,  which  his  powerful  will, 
From  his  great  mind's  magnificence,  not  my  merit, 
Hath  shower 'd  upon  me.     But,  if  your  consent 
Join  with  his  good  opinion  and  allowance, 
To  perfect  what  his  favours  have  begun, 
I  shall,  in  my  obsequiousness  and  duty, 
Endeavour*  to  prevent  all  just  complaints, 
Which  want  of  will  to  serve  you  may  call  on  me. 
Don.  His  sacred  majesty  writes  here,  that  your 

valour 

Against  the  Persian  hath  so  won  upon  him, 
That  there's  no  grace  or  honour  in  his  gift, 
Of  which  he  can  imagine  you  unworthy  ; 
And,  what's  the  greatest  you  can  hope,  or  aim  at, 
It  is  his  pleasure  you  should  be  received 
Into  his  royal  family — provided, 
For  so  far  I  am  trnconfined,  that  I 
Affect  and  like  your  person.     I  expect  not 
The  ceremony  which  he  uses  in 
Bestowing  of  his  daughters  and  his  nieces : 
As  that  he  should  present  you  for  my  slave, 
To  love  you,  if  you  pleased  me  ;  or  deliver 
A  poniard,  on  my  least  dislike,  to  kill  you. 
Such  tyranny  and  pride  agree  not  with 
My  softer  disposition.     Let  it  suffice, 
For  my  first  answer,  that  thus  far  1  grace  you  : 

[Gives  him  her  hand  to  kiss. 
Hereafter,  some  time  spent  to  make  enquiry 
Of  the  good  parts  and  faculties  of  your  inind, 
You  shall  hear  further  from  me. 

Musta.  Though  all  torments 
Really  suffer'd,  or  in  hell  imagined 
By  curious  fiction,  in  one  hour's  delay 
Are  wholly  comprehended  ;  1  confess 
That  I  stand  bound  in  duty,  not  to  check  at 
Whatever  you  command,  or  please  to  impose, 
For  trial  of  my  patience. 

Don.  Let  us  find  [me  ; 

Sonw  other  subject ;  too  much  of  one  theme  cloys 
Is't  a  full  mart  ? 

Mat,  in.  A  confluence  of  all  nations 
Are  met  together  :  there's  variety,  too, 
Of  all  that  merchants  traffic  for. 
Don.  I  know  not — 


•  /  fhall  in  my  obsfquioutneu  and  duty. 

J-'ndeavour,  &c.]  This,  and  what  follows,  are  pretty  cor- 
rect fpcciiiK'iis  ot  the  manner  in  which  the  great  office r»  of 
the  state  arc  still  said  to  pay  their  addresses  to  the  prin- 
cesses of  the  imperial  family.  The  age  of  Ma.'singer  pro- 
duced many  good  hittories  of  the  Turks :  he  follows  them, 
however,  by  starts  only,  for  in  none  of  liis  plays  aie  the 
manner>  of  ditfereut  countries  to  mingled  and  confounded 
*tiu  this. 


I  feel  a  virgin's  longing  to  descend 
So  far  from  my  own  greatness,  as  to  be, 
Though  not  a  buyer,  yet  a  looker  on 
Their  strange  commodities. 

Musta.  If  without  a  train, 
You  dare  be  seen  abroad,  I'll  dismiss  mine, 
And  wait  upon  you  as  a  common  man, 
And  satisfy  your  wishes. 

Dim.  1  embrace  it. 

Provide  my  veil  ;  and,  at  the  postern  gate, 
Convey  us  out  unseen.     I  trouble  you. 

Musia.  It  is  my  happiness  you  deign  to  command 
me-  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Tie  Bazar. 

GAZET  in  his  Shop;   FRANCISCO  and  VITELLI  walking 
by. 

Caz.  What  do  you  lack  ?  Your  choice  China 
dishes,  your  pure  Venetian  crystal  of  all  sorts,  of 
all  neat  and  new  fashions,  from  the  mirror  of  the 
madam,  to  the  private  utensil  of  her  chiinihermaid  ; 
and  curious  pictures  of  the  rarest  beauties  of  Europe  : 
Wliat  do  you  lack,  gentlemen  ? 

Fran.  Take  heed,  1  say  ;  howe'er  it  may  appear 
Impertinent,  1  must  express  my  love, 
My  advice,  and  counsel.     You  are  young,  Vitelli*, 
And  may  be  tempted  ;  and  these  Turkish  dames, 
(Like  English  mastiffs,  that  increase  their  fierceness 
By  being  chain'd  up,)  from  the  restraint  of  freedom, 
If  lust  once  fire  their  blood  from  a  fair  object, 
Will  run  a  course  the  fiends  themselves  would  shake 
To  enjoy  their  wanton  ends.  [at, 

Viifl.  Sir,  you  mistake  me  : 
I  am  too  full  of  woe,  to  entertain 
One  thought  of  pleasure,  though  all  Europe's  queens 
Kneel'd  at  my  feet,  and  courted  me  ;  much  less 
To  mix  with  such,  whose  difference  of  faith 
Must,  of  necessity,  (or  I  must  grant 
Myself  neglectful  of  all  you  have  taught,  me,) 
Strangle  such  base  desires. 

Fran.  Be  constant  in 
That  resolution  ;  I'll  abroad  again, 
And  learn,  as  far  as  it  is  possible, 
What  may  concern  Paulina.     Some  two  hours 
Shall  bring  me  buck.  [Eiit. 

Vitfl.  Ail  blessings  wait  upon  you  ! 

Caz.  Cold  doings,  sir:  a  mart  do  you  call  this1* 

'slight ! 

A  puddingwife,  or  a  witch  with  a  thrum  cap, 
That  sells  ale  underground  to  such  as  come 
'I  o  know  their  fortunes  in  a  dead  vacation, 
Have  ten  to  one  more  stirring. 

Viiel.  We  must  be  patient. 

Gaz.  Your  seller  by  retail  ought  to  be  angry, 
But  when  he's  fingering  money. 

Enter  GRIMALOI,  Master,    Boatswain,  Sailors,  and 
Turks. 

Vilel.  Here  are  company 

Defend  me,  my  good  angel,  I  behold 
A  basilisk ! 

Gaz.  What  do  you  lack  ?  what  do  you  lack  ?  pure 
China  dishes,  clear  crystal  glasses,  a  dumb  mistress 
to  make  love  to  .'  What  do  you  lack,  gentlemen  ? 


*  You  art  young,  Vitelli,'  I  have  added  the  name, 

which  teems  to  have  dropt  out  at  the  press,  to  complete  the 
verse. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  RENEGADO. 


155 


Grim.  Thy  mother  for  a  bawd  ;  or,  if  thou  hast 
A  handsome  one,  thy  sister  for  a  whore  ; 
Without  these,  <io  not  tell  me  of  your  trash, 
Or  1  shall  spoil  your  marker. 

Vitel. Old  Grimaldi*!  [stand 

Grim    'Zounds,  wherefore  do  we  put  to  sea,  or 

The  racing  winds,  aloft,  or  p upon 

The  tbiiiuy  waves,  when  they  rage  most ;  deride 

The  thunder  of  the  enemy's  shot,  board  boldly 

A  merchant's  ship  for  prize,  though  we  behold 

The  desperate  gunner  ready  to  give  fire, 

And  blew  the  deck  up  ?  wherefore  shake  we  off 

Those  scrupulous  rags  of  charity  arid  conscience, 

Invented  only  to  keep  churchmen  warm, 

Or  feed  the  hungry  mouths  of  famish 'd  beggars  ; 

But,  when  we  toucli  the  shore,  to  wallow  in 

All  sensu-il  pleasures? 

Mast.  Ay,  but,  noble  cnptnin, 
To  spare  a  little  for  un  after-clap, 
Wt-re  not  improvidence. 

Grim.  Hang  consideration  ! 
When  this  is  spent,  is  not  our  ship  tbe  same, 
Our  courage  ioa  the  same,  to  fetch  in  more? 
The  enrh,  where  it  is  fertilest,  returns  not 
Wore  than  three  harvests,  while  the  glorious  sun 
Posts  through  the  zodiac,  and  makes  up  the  year  : 
But  the  sen,  which  is  our  mother,  (that  embraces 
Both  the  rich  Indies  in  her  out-stretch'd  arms,) 
Yields  every  day  a  crop,  i!  we  dare  reap  it. 
No,  no,  my  mates,  let  tradesmen  think  of  thrift, 
And  usurers  hoard  up  ;  let  our  expense 
Be  as  our  comings  in  are,  without  bounds, 
We  are  the  Neptune*  ot  the  ocean, 
And  such  as  traffic  shall  pay  sacrifice 
Of  their  b-st  lading  ;  1  will  have  this  canvass 
Your  boy  wears,  lined  with  tissue,  and  the  cates 
You  taste  serv'd  up  in  gold  : — Though  we  carouse 
The  tears  of  orphans  in  our  Gi'eekish  wines, 
The  sighs  of  undone  widows  paying  for 
The  music  bought  to  cheer  us,  ravisli'd  virgins 
To  slavery  sold,  for  coin  to  feed  our  riots, 
We  will  have  no  compunction. 

Gaz.  Du  you  hear,  sir  ? 
We  have  paid  for  our  ground. 

Grim.   Mum! 

Gaz.  And  I  mm  too ! 

For  all  jour  big  words,  get  you  further  off, 
And  hinder  not  the  prospect  of  our  shop, 
Or 

Grim.  What  will  you  do  ? 

Gaz.  Nothing,  sir, — but  pray 
Your  worship  to  give  me  handsel. 

Grim.  By  tiie  ears, 
Thus,  sir,  by  the  ears. 

Masl.  Hold,  hold  ! 

Vii-l.  You'll  s'iil  be  prating  [whore. 

Gum.  Come,  let's  he  drunk  ;  then  each  man  to  his 
'Slight,  how  do  you  look  !  you  had  best  go  find  a 

corner 

To  pray  in,  and  repent :  do,  do,  and  cry ; 
It  will  shew  h'ne  in  pirates.  [Exit. 

Matt.   We  must  follow, 
Or  he  will  spend  our  shares. 

Boiitsw.  I  fought  for  mine. 

Musi.  Nor  am  I  so  precise  but  I  can  drab  too; 
We  will  not  sit  out  for  our  parts. 

•  Oltl  Critnaldi.']  So  the  qii,irlc>.  i  suppose  Jlie  li- 
censer here  laid  In?  h.md  upon  some  harmless  interjection: 
the  uext  luckily  escaped  him. 


Boatsw.  Agreed.     [F.ieunt  Muster,  Ewihw.,  Sailor t 

Guz.  The  devil  gnaw  off  his  fingers  !  If  he  were 
In  London,  among  the  clubs,  up  went  his  heels 
For  striking  of  a  'prentice*.     What  do  you  lackl 
What  do  you  lack,  gentlemen? 

1  Turk.  I  wonder  how  the  viceroy  can  endure 
The  insolence  of  this  fellow. 

V  Turk.  Jle  receives  profit 
From  the  prizes  he  brings  in  ;  and  that  excuses 
Whatever  he  commits.     Ha!   what  are  these  ? 

Fnter  MUSTAPIIA,  and  DONUSA  veiled. 

1  Turk.  They  seem  of  rank  and  cjuality  ;  observe 
them. 

Gaz.  \\  hat  do  you  lack  ?  see  what  you  please  to 

buy ; 
Wares  of  all  sorts,  most  honourable  madona. 

Vitel.  Peace,  sirrah,  make  no  noise  ;  these  are  not 
To  be  jested  with.  [people 

Don.  Is  this  the  Christians'  custom, 
In  the  venting  their  commodities  ? 

Musta.  Yes,  best  madam. 

But  you  may  please  to  keep  your  way,  here's  nothing 
But  toys  and  tiifles,  not  worth  your  observing. 

Dun.  Yes,  for  variety's  sake  :  pray  you,  shew  us, 
The  chiefest  of  your  wares.  [friend, 

Vitel.   Your  ladyship's  servant ; 
And  if,  in  worth  or  title,  you  are  more, 
My  ignorance  plead  my  pardon  ! 

Dun.  He  speaks  well.  [mirror 

Vitel.  Take  down  the  looking-glass.     Here  is  a 
Steel'tl  so  exactly,  neither  taking  from 
Nor  flattering  the  object  it  returns 
To  the  beholder,  that  Narcissus  might 
(And  never  grow  enamour'd  of  himself) 
View  his  fair  feature  in't. 

Dim.  Poetical  too  ! 

Vitel.  Here  China  dishes  to  serve  in  a  banquet, 
Though  the  voluptuous  Persian  sat  a  guest. 
Here  crystal  glasses,  such  as  Ganymede 
Did  fill  with  nectar  to  the  Thunderer, 
When  he  drunk  to  Alcides,  and  received  him 
In  the  fellowship  of  the  gods  ;  true  to  the  owners  f. 


If  he  were 


Jn  London,  amoiiy  the  clubs,  up  went  his  heeh, 
For  stiiiiiny  of  a  'prent.ce.]  Tlie  police  01  the  city  seems 
to  li.iv>>  ti.-rii  wretchedly  conducted  at  this  time,  when  pri- 
vate injuries  were  left  to  private  redress,  and  public  brawls 
composed  by  the  inlcit'ercnce  of  a  giddy  rubble.  V.very 
house,  at  least  every  shop,  was  furnished  with  bludgeons, 
with  which,  on  the  slightest  appearance  of  a  tray,  til;  in- 
habitants armed  themselves,  and  nislitd  in  swarms  to  tbe 
scene  of  action.  From  the  petulance  of  the  young  citizen", 
who  then  mixed  littlr  \\ith  the  gci.lry,  and  the  real  or  af- 
fected contempt  ill  which  the  latter  professed  to  In  I.I  them, 
subjects  of  contention  were  perpetually  arising :  the  city 
fi»nal  for  reinforcements,  was  a  cry  of  "clubs,  clubs!" 
and  the  streets  were  instantly  tilled  with  armed  apprentices. 
To  this  curious  system  of  preserving  the  peace,  our  old 
drain.iti-ts  have  frequent  allusions.  Thus,  in  Decker's 
Honi'st  H  bore,  where  a  merrer  is  struck,  his  servant  ex- 
claims: "  'Sfojt,  clulis!  clubs.'  prentices,  down  with  them  ! 
ah  you  rogues,  strike  a  citizen  in  his  shop!"  Again,  in 
Green  s  'lutyunque,  Staines  s.iys  : 

"  Sirrah  !  bv  jour  outside  you  seem  a  citizen, 
Wh.ise  coxcomb  1  were  »pt  enough  to  break, 
I'm  lor  the  Uw.     <><>,  you're  a  prating  Jack 
Nor  is'l  your  hopes  of  crying  out  for  ciubt, 
Can  save  yon  irmn  my  ch  islisemcni." 
t  Here  crystal  glasses— —  true  to  the  owners,  &c.]  This, 
and  wli.it  follows,  i.-  a   correct  account  of  ihe    nolion   once 
enli'i-Uii,]. -<|,  respecting  the  erti-ct  or  poison  on  Venice  glasses ; 
a  circumstance  "Inch  woii'leriully  increased  their  value.    Il 
may  be  aided,  that   the  chief  mamnaclory  for   glass  was  at 
llii.i  time  in  the  vi>:,»iiy  oi  tmi  ei;>.     All.  Cilclirist  imcrms 
me,  from  Stow,  that  "  the  first  making  of  Venice  i,Ussea  1C 


126 


THE  RENEGADO. 


II 


Corintbian  plate,  studded  with  diamonds, 
Conceal'd  oft  deadly  poison  ;  this  pure  metal 
So  innocent  is,  and  faithful  to  the  mistress 
Or  master  that  possesses  it,  that,  rather 
Than  hold  one  drop  that's  venomous,  of  itself 
It  flies  in  pieces,  and  deludes  the  traitor. 

Don.  I  low  movingly  could  this  fellow  treat  upon 
A  worthy  subject,  that  finds  such  discourse 
To  grace  a  trifle  ! 

Vitel.  Here's  a  picture,  madam  ; 
The  masterpiece  of  Michael  Angelo, 
Our  great  Italian  workman  ;  here's  another, 
So  perfect  at  all  parts,  that  had  Pygmalion 
Seen  this,  his  prayers  had  been  made  to  Venus 
To  have  given  it  life,  and  his  carved  ivory  image 
By  poets  ne'er  remember'd.     They  are,  indeed, 
The  rarest  beauties  of  the  Christian  world, 
And  no  where  to  be  equall'd. 

Don.  You  are  partial 

In  the  cause  of  those  you  favour  ;  I  believe 
I  instantly  could  shew  you  one,  to  theirs 
Not  much  inferior. 

Vuei.  With  your  pardon,  madam, 
I  am  incredulous. 

Don.  Can  you  match  me  this?          [.Lifts  lier  veil. 

Vitel.  What  wonder  look  I  on  !  I'll  search  above, 
And  suddenly  attend  you.  [Exit. 

Don.  Are  you  amazed  ? 
I'll  bring  you  to  yourself.     [Throws  down  the  glasses. 

Musta.  Ha  !  what's  the  matter  ? 

Gas.  My  master's  ware  !— We  are  undone! — O 

strange ! 

A  lady  to  turn  roarer,  and  break  glasses*  ! 
Tis  time  to  shut  up  shop  then. 

Miittu.  You  seem  moved. 
If  any  language  of  these  Christian  dogs 
Have  call'd  your  anger  on,  in  a  frown  shew  it, 
And  they  are  dead  already. 


Don.  The  offence 

Looks  not  so  far.     The  foolish  paltry  fellow 
Shew'd  me  some  trifles,  and  demanded  of  me, 
For  what  I  valued  at  so  many  aspers, 
A  thousand  ducats.     I  confess  he  moved  me; 
Yet  I  should  wrong  myself,  should  such  a  beggar 
Receive  least  loss  from  me. 

Musta.  Is  it  no  more  ? 

Don.  No,  I  assure  you.     Bid  him  bring  his  bill 
To-morrow  to  the  palace,  and  enquire 
For  one  Donusa ;  that  word  gives  him  passage 
Through  all  the  guard  :  say,  there  he  shall  receive 
Full  satisfaction.     Now,  when  you  please. 

Musta.  I  wait  you.          [Ereunt  Musta.  and  Don* 

1   Turk.  We  must   not  know  them. — Let's   shift 
off,  and  vanish.  [Exeunt  Turks. 

Gaz.  The  swine 's-pox  overtake  you !  there's  a  curse 
For  a  Turk,  that  eats  no  hog's  flesh. 

He-enter  YMELLI. 

Vitel.  Is  she  gone  ? 

Gaz.  Yes  :  you  may  see  her  handiwork. 

Vitel.  No  matter. 
Said  she  ought  else  ? 

Gaz.  That  you  should  wait  upon  her, 
And  there  receive  court  payment ;  and,  to  pass 
The  guards,  she  bids  you  only  say  you  come 
To  one  Donusa. 

Vitel.  How  !  Remove  the  wares  : 
Do  it  without  reply.     The  sultan's  niece  ! 
I  have  heard,  among  the  Turks,  for  any  lady 
To  show  her  face  bare,  argues  love,  or  spesika 
Her  de>uily  hatred.    What  should  1  fear?  my  fortune 
Is  sunk  so  low,  there  cannot  fall  upon  me 
Aught  worth  my  shunning.     I  will  run  the  hazard  : 
She  may  be  a  means  to  free  distress'd  Paulina — 
Or,  if  offended,  at  the  worst,  to  die 


Is  a  full  period  to  calamity. 


[£»IMt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.—  A  Room  in  DONUSA'S  Palace. 
Enter  CARAZIE  and  MANTO. 

Car.  In  the  name  of  wonder,  Manto,  what  hath  my 
Done  with  herself,  since  yesterday  1  [lady 

Mant.  I  know  not. 

Malicious  men  report  we  are  all  guided 
In  our  affections  by  a  wandering  planet  ; 
But  such  a  sudden  change  in  such  a  person, 
May  stand  for  an  example,  to  confirm 
Their  false  assertion. 


England,  began  at  the  Crotched  Fryars,  in   London,  about 
the   beginning  of  (he   r^igne  of  Queen   Elizabeth,   by  one 
Jacob  Venaline,  an  Italian."    These,  I  suspect,  were   not, 
like  the  genuine  one*,  true  to  the  owner*.    There  is  an  allu- 
sion in  t.ni-t  .--peerh  to  a  beautiful  passage  in  Juvcii.il- 
"  --  nv/la  aconita  bibunt'tr 
Fii:til:bvi  ;  tune  iila  time,  cum  pocula  iumrs 
Gemmata,  et  lato  Setinum  urdetiit  in  aura."    Sat.  x. 
•  A  lady  to  turn  roarer,  and  break  glasses!}    A  roarer 
was   the  c.int    term    for  what    we   now  c.iil    .1    blustircr,   or 
bully.    Thus  Gazet,  in   the  third  act,  says  to  GriinalUi,  in 
liii  slate  of  reformation, 

Now,  you  do  not  roar,  tir. 


Car.  She's  now  pettish,  froward  ; 
Music,  discourse,  observance,  tedious  to  her. 

Mant.  She  slept  not  the  last  night ;  and  yet  pre- 
vented 

The  rising  sunt,  in  being  up  before  him  : 
Call'd  for  a  costly  bath,  then  will'd  the  rooms 
Should  be  perfumed  ;  ransack'd  her  cab'nets 
For  her  choice  and  richest  jewels^,  and    anpea-s 
now 


•  [Exeunt  Mutta.  and  Don.]  Nothing  can  exceed  ihe 
negligence  with  which  the  exits  and  entrances  are  marked 
by  Mr.  M.  Mason  :  in  this  pUre  he  gives  a  speech  to  the 
lurks,  after  sen:liii»  them  off  the  st:i$;c  ! 

t  Mant.  She  slept  not  the  last  nitjl.t  ;  and  yet  prevented 

inc  rising  «m,|  MaiMneer  explains  hin.telf:  but  the 
expression  is  from  the  Psalms:  "Mine  eye*  prevent  the 
night  watches." 

J  for  her  choice  and  richest  jewels.]  This  is  mod. -mixed 
by  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Miton.Iulo  chowitt,  richeit  jewels: 
although  the  frequent  rc«ni rente  of  the  i-xpivs.-i..ii  might 
nave  t-tiight  them  caution  on  the  subject  ;  it  is  found  rfgdii. 
10  tliis  very  play; 

"  Adoi neii  in  her  choice  and  richest  jewel*." 

Act.  V.  ic.  iii. 


SCTVB  III.] 


THE  REN  KG  A  DO. 


Like  Cynthia  in  full  glorv,  waited  on 
By  the  fairest  of  tlie  stars. 

Car.  Can  you  guess  the  reason, 
\\\ty  the  aga  of  the  janizaries,  and  he 
That  guards  the  entrance  of  the  inmost  port, 
Were  call'd  before  her? 

AlaMf.  They  are  both  her  cre-.ituros, 
And  by  her  grace  preferr'd  :  but  I  am  ignorant 
To  what  purpose  they  were  sent  for. 

Enter  DONUSA. 

Car.  Here  she  comes, 

Full  of  sad  thoughts  :  we  must  stand  further  off. 
What  a  frown  was  that ! 

Mant.    Forbear. 

Cor.  I  pity  her.  [self? 

Don.  What  ma^ric  hath  trnnsform'd  me  from  my- 
Where  is  mv  virgin  pride?  how  have  1  lost 
My  boasted  freedom  ?  what  new  fire  burns  up 
My  scorched  entrails?  what  unknown  desires 
Invade,  and  take  possession  of  my  soul, 
All  virtuous  objects  vanish 'd  ?  I,  that  have  stood* 
The  shock  of  lierce  temptations,  stopp'd  mine  ears 
Against  all  syren  notes  lust  ever  sung, 
To  draw  my  "bark  of  chastity  (that  with  wonder 
Hath  kept  a  constant  and  an  honour'd  course) 
Into  the  gulph  of  a  deserved  ill-lame, 
Now  fall  unpitied  ;  and,  in  a  moment, 
With  mine  own  hands,  dig  up  a  grave  to  bury 
The  monumental  heap  of  all  my  years, 
Lmplov'd  in  noble  actions.     O,  mv  lire  ! 
—  but  there  is  no  resis'ing.     1  obey  thee, 
Imperious  god  of  love,  and  willingly 
Put  mine  own  fetters  on,  to  grace  tliy  triumph  : 
'Twere,  therefore,  more  than  cruelty  in  thee, 
To  use  me  like  a  tyrant.      What  poor  means 
Must  I  make  use  of  now  ;   and  flatter  such, 
To  whom,  till  1  betray 'd  my  liberty, 
One  gracious  look  of  mine  would  have  erected 
An  altar  to  my  service  !     How  now.  Mauto  ! — 
My  ever  careful  woman  ;   and,  C'arazie, 
Thou  hast  been  faithful  too. 

Car.  1  dare  not  call 

My  life  mine  own,  since  it  is  yours,  but  gladly 
Will  part  with  it,  whene'er  you  shall  command  me; 
And  think  1  fall  a  martyr,  so  my  deaik. 
Mav  give  life  to  your  pleasures. 

Mant.   I5ut  vouchsafe 
To  let  ire  understand  what  you  desire 
Should  l>e  etfectKl;  I  will  undertake  it. 
And  curse  n.yself  for  cowardice,  if  1  paused 
To  ask  a  reason  why. 

Dan.  I  am  comforted 

In  the  tender  of  your  service,  but  shall  be 
Confirm 'd  in  my  full  joys,  in  the  p»_-r!orinance. 
Vet,  trust  me,  I  will  not  impose  upon  you 
But  what  you  stand  engaged  for  to  a  mistress, 
Such  as  1  have  been  to  you.     All  1  ask, 
Is  faith  and  secrecy. 

Cur.  Say  but  you  doubt  me, 
And.  to  secure  you,  I'll  cut  out  my  tongue  ; 
I  am  libb'd  in  the  breech  already. 

Munt.  Do  not  hinder 
Yourself,  by  these  delays. 

•  '  I  that  have  stand.  &c.]  This  fine  siK-ech.  a«  it  hath  been 
hitherto  given  in  all  the  riliiiun-,  is  absolute  IHHIM-IIM-.  I 
have  \viitnrtd  to  reform  the  pointing  altogether,  anil  to 
insert  that  t><  tore  have,  which  is  the  greutett  liberty  1  have 
vet  taken  with  the  old  cop>. 


Dun.  Tl'US  then  I  whisper 

Mine  own  shame  to  \ou. — O  that  I  should  blush 
To  speak  what  I  so  much  desire  to  do! 
And,  fur'liiT —       [II  hispers  mid  uses  vehement  action 

Mant.    Is  this  all! 

Dun.    I  hiiik  it  not  base  : 
Although  1  know  the  office  undergoes 
A  coarse  construction. 

Car.  Coarse!   'tis  but  procuring; 
A  smock  employment,  which  liiis  made  more  knights. 
In  a  country  1  could  name,  than  twenty  years 
Of  service  in  the  h'eUI. 

Dan.   Ymi  have  my  ends.  [wanting 

Munt.    Which  say  you    have   arrived   at:  be   not 
To  yourself,  and  fear  not  us. 

C»r.   1  know  mv  burthen  ; 
I'll  bt-ar  it  with  delight. 

M'litt.  Talk  not,  hut  do.    [Eiennt  Cur.  and  Mant. 

Dow.  O  love,  what  poor  shifts  thou  dost  force  us 
to  !  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — A  Court  in  the  same. 
Enter  Aga,  Capiaga,  and  Janizaries. 

Aga.  She  was  ever  our  good  mistress,  and  our 

maker, 

And  should  we  check  at  a  little  hazard  for  her, 
|    \Ve,  were  unthankful. 

Cup.  I  dare  pawn  my  he;id, 
'Tis  some  disguised  minion  of  the  court, 
Sent  from  great  Amurath,  to  learn  from  her 
'1  La  viceroy's  actions. 

A<ra.  That  concerns  not  us  ;  • 

His  fall  may  he  our  rise :   whate'cr  he  be, 
He  passes  through  my  guards. 

Cno.  And  mine — provided 
He  give  the  word. 

Enter  VITELIJ. 

Vitel.  To  faint  now,  being  thus  far, 
Would  arcue  me  of  cowardice. 

Aga.  Stand  :   the  word  : 
Or,  being  a  Christian,  to  press  thus  far, 
Forfeits  thy  life. 

Vitel.  Oonusa. 

Aga.   I'iiss  in  peace.      \Eieunt  Aga  and  Janisaries 

Vitel.  What  a  privilege  her  name  bears  ! 
'Tis  wondrous  strange  !  If  the  great  officer, 
The  guardian  of  the  inner  port,  deny  not  — 

Cup.  Thy  warrant :   Speak,  or  thou  art  dead. 

Vitel.  Donusa. 

Cap.  1  hat  protects  thee  ; 
Without  fear  enter.     So  : — discharge  the  watch. 

[Ei emit  Vitelli  and  Capiagta. 

SCENE  III. — An  outer  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  CARAZIE  and  MANTO. 

Car.  Though  he  hath  past  the  aga  and  chief  porter, 
This  cannot  be  the  man. 

Mant.  By  her  description, 
1  am  sun-  it  is. 

Car.  O  women,  women, 
What  are  you  ?  A  great  lady  dote  upon 
A  harbenlasher  of  small  wares  ! 

Mant.  Pish  !  thou  hast  none. 

Car.  No  ;  if  I  had,  I  might  have  served  tLe  turn: 
This  'tis  to  want  munition,  when  a  man 
Should  make  a  breach,  and  enter. 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[AcrU. 


Enter  VITELU. 

Ma7it.  Sir,  you  are  welcome  : 
Think  what  'tis  to  be  h.ippy,  and  possess  it. 

Cif.  Perfume   the  rooms  there,  and  make  way. 

Let  music 

With  choice  notes  entertain  the  man  the  princess 
Now  purposes  to  honour*. 

Vitel.  I  am  ravish'd.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  A  Room  pf  State  in  the  same.     A  table 
setjorth,  with  jewels  and  bags  upon  it. 

Loud  music.     Enter  DONVSA,  (fallowed  by  CARAZIF,) 

unit  takts  her  seat. 

Don.  Sing  o'er  the  ditty  that  I  last  composed 
Upon  my  lovesick  passion:  suit  your  voice 
To  the  music  that's  placed  yonder,  we  shall  hear  you 
With  more  delight  and  pleasure. 

Car.  I  obey  you.  [&>ng. 

During  the  song,  enter  MANTO  and  VITELLI. 

Vitel.  Is  not  this  Tempe,  or  the  blessed  shades, 
Where  innocent  spirits  reside?  or  do  1  dream, 
And  this  a  heavenly  vision?  Howsoever, 
It  is  a  sight  too  g'orious  to  behold, 
For  such  a  wretch  as  I  am. 

Car.  HP  is  daunted. 

Mant.  Speak  to  him.  madam  ;  cheer  him  up,  or  you 
Destroy  whai  you  have  built. 

Car.  Would  I  were  furnish 'd 
With  his  artillery,  and  if  I  stood 
Gaping  as  he  does,  hang  me.  [Aside. 

[Extunt  Carazie  and  Mania. 

Vitel.  That  I  might 
Ever  dream  thus  !  [Kneeli 

Don.  Banish  amazement ; 

You  wake  :  your  debtor  tells  you  so,  your  debtor : 
And,  to  assure  you  that  I  am  a  substance  f, 
And  no  aerial  figure,  thus  I  raise  you. 
Why  do  you  shake?  my  soft  touch  brings  no  ague: 
No  biting  frost  is  in  this  palm  ;  nor  are 
My  looks  like  to  the  Gorgon's  head,  that  turn  $ 
Men  into  statues;  rather  they  have  power, 
Or  1  have  been  abused,  where  they  bestow 
Their  influence,  (let  me  prove  it  truth  in  you,) 
To  give  \o  dead  men  motion. 

Vitel.  Can  this  be  ? 

May  1  believe  my  senses?  Dare  I  think 
I  have  a  memory,  or  that  you  are 


•  Car.  Perfume  the  rooms  there,  and  make  way.    Let 
music 


njed 


With  choice  note*  entertain  the  man,  the  princett 

Aotc  purposes  to  honour.}    These  lines  are  thus  arra 
by  Coiner  «ad  Mr   M    Mason: 

c-ar.   Perfume  Hie  room*  there,  and  make  way, 
Let  music  »  choice  note*  entertain  the  man, 
The  yrim:ess  note  purposes  to  honour. 

The  reader  ma)  consider  x*  bethel  it  was  worth  while  to 
lophisticate  the  o.d  ropy,  for  llie  sake  of  producing  three 
lino  of  barbarous  prose. 

t  And,  to  assure  you  that  I  am  a  substance,}    The  omi«- 
»ion   ot  llie   article   by  Coxeter  and   Mr.  M.  Mason,  utterly    I 
destroy*  the  metre. 

t that  turn]     Mr.  M.  Mason  reads,  that /unit.-  but    ! 

he  mbUkolhc  government  of  the  xtrb,  \\liicli  i.<  not  Gor- 
con's  head,  bin  looks,  as   is  Mirricieiiily  clear  tiom  what   Ibl-    ! 
lows.     1   in n -i  observe   lure,  thai    Massiii'_«r   is  too  apt,  in 
the  wnr»|»  of  hone*  Doybt-rrx .  to  l.-i  h't  writing  and  rradiny    \ 
appear,  when  then  i*  no   need  of  tuck  vanity.     N  ot  oidy    | 
Viti-lli,  bin  L)..nu?a  and  all  In  r  omit  appear  .1-.  familiar  with    ' 
the  heathen  mythology,  as  Ovid  hiniM.Il. 


That  excellent  creature  that  of  late  di.-dained  not 
To  look  on  my  poor  trifles? 

Don.  I  am  she. 

Vitel.  The  owner  of  that  blessed  name,  Donusa, 
Whicl),  like  a  potent  charm,  although  pronounced 
By  my  profane,  but  much  unworthier,  tongue, 
Hath  brought  me  safe  to  this  forbidden  place, 
Where  Christian  yet  ne'er  trod? 

Don.  I  am  the  same. 

Vitel.  And  to  what  end,  great  lady— pardon  me, 
That  1  presume  to  ask,  did  your  command 
Command  me  hither?  Or  what  am  I,  to  whom 
You  should  vouchsafe  your  favours ;  nay,  your  an- 
If  any  wild  or  uncollected  speech,  [gers? 

Offensively  deliver'd,  or  my  doubt 
Of  your  unknown  perfections,  have  displeased  you, 
You  wrong  your  indignation  to  pronounce, 
Yourself,  my  sentence :  to  have  seen  you  only, 
And  to  have  touch'd  that  fortune-making  hand, 
Will  with  delight  weigh  down  all  tortures,  that 
A  flinty  hangman's  rage  could  execute, 
Or  rigid  tyranny  command  with  pleasure. 

Don.  How  the  abundance  of  >:oed  flowing  tothee, 
Is  wrong'd  in  this  simplicity  !  and  these  bounties, 
Which  all  our  eastern  kings  have  kneel 'd  in  vain  for, 
Do,  by  thy  ignorance,  or  wiliul  fear, 
Meet  with  a  false  construction  !  Christian,  know 
(For  till  thou  art  mine  by  a  nearer  name, 
That  title,  though  abhorr'd  here,  lakes  not  from 
Thy  entertainment)  that  'tis  not  the  fashion 
Among  the  greatest  and  the  fairest  dames 
This  Turkish  empire  gladly  owes*  and  bows  to, 
To  punish  where  there's  no  offence,  or  nourish 
Displeasures  against  those,  without  whose  mercy 
They  part  with  all  felicity.     Prithee,  be  wise, 
And  gently  understand  me  ;  do  not  force  her, 
That  ne'er  knew  aught  but  to  command,  nor  e'er  read 
The  elements  of  affection,  but  from  such 
As  gladly  sued  to  her,  in  the  infancy 
Of  her  new-born  desires,  to  be  at  once 
Importunate  and  immodest. 

Vitel.  Did  I  know, 
Great  lady,  your  commands ;  or,  to  what  purpose 
'1  his  personated  passion  tends,  (since  'twere 
A  crime  in  me  deserving  death,  to  think 
It  is  your  own,)  1  should,  to  make  you  sport, 
Take  any  shape  you  please  t'  impose  upon  me  ; 
And  with  joy  strive  to  serve  you. 

Don.  Sport !  Thou  art  cruel, 
If  that  thou  canst  interpret  my  descent 
From  my  high  birth  and  greatness,  but  to  be 
A  partf,  in  which  I  truly  act  myself: 
And  I  must  hold  thee  for  a  dull  spectator, 
If  it  stir  not  affection,  and  invite 
Compassion  for  my  sufferings.     Be  thou  taught 
By  my  example,  to  make  satisfaction 
For  wrongs  unjustly  offer'd.     Willingly 
I  do  confess  my  fault ;  1  injured  thee 
In  some  poor  petty  trifles  :  thus  I  pay  for 
The  trespass  I  did  to  thee.     Here — receive 


*  Thi*  Turkish  empire  gladly  oxves  and  bows  to,]  i  hough 
nothing  is  more  common  m  our  i.ld  writer-,  than  llie  use  of 
this  word  (»xve)  in  the  M'lise  of  posses*,  yrt  Coxeler  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  invariably  corrupt  it  imo  own.  1  have 
alrea-iy  noticed  this;  and  Kir  Hie  future,  .-hall  content  my- 
stlf  with  silently  restoiiiig  the  genuine  muling, 
t but  to  be 

A  part,  &r.]  i.  e.  to  I*  nolh'my  more  than  a  ficiition*  cha- 
racter; alludiM-  to  his  termini;  her  pa»M»n  personated,  OI 
played. 


CTMR   V.J 


THE  KENEGADO. 


If* 


These  bags,  stuff'tt  full  of  our  imperial  coin  ; 
Or,  if  this  payment  be  too  light,  take  here 
These  gems,  for  which  the  slavish  Indian  dives 
To  the  bottom  of  the  m;iin  :  or,  it'thou  scorn 
These  as  base  dross,  which  take  but  common  minds, 
But  fancy  any  honour  in  my  gift. 
Which  is  unbounded  as  the  sultan's  power, 
And  be  possest  oft. 

Vitf.l.  1  am  overwhelm'd 

With  the  weight  of  happiness  you  throw  upon  me : 
Nor  can  it  fall  in  my  imagination, 
What  wrong  you  e'er  have  done  me*;  and  much 

less 

How,  like  a  royalf  merchant,  to  return 
Your  great  magnifuence. 

Don.  They  are  degrees, 
Not  ends,  of  my  intended  favours  to  thee. 
These  seeds  of  bounty  1  yet  scatter  on 
A  glebe  I  have  not  tried  : — but,  be  thou  thankful, 
The  harvest  is  to  come. 

Vitel.  What  1-1111  be  added 
To  that  whii  h  1  already  have  received, 
I  cannot  comprehend. 

Don.  The  tender  of 

Myself.     Why  d  st  thou  start?  and  in  that  gift, 
Full  restitution  of  that  virgin  freedom 
Which  thou  hast  robb'd  me  of.     Yet,  I  profess, 
I  so  far  prize  the  lovely  thief  that  stole  it, 
That,  were  it  possible  thou  couldst  restore 
W  hat  thou  unwittingly  hast  ravish'd  from  me. 
I  should  refuse  the  present. 

Vitel.   How  I  shake 

In  my  constant  resolution!  and  my  flesh, 
Rebellious  to  my  better  part,  now  tells  me, 
As  if  it  were  a  strong  defence  of  fniilty, 
A  hermit  in  a  desert,  trench'd  with  prayers, 
Could  not  resist  this  battery. 

Don.  Thou  an  Italian, 
Nay  more,  1  know't,  a  natural  Venetian, 
Such  as  are  courtiers  b-'.rn  to  please  fair  ladies, 
Yet  come  thus  slowly  on. 

Vitel.  Excuse  me.  madam  : 
What  imputation  soe'er  the  world 
Is  pleased  to  lay  upon  us,  in  myself 
I  am  so  innocent,  that  1  know  not  what  'tis 
That  I  should  offer. 

Don.    By  instinct  I'll  teach  thee, 
And  with  such  ease  as  love  makes  me  to  ask  it. 
When  a  young  lady  wrings  you  by  the  hand,  thus, 
Or  with  an  amorous  touch  presses  your  foot, 
Looks  babies  in  \  our  eyes,  plays  with  your  locks, 
Do  not  you  find,  without  a  tutor's  help, 
What  'tis  she  looks  for  ? 

Vitel.  I  am  grown  already 
Skilful  in  the  mystery. 

Don.  Or,  if  thus  sue  kiss  you, 
Then  tastes  your  lips  again 


•  What  wronij  you  e'er  have  done  me ;]  The  old  copy 
rends,  t1  hat  wrong  I  e  er  have  done  jon.  This  transpoM- 
ti.-n  i-f  pronouns,  tor  •vhii-h  I  am  answerable,  seems  abso- 
lutely mcess,iry  to  make  scii-e  of  the  passage. 

•f  How,  lii.e  a  ioya!  inercli.iiit,  to  return 
Your  yreut  mai/nijicence.]  \\eareuot  to  imagine  the  word, 
rot/it  to  be  only  a  iMnliii"  cpilhct.  In  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, the  Veiieli.ms  were  m.isti  rs  of  the  se.i  ;  the  Sanmi<.s, 
(he  Jn-limaiii,  tiie  (iiimalili,  &c.,  all  merchant*,  erected 
principalities  in  >e>er.d  pi  ices  of  tin-  Aichipel.i^o,  (which 
tr»:r  uVscrndants  <-nj»)ed  lor  in  my  mni-r.it ions,)  and 
thereby  became  truly  ..nd  properly  royal  merchants  :  which, 
indeed,  was  the  title  generally  given  them  all  over  Europe. 
\VABBURTON. 


Vilfl.  That  latter  blow 
Has  beat  all  chaste  thoughts  from  me. 

Don.  Say,  she  points  to 

Some  private  room  the  sunbeams  never  enter, 
Provoking  dishes  passing  by,  to  heighten 
Declined  appetite,  active  music  ushering 
Your  fainting  steps,  the  waiters  too,  as  born  dumb, 
Not  daring  to  look  on  you. 

[Exit,  inuiting  him  to  follow. 

Vitel.  Though  the  devil 
Stood  by,  and  roar'd,  I  follow  :  Now  I  find 
That  virtue's  but  a  word,  and  no  sure  guard, 
If  set  upon  by  beauty  and  reward.  [Ei-t't. 

SCENE  V.  —  A  Hall  in  ASAMHEC'S  House. 

Enter  Aga,  Capiaga,  GRIMAI.DI,  Master,  Boatswain, 
and  others. 

Aga.  The  devil's  in  him,  I  think. 

Grim.   Let  him  be  damn'd  too. 
I'll  look  on  him,  though  he  stared  as  wild  as  bell  ; 
Nay,  I'll  go  near*  to  tell  him  to  his  teeth, 
If  he  mends  not  suddenly,  and  proves  more  thankful, 
We  d.)  him  too  much  service.     Were't  not  for  shame 
I  could  turn  honest,  and  forswear  my  trade  :     [now 
Which,  next  to  being  truss'd  up  at  the  maiiiyard 
By  some  low  country  butterbox,  1  hate 
As  deadly  as  I  do  fasting,  or  long  grace 
When  meat  <  ools  on  the  table. 

Cup.  But  take  heed  ; 
You  know  his  violent  nature. 

Grim.  Let  his  whores 

And  catamites  know't:  I  understand  myself, 
And  how  unmanly  'tis  to  sit  at  home, 
And  rail  at  us,  that  run  abroad  all  hazards, 
If  every  week  we  bring  not  home  new  pillage, 
For  the  fatting  his  seraglio. 


Enter  ASAMBEG  and 

Aga.  Here  he  comes. 

Cap.  How  terrible  he  looks  ! 

Grim.  To  such  as  fear  him. 

The  viceroy,  Asambeg!  were  he  the  sultan's  self, 
He'll  let  us  know  a  reason  for  his  fury, 
Or  we  must  take  leave,  without  his  allowance, 
To  be  merry  with  our  ignorance. 

J.vim.  Mahomet's  hell 
Light  on  you  all  !    You  crouch  and  cringe  now  :— 

\\  here 
Was    the   terror   of    my  just   frowns,   when    ycu 

sufter'd 

Those  thieves  of  Malta,  almost  in  our  harbour, 
To  board  a  ship,  and  bear  her  safely  oft', 
While  you  stood  idle  lookers  on? 

Aga.  The  odds 

In  the  men  and  shipping:,  and  the  suddenness 
Of  their  departure,  yielding  us  no  leisure 
To  send  forth  others  to  relieve  our  own, 
Deterr'd  us,  mighty  sir. 

*  JVay,  I'll  go  near  to  tell  Mm  to  hit  terth.}  This  is  a 
colloqni.il  |.lira°iv,  and  means  J  am  not  unlikely,  J  will  not 
tervple  mvrh,  to  ti-11  him  to  his  teeth  ;-lhc  modern  ediiors, 
comprehending  neither  the  sell:*  nor  the  measure  of  the 
line,  read, 

A'ay,  J'll  go  noarrr  to  tell  him  to  hit  teeth  ! 

t  Enter  ASAMBU:  and  MrsT»rH*.j  Mr.  M.  Ala.«on  reads, 
Enter  Asaixbeu,  Mu>1<tpha,  and  Aga!  Did  not  the  cor 
recte>t  of  all  ediiors  ob>ei  ve  tli.H  he  had  marked  the  en 
trance  01  the  a^.i  a  few  lines  above?  It  is  inte,  Cosetei 
has  the  same  direction,  but  ihif  is  no  excuse  lor  one  wboie 
sole  pretence  to  credit  is  the  reformation  oi  hu  errors. 


15V 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr  IT. 


Asam.   Deterr'd  you,  cowards  ! 
How  durst,  you  only  entertain  the  knowledge 
Of  what  fear  was.  but  in  the  not  performance 
Of  our  command  ?  In  me  great  Amurath  spake; 
My  voice  did  echo  to  your  ears  his  thunder, 
And  will'd  you,  like  so  many  sea-born  tritons, 
Arm'd  only"  with  the  trumpets  of  your  courage, 
To  swim  up  to  her,  and,  like  remoras* 
Hanging  upon  her  keel,  to  stay  her  flight. 
Till  rescue,  sent  from  us,  had  fetch'.l  you  off. 
You  think  you're  safe  now.     Who  durst  but  dis- 
pute it, 

Or  make  it  questionable,  if,  this  moment, 
I  <  harged  you,  from  yon  hanging  cliff,  that  glasses 
His  rugged  forehead  in  the  neighbouring  lake, 
To  throw  yourselves  down  headlong  >  or,  like  faggots, 
To  fill  the  ditches  of  defended  torts, 
While  on  your  backs  we  march'd  up  to  the  breach  ? 

Grim.  That  would  not  I. 

A  sum.  Ha  ! 

Grim.  Yet  I  dare  as  mud) 
As  any  of  the  sultan's  boldest  sons, 
Whose  heaven  and  hell  haug  on  his  frown  or  smile, 
His  warlike  janizaries. 

Asam.  Add  one  syllable  more, 
Thou  dost  pronounce  upon  thyself  a  sentence 
That,  earth(|iiake-like,  will  swallow  thee. 

Gr>m.  Let  it  cp.'ii, 

I'll  stand  the  hazard  ;  those  contemnfd  thieves, 
Your  fellow-pirates,  sir,  the  bold  .Maltese, 
Whom  with  your  looks  you  think  to  quell, at  Rhodes 
Lau-h'd  at  great.  Solynmn's  anger  :  and,  it"  treason. 
Had  not  delivered  them  into  his  power, 
He  had  grown  old  in  glory  as  in  \  <  ;irs. 
At  that  so  fitnl  siege  ;  or  risen  with  shame, 
His  bones  and  threats  deluded. 

A&im.  Our  great  prophet  ! 
How  have  1  lost  my  anger  and  mv  power ! 

Grim.  Find  it.  and  use  it  on  thy  flutterers. 
And  not  upon  thy  friends,  that.  d:ire  speak  truth. 
Thesu  knights  of  ,M;ilt;>,  but.  a  handful  to 
Your  armies,  that  drink f  rivers  up,  have  stood 
Your  fury  at  the  height,  ami  with  their  crosses 
Struck  pale  your  homed  moon.-f  ;  these  men  of  Malta, 
Since  I  took  pay  from  you,  I've  met.  and  fought  with, 
Upon  advantage  too  ;  yet,  to  spe;ik  truih. 
By  the  soul  of  honour,  I  have  ever  found  them 
As  piovident  to  direct  and  hold  to  do, 
As  any  train'd  up  in  your  discipline, 
Ravish'd  from  oilier  nations. 

Mmta    I  perceive 

The  lightning  in  his  fiery  looks  ;  the  cloud 
Is  broke  already. 

Grim.  Think  not,  therefore,  sir, 


tike  remor  s 


JIanyinj  u  on  her  heel] — Keillor*  i<  *  fi-li,  nr  kind  «f 
worm  llial  Mick:,  In  shi,.s  ami  retards  their  |n?,.tur  ilnui^li 
the  water. —  An  exut.-ll.ut  illu>ti  aii,.n  uccur*  in  Stienser'i 
"World's  Va.iilie:  ' 

All  aodainly  tin  re  clove  unto  lier  hrrle 

A  litile  li  li  ih.il  IIILMI  call  remora. 
Which  (topi  her  coinse,  and  IK  I     tier  hy  the  hi-cle 
That  w  mde  nor  tide  could  move  lu-r  hence  away. 

t  Your  armlet  that  drink  river*  up,]  Injudiciously  nltere  I 
by  Mr.  .M.  Ma-un,  lo  drank  iun»  up. 

J and  with  their  cros.»e» 

Struck  pale  your  homed  moon, :]  This  elegant  allusion  to 
the  inijir.  MI  or'  me  Maltese  an  i  Tm  ki-li   Maiiil.inU,  is    beau- 
tifully varied  in  Thr  Kniyht  of  Malta,  by  1  li-clnr: 
"Ami  all  ilu-ir  nUei  crncrnt*  I  t-u  I  *aw, 
Like  tailing  meteors  i-pent,  aii.l  net  tor  ever 
t'uilvr  the  crott  of  ilali.i." 


That  you  alone  are  giants,  and  such  pigmies 
You  war  upon. 

A-am,   \'i.lain  !   I'll  make  thee  know 
Thou  hast  blasphemed  the.  Othoman  power,  and  safef 
At  noonday,  might'st  have  given  lire  to  St.  Mark's, 
Your  proud  Venetian  temple. — Seize  upon  him  ; 
I  am  not  so  near  reconciled  'o  him, 
To  bid  him  die  ;  that  were  a  benefit 
The  dog's  unworthy  of.     To  our  use  confiscate 
All  that  he  stands  possi-ss'd  of;  let  him  taste 
The  misery  of  want,  and  his  vain  riots. 
Like  lo  so  many  walking  ghosts,  ail'right  him 
Where'er  lie  sets  hi.s  desperate  foot.     Who  is't 
'lliat  does  command  you  ! 

Grim.  Is  this  the  reward 
For  all  my  service,  and  the  rape  I  made 
On  fair  Paulina  1 

As'im.   Drag  him  hence  : — he  dies, 
'I  hat  dallies  hut  a  minute. 

[Griinnld'  is  dnigg'd  off,  his  ht:id  covered. 
Po'tsw.  \\  hat's  become  of 
Our  shares  now,  master  ? 

Must.   Would  he  had  been  born  dumb! 
The  beggar's  cure,  pati-  nee,  is  till  that's  left  us. 

[r'.iciiut  Muster  and  Buatsicain. 
Mittta.  Twas  but  intemperance  of  speech,  excuse 
Let  me  prevail  so  far.     Fame  gives  him  out     [him  ; 
For  a  deserving  fellow. 

Astim.  At  Aleppo, 

1  durst  not  press  you  so  far :  give  me  leave 
To  use  my  own  will,  and  command  in  Tunis; 
And,  if  yon  please,  my  privacy. 

Mustu.   I  will  see  you, 
When  th.s  high  wind's  blown  o'er.  [Eait. 

Asam.  So  shall  you  find  me 
Ready  tc  do  you  service.     Rage,  now  leave  me; 
Stern  looks,  and  ail  the  ceremonious  forms 
Attending  on  dread  majesty,  lly  from 
Transformed  Asambeg.     \Yliy  should  I  hug1 

[P«//s  out  a  let/. 

So  near  my  heart,  what  leads  me  to  my  prison; 
Where  she  that  is  inthrall'd.  commands  her  keeper, 
And  robs  me  of  the  fierceness  1  was  bora  with  ? 
Stout  men  qiiiike  at  my  frowns,  and  in  return 
1  tremble  at  her  softness.     Jiase  Grimaldi 
Hut  only  iiMiiu-d  Paulina,  and  the  charm 
Had  almost  choak'd  my  fury,  ere  1  could  [her, 

Pronounce  his  sentence.       Would,  when  first  1  saw 
ftline  eyes  had  met  with  lightning,  and  in  place 
Of  hearing  her  enchanting  tongue,  the  shrieks 
Of  mandrakes  had  made,  music  to  mv  slumbers! 
For  now  I  only  walk  a  loving  dream, 
And,  but  to  my  dishonour,  never  wake : 
And  yet  am  blind,  but  when  I  see  the  object, 
And  madly  dote  on  it.     Appear,  bright  spark 

[Opens  u  di>or ;  Paulina  cainetfvrlh. 
Of  all  perfection  !  any  simile 
liorrow'd  from  diamonds,  or  the  fairest  stars, 
To  help  me  to  express  how  dear  I  prize 
'1  hy  uiimatch'd  graces,  will  rise  up  and  chide  me 
For  poor  detraction. 

P<"'{.  I  despise  thy  flatteries  : 
Thus  spit  at  them  and  scorn  them  ;  and  being  arm'd 
In  the  assurance  of  my  innocent  virtue, 
I  stamp  upon  all  doub's,  all  fears,  all  tortures, 
1  by  barbarous  cruelty,  or,  what's  worse,  thy  dotage, 
The  worthy  parent  of  thy  jealousy, 
Can  shower  upon  me. 

Aium.  It'  these  biitur  taunU 


SCFXE  VI.] 


THE  REXEGADO. 


131 


Ravish  me  from  myself,  and  make  me  think 
Mv  greedy  ears  receive  angelical  sounds  ; 
How  would  this  tongue,  tuned  to  a  loving  note 
Invade,  and  take  possession  of  my  soul, 
Which  then  I  durst  not  call  my  own  ! 

Punt.  Thou  art  false, 

Falser  than  tny  religion.     Do  but  think  me 
Something  above  a  beast,  nay  more,  a  monster 
Would  fright  the  sun  to  look"  on.  and  then  tell  me, 
If  this  base  usage  can  invite  affection  ? 
If  to  be  mewed  up,  and  excluded  from 
Human  society;  the  use  of  pleasures  ; 
The  necessary,  not  superfluous,  duties 
Of  servants  to  discharge  those  offices 
I  blush  to  name  — 

Astim.  Of  servants  !   Can  you  think 
That  I,  that  dare  not  trust  the  eve  of  heaven 
To  look  upon  your  beauties  :   that  deny 
Mvself  the  happiness  to  touch  your  pureness, 
Will  e'er  consent  an  eunuch,  or  bought  handmaid, 
Shall  once  approach  you  ? — There  is  something  in 
That  can  work  miracles,  or  1  am  cozen 'd,  [you 

Dispose  and  alter  sexes,  to  my  wrong, 
]n  spite  of  nature.     I  will  be  your  nurse, 
Your  woman,  your  physician,  and  your  fool ; 
Till,  with  your  free  consent,  which  I  have  vow'd 
Never  to  f..rce.  yon  grace  me  with  u  name 
Tha*  shall  supply  all  these. 

Paid.   What  is  it? 

Afim.  Your  husband. 

Pant.  Mv  hangman  when  thou  pleasest. 

As>im.  Thus  1  guard  me 
Against  your  further  angers —    [Leads  her  to  the  doer. 

Pa«l.    \\  Lich  shall  reach  thee, 
Though  I  were  in  the  centre. 

\ Asainbig  closes  the  door  upon  her,  and  lock*  it. 

Asum.  Such  a  spirit, 

In  such  a  small  proportion,  I  ne'er  read  of, 
\Vliu  li  time  must  alter  :    Ravish  her  I  dare  not ; 
1  he  magic  that  she  wears  about  her  neck, 
I  think,  defends  her: — this  devotion  paid 
To  this  sweet  saint,  mistress  of  my  sour  pain, 
'Tis  tit  1  take  mine  own  mugh  .-hape  again.      [Exit. 

SCENE  VI. — A  Strett  near  Donusa's  Palace. 

Enter  FHANCISCO  and  GAZET. 
Fran.  I  think  he's  lost. 
Gus.  Tis  ten  to  one  of  that ; 
I  ne'er  knew  citizen  turn  courtier  yet, 
Hut  he  lost  his  credit,  though  he  saved  himself. 
Why,  look  you,  sir,  there  are  so  many  lobbies, 
Ou'-offices,  and  dispartations  here*, 
Behind  these  Turkish  hangings,  that  a  Christian 
Hardly  gets  off  but  circumcised. 
Enter  VITELI.I  richly  habited,  CARAZIE,  and  MANTO. 

Fran    I  am  troubled, 
Troubled  exceedingls'.     Ha!  what  are  these? 

•  Out-officrs,  and  divinations  here,]  I  have  already 
observed  ilui  thi-ie  is  but  one  edition  of  this  pl.iy.  which 
read*  in  this  pi  ire,  dit/jute  actions:  tin-  error  WHS  detected 
at  the  press,  and  exchanged  iint'ortiiiiHlely  f«r  another,  ditpu- 
tatioru!  which  is  ihe  reeling  of  Co\ettr  aiM  Mr.  M.  Mason. 
1  h.ive  examined  wveral  copies,  but  can  find  no  further  cor- 
rection: d'tptirtationt,  which  is  her.-  adopted,  is  the  con- 
jrctur.il  amendment  of  Mr.  l),vii-s,who  SHJS,  that  it  sig- 
nifies "s<-p  irate  ap<ut!iu  nU ;"  if  it  be  so.  it  is  will;  at  any 
rate  it  is  bener  lli.m  the  old  reading,  which  signifies  nothing. 
An  ingcniiHIs  Iriend,  to  wiioui  l-ln\>,d  the  p.issige,  i»  in- 
clined t»  Ihink  th<t  the  geimiiit-  word  WHS  dit,  arntimtt,  from 
the  Latin  ditparata.  —  l  leave  tht  -whole  to  the  reader. 


Gaz.  One,  by  his  rich  suit,  should  be  some  French 

ambassador  ; 
For  his  train,  I  think  they  are  Turks. 

Fnm.  Peace  !  be  not  seen.  [cover'd, 

Car.  You  are  now  past  all  the  guards,  and  undis- 
You  may  return. 

Vitel    There's  for  your  pains  :  forget  not 
My  humblest  service  to  the  best  of  ladies. 

Hunt.  Deserve  her  favour,  sir,  in  making  haste 
For  a  second  entertainment. 

[Exeunt  Carazie  and  Manto. 

Vitel.  Do  not  doubt  me ; 
I  shall  not  live  till  then. 

Gaz.  The  train  is  vanish 'd  : 

They  have  done  him  some  good  office,  he's  so  free 
And  liberal  of  his  gold.     Ha  !  do  I  dream, 
Or  is  this  mine  own  natural  master  J 

Fran.   Tis  he  : 

But  strangely  metamorphosed.    You  have  made,  sir, 
A  prosperous  voyage  ;  heaven  grant  it  be  honest, 
I  shall  rejoice  then  too. 

Gas.  You  make  him  blush, 
To  talk  of  honesty  :  you  were  but  now 
In  the  giving  vein,  and  may  think  of  Gazet, 
Your  worship's  'prentice. 

Vitfl.  There's  gold  :  be  thou  free  too, 
And  master  of  my  shop,  and  all  the  wares 
We  brought  from  Venice. 

GHZ.  Rivo,  then* ! 

Vitel.  Dear  sir, 

This  place  affords  not  privacy  for  discourse ; 
But  I  can  tell  you  wonders  ;  my  rich  habit 
Deserves  least  admiration  ;  there  is  nothing 
1  hat  can  fall  in  the  compass  of  your  wishes. 
Though  it  were  to  redeem  a  thousand  slaves 
From  the  Turkish  galleys,  or,  at  home,  to  erect 
Some  pious  work,  to  shame  all  hospitals, 
But  I  am  master  of  the  means. 

Fran.  'Tis  strange. 

Vitel.  As  I  walk,  I'll  tell  you  more. 

Gas.  Pray  you,  a  word,  sir  ; 
And  then  I  will  put.  on.     I  have  one  boon  more. 

Vitel.  Whatis't?  speak  freely. 

Gaz.  Thus  thenf  :  As  I  am  master 
Of  your  shop  and  wares,  pray  you,  help  me  to  some 

trucking 
With  your  last  she-customer  ;  though  she  crack  my 

best  piece, 
I  will  endure  it  with  patience. 

Vitel.  Leave  your  prating. 

Gas.  I  may  :  you  have  been  doing,  we  will  do  too. 

Fran.  I  am  amazed,  yet  will  not  blame  nor  chide 

you, 

Till  you  inform  me  further :  yet  must  say, 
They  steer  not  the  right  course,  nor  traffic  well, 
That  seek  a  passage  to  reach  heaven  through  hell. 

[Ettunt 


•  Cos.  Rivo,  then.']  This  interjection  (corrupted,  I  sup- 
pose, horn  the  Spani.-h  riot  which  is  figuratively  used  fora 
large  quantity  of  liquor)  is  frequently  introduced  by  our 
<  Id  poets,  ami  generally  at  an  incitement  to  boisterous  mi  rib 
Mid  jevelry. 

tGax.  'I 'hut  then:  At  I  am  matter,  ttc.]  This  poor  ri- 
baldry is  introduced  to  "net  on  some  quantity  of  barren 
s  ecUti.rs  to  laugh,"  and  'tis  to  be  reercltfd,  lor  'he  re.-t  of 
Ihe  act  ha>  a  vein  of  genuine  poetr)  running  thioiigh  it, 
which  would  noi  debase  the  nohlml  compositions  of  the 
times.  I  suppose  Mas>iru:er'»  excuse  inuat  be  that  of  • 
much  greater  man,  tic  viritur. 


IS* 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr  HI. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — A  Roomin  Donusa's  Palace. 
Enter  DONUSA  and  MANTO. 

Don.  When  said  he  he  would  come  again? 

Mant.  He  swore, 

Short  minutes  should  be  tedious  ages  to  him, 
Until  the  tender  of  his  second  service  : 
So  much  he  seem'd  transported  with  the  first. 

Don.  I  am  sure  I  was.     I  charge  thee,  Manto,  tell 
By  all  my  favours  and  my  bounties,  truly,          [me, 
Whether  thou  art  a  virgin,  or,  like  me, 
Hast  forfeited  that  name  ? 

Mant.  A  virgin,  madam*, 

At  my  years  !  being  a  waiting-woman,  and  in  court 
That  were  miraculous.     I  so  long  since  lost       [too ! 
That  barren  burthen,  I  almost  forget 
That  ever  I  was  one. 

Don.  And  could  thy  friends 
Read  in  thy  face,  thy  maidenhead  gone,  that  thou 
Hadst  parted  with  it? 

Mant.   No,  indeed  :  I  past 
For  current  many  years  after,  till,  by  fortune, 
Long  and  continued  practice  in  the  sport 
Blew  up  my  deck  ;  a  husband  then  was  found  out 
By  my  indulgent  father,  and  to  the  world 
All  was  made  whole  again.  What  need  you  fear,  then, 
That,  at  your  pleasure,  may  repair  your  honour, 
Durst  any  envious  or  malicious  tongue 
Presume  to  taint  it  ? 

Enter  CARAZIE. 

Don.  How  now  ? 

Car.  Madiim,  the  basha 
Humbly  desires  access. 

Don.  If  it  had  been 

My  neat  Italian,  thou  hadst  met  my  wishes. 
Tell  him  we  would  be  private. 

Cor.  So  I  did, 
But  he  is  much  importunate. 

Mant.  Best  dispatch  him  ; 
His  lingering  here  else  will  deter  the  other 
From  making  his  approach. 

Don.  His  entertainment 
Shall  not  invite  a  second  visit.     Go  ; 
Say  we  are  pleased. 

Enter  MUSTAPIJA. 

Must.  All  happiness 

Don.  Be  sudden. 

'Twas  saucy  rudeness  in  you,  sir,  to  press 
On  my  retirements  ;  but  ridiculous  folly 
To  waste  the  time,  that  might  be  better  spent, 
In  complimental  wishes. 

Car.  There's  a  cooling 
For  his  hot  encounter. 

Don.  Come  you  here  to  i-tare  ? 
If  you  have  lost  your  tongue,  and  use  of  speech, 
Resign  your  government ;  there's  a  mute's  place  void 
In  my  uncle's  court,  1  hear ;  and  you  may  work  me 
To  write  for  your  preferment. 


*A  virgin,  madam,  &c.]  Manto  had  been  studying  mo- 
desty in  Tlte  Maid  s  Tiayedy,  from  which  too  much  of  this 
scene  is  borrowed.  In  (he  conclusion,  as'Davivs  remarks, 
there  is  an  allusion  to  Quartill.i :  Junonem  maun  iratam 
habcam,  ti  unquatn  me  meminerim  viryinnn  fiuue. 


Musta.  This  is  strange ! 
I  know  not,  madam,  what  neglect  of  mine 
Has  call'd  this  scorn  upon  me. 

D.m.  To  the  purpose——- 
My  will's  a  reason,  and  we  stand  not  bound 
To  yield  account  to  yon. 

Mmta.  Not  of  your  angers  : 
But  with  erected  ears  I  should  hear  from  you 
The  story  of  your  good  opinion  of  me, 
Cnnfinn'd  by  love  and  favours. 

D'on.  How  deserved  ? 
I  have  considered  you  from  head  to  foot, 
And  can  find  nothing  in  that  wainscot  face, 
That  can  teach  me  to  dote  ;  nor  am  I  taken 
With  your  grim  aspect,  or  tadpole-like  complexion, 
Those  scars  you  glory  in,  I  fear  to  look  on  ; 
And  had  much  rather  hear  a  merry  tale, 
Than  all  your  battles  won  with  blood  and  sweat, 
Though  you  belch  forth  the  stink  too  in  the  service, 
And  swear  by  your  mustachios  all  is  true.  [sic, 

You  are  jvt  too  rough  for  me  :  purge  and  take  phy- 
Purcbase  perfumers,  get  me  some  French  tailor 
To  new-ereate  you  ;  the  first  shape  you  were  made 
with  [too. 

Is  quite  worn-out :  let  your  barber  wash  your  face 
You  look  yet  like  a  bugbear  TO  fright  children  ; 
Till  when  I  take  my  leave. — Wait  me,  Caruzie. 

[Exeunt  Dnintsa  and  L'arazie. 
Mnsta.  Stay  you,  my  lady's  cabinet-key. 
JVf'inf.  How's  this,  sir  >.  [else. 

Musta.  Stay,  and  stand  quietly,  or  you  shall  fall 
Not  to  iirk  your  belly  up,  flounder-like,  but  never 
To  rise  again.     Offer  but  to  unlock  [me,) 

These  doors  that  stop  your  fugitive  tongue,  (observe 
And,  by  my  fury,  I'll  fix  there  this  bolt 

[Draws  h  s  scimitar. 

To  bar  thy  speech  for  ever.     So  !  be  sale  now  ; 
And  but  resolve  me,  not  of  what  I  doubt, 
But  bring  assurance  to  a  thing  believed, 
Thou  makest  thyself  a  fortune  ;  not  depending 
On  the  uncertain  favours  of  a  mistress. 
But  art  thyself  one.     I'll  not  so  far  question 
My  judgment  and  observance,  as  to  ask 
Why  1  am  slighted  and  contemn  d  ;  but  in 
Whose  favour  it  is  done.     I  that  have  read 
The  copious  volumes  of  all  women's  falsehood, 
Commented  on  by  the  heart-breaking  groans 
Of  abused  lovers ;  all  the  doubts  wash'd  off 
With  fruitless  tears,  the  spider's  cobweb  veil 
Of  arguments  alleged  in  their  defence, 
Blown  off  with  sighs  of  desperate  men  ;  and  they 
Appearing  in  their  full  deformity : 
Know,  that  some  other  hath  displanted  me, 
With  her  dishonour.     Has  she  given  it  up? 
Confirm  it  in  two  syllables. 
Mant.  She  has. 
Musta.  1  cherish  thy  confession  thus,  and  thus ; 

[Gives  her  jewels. 

Be  mine.     Again  I  court  thee  thus,  and  thus  ; 
Now  prove  but  constant  to  my  ends. 

Mant.  By  all [crocodiles, 

Mu  it  a.  Enough  ;  I  dare  not  doubt  thee.     O  land 
Made  of  Egyptian  slime,  accursed  women  ; 
But  'tis  no  time  to  rail — come,  my   best  Manto. 

[Exeunt. 


SCEKE  II.] 


THE  RENEGADO. 


153 


SCENE  11.— A  Street. 
Enter  Vn  ELM  and  FRANCISCO. 

Vitel.  Sir.  as  you  are  my  confessor,  you  stand  bound 
Not  to  reveal  whatever  J  discover 
In  that  religious  way  :  nor  dare  1  doubt  you. 
Let  it  suffice  you  have  made  me  see  my  tollies, 
And  wrought, perhaps,  compunction  ;  lor  1  would  not 
Appear  an  hypocrite.     But,  when  you  impose 
A  penance  on  me  beyond  flesh  and  blood 
To  undergo,  you  must  instruct  me  how 
To  put  off  the  condition  of  a  man  ; 
Or,  if  not  pardon,  at  the  least,  excuse 
My  disobedience.     Yet,  despair  not.  sir : 
For,  though  1  lake  mine  own  way,  I  shall  do 
Something  that  may  hereafter,  to  my  glory, 
Speak  me  your  scholar. 

Fran.  1  enjoin  you  not 
To  go,  but  send. 

Vitel.  That  were  a  petty  trial ; 
Not  worth  one,  so  long  taught  and  exercised 
Under  so  grave  a  master.     Reverend  Francisco, 
My  friend,  my  father,  in  that  word,  my  all ; 
Rest  confident  you  shall  I. ear  something  of  me, 
That  will  redeem  me  in  your  good  opinion, 
Or  judge  me  lost  for  ever.     Send  Gazet 
(She  shall  give  order  that  he  may  have  entrance) 
To  acquaint  you  with  my  fortunes.  [Exit. 

Fran.  Go,  and  prosper. 

Holv  saints  guide  and  strengthen  thee  !  however, 
As  thy  endeavours  are,  so  may  they  find 
Gracious  acceptance. 

Enter  GAZET,  and  GRIMALDI  in  rags*. 

Gaz.  Now,  you  do  not  roar,  sir  ; 
You  speak  not  tempests,  nor  take  ear-rent  from 
A  poor  shopkeeper.     Do  you  remember  that,  sir  ? 
I  wear  your  marks  here  still. 

Fran.  Can  this  be  possible  ? 
All  wonders  are  not  ctased  then. 

Grim.  Do,  abuse  me, 

Spit  on  me,  spurn  me,  pull  me  by  the  nose, 
Thrust  out  these  fiery  eyes,  that  yesterday 
Would  have  look'd  thee  dead. 

Gaz.  O  save  me,  sir  ! 

Grim.  Fear  nothing. 

I  am  tame  and  quiet ;  there's  no  wrong  can  force  me 
To  remember  what  1  was.     1  have  forgot 
1  e'er  had  ireful  fierceness,  a  steel'd  heart, 
Insensible  of  compassion  to  others  ; 
Nor  is  it  fit  that  1  should  think  myself 
Worth  mine  own  pity.    Oh  ! 

Fran.  Grows  this  dejection 
From  his  disgrace,  do  you  say  1 

Gaz.  Why,  he's  cashier'd,  sir; 
His  ships,  his  goods,  his  livery-punks,  confiscate  : 
And  there  is  such  a  punishment  laid  upon  him  ! — 
The  miserable  rogue  must  steal  no  more, 
Nor  diink,  nor  drab. 

Fran.  Does  that  torment  him  ? 

Gaz.  O,  sir, 

Should  the  state  take  order  to  bar  men  of  acres 
From  these  two  laudable  recreations, 
Drinking  and  whoring,  how  should  panders  purchase, 

•  Eater  GAZET,  and  GRiMii.ni  in  rays]  Mr.  M.  Maton 
reads,  Enter  Gazet  and  Grimaldi,  in  rays.  But  Ga*et  had 
just  been  enriched  by  his  matter,  and,  a»  lie  s.ijs  himself, 
was  in  prosperous  circumstances.  It  must  be  a*  I  have 
Siven  it  from  ihe  old  copy. 

12 


Or  thrifty  whores  build  hospitals  ?  'Slid  !  if  I, 
That,  since  1  am  made  free,  may  write  myself 
A  city  gallant,  should  forfeit  two  such  charters, 
I  should  he  stoned  to  death  arid  ne'er  be  pitied 
By  the  liveries  of  those  companies. 

Fran.  You'll  be  \vhipt,  sir, 

If  you  bridle  not  your  tongue.    Haste  to  the  palace, 
Your  master  looks  for  you. 

Gaz.  My  quondam  master. 
Rich  sons  forget  they  ever  had  poor  fathers; 
In  servants  'tis  more  pardonable  :  as  a  companion, 
Or  so,  1  may  consent :  but  is  there*  hope,  sir, 
He  has  got  me  a  good  chapwoman  ?  pray  you  write 
A  word  or  two  in  my  behalf. 

Fran.  Out,  rascal  ! 

Gaz.   I  feel  some  insurrections. 

Fratf.  Hence  ! 

Gaz.  1  vanish.  [Exit. 

Grim.  \\  hy  should  I  study  a  defence  or  comfort, 
In  whom  black  guilt  and  misery,  if  balanced, 
I  know  not  wl.ich  would  turii  the  scale  ?  look  upward 
1  dare  not  ;  for,  should  it  but  be  believed 
'1  hat  I ,  died  deep  in  hell's  most  horrid  colours, 
Should  dare  to  hope  for  mercy,  it  would  leave 
No  check  or  feeling  in  men  innocent, 
To  catch  at  sins  the  devil  ne'er  taught  mankind  yet. 
No!  1  must  downward,  downward  ;  though  repent- 
ance 

Could  borrow  all  the  glorious  wings  of  grate, 
My  m<iiintainous  weight  of  siiis  would  cr.ick  theif 
And  sink  them  to  hell  witli  me.  [pinions, 

Fran.  Dreadful !  Hear  me, 
Thou  miserable  man. 

Grim.  Good  sir,  deny  not 
But  that  there  is  no  punishment  beyond 
Damnation. 

Enter  Master  and  Boatswain. 

Muster.  Yonder  he  is  ;  I  pity  him.       [serve  you. 
Ri-atsw.  Take  comfort,  captain;  we  live   still  to 
Grim.  Serve  me  !  1  am  a  devil  already  :  leave  me—- 
Stand further  off,  you  are  blasted  else  !   1  have  heard 
Schoolmen  affirm*  man's  body  is  composed 
Of  the  four  elements;  and,  as  in  league  together 
They  nourish  life,  so  each  of  them  affords 
Liberty  to  the  soul,  when  it  grows  weaiy 
Of  this  fieshy  prison.    Which  shall  I  make  choice  of? 
The  fire?  not ;  I  shall  feel  that  lureatter. 
The  earth  will  not  receive  me.     Should  some  whirl- 
Snatch  me  into  the  air,  and  1  hang  there,         [wind 
Perpetual  plagues  would  dwell  upon  the  earth ; 
And  those  superior  bodies,  that  pour  down 
Their  cheerful  influence,  denv  to  |  ass  it, 
Through  those  vast  regions  1  have  in.ected. 
The  sea?  ay,  that  is  justice:  there  1  plough 'd  up 
Mischief  as  deep  as  hell :   there,  there,  I'll  hidej 
1  his  curstd  lump  of  clay.     May  it  turn  rocks, 


/  have  heard 


Schoolmen  affirm  man's  body  is  competed 
Of  the  four  elements;]  Grim.i  di  ,,i:rl  Sir  Toby  had 
evidently  studied  under  the  s,ime  makers :  the  latter  intro- 
duces his  philosophy  more  naturally,  but  tlie  grave  applies 
tion  of  it  by  the  t'ormer,  is  an  inipiovenient.  Seriously, the 
conclusion  of  this  speech  is  very  noble. 

t  The  fire  I  no;]  fire  must  be  read  a*  a  dissj liable;  I 
suspect,  however,  that  there  was  oiis;injlly  an  inttrjectioo 
bitoie  no,  which  was  dropt  at  the  press. 

t there,  there  111  hide]   Mr.  M   Mnson  omits  tl.e 

second  thire,  which  is  absolutely   necess.iry  to  the  com  pie 
tion  of  the  verse. 


134 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr  III, 


Where  plummet's  weight  could  never  reach  the  sands, 
And  grind  the  ribs  of  all  such  barks  as  press 
The  ocean's  breast  in  my  unlawful  course  ! 
I  haste  then  to  thee  ;  let  thy  ravenous  womb, 
Whom  all  things  else  deny,  be  now  my  tomb. 

I  JUZtt* 

Master.  Follow  him,  and  restrain  him. 

[Exit  Boatswain. 

Fran.  Let  this  stand 
For  tin  example  to  you.     I'll  provide 
A  lodging  for  him,  and  apply  such  cures 
To  his  wounded  conscience,  as  heaven  hath  lent  me. 
He's  now  my  second  care ;  and  my  profession 
Binds  me  to  teach  the  desperate  to  repent, 
As  far  as  to  confirm  the  innocent.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Boom  in  Asambeg's  Palace. 
Enter  ASAMBEG,  MUSTAPHA,  Aga,  and  Cap:aga. 

Asam.  Your  pleasure? 
Musta.  'Twill  exact  your  private  ear ; 
And,  when  you  have  received  it,  you  will  think 
Too  many  know  it. 

Asam.  Leave  the  room  ;  but  be 

Within  our  call.—  [Exeunt  Ago.  and  Capiaga. 

Now,  sir,  what  burning  secret 

(With  which,  it  seems,  you  are  turn'd  cinders)  bring 

To  quench  in  my  advice  or  power  ?  [you 

Musta.  The  fire 
Will  rather  reach  you. 
Asam.  Me ! 

Must'i.  And  consume  both  ; 
For  'tis  impossible  to  be  put  out, 
But  with  the  blood  of  those  that  kindle  it: 
And  yet  ono  vial  of  it  is  so  precious, 
In  being  borrow'd  from  the  Othoman  spring, 
That  better  'tis,  I  think,  both  we  should  perish, 
Than  prove  the  desperate  means  that  must  restrain  it 
From  spreading  further. 

Asam.  To  the  point,  and  quickly  : 
These  winding  circumstances  in  relations, 
Seldom  environ  truth. 
Mitslu.  Truth,  Asambeg ! 

Asa  in.  Truth,  Mustapha  !  I  said  it,  and  add  more, 
You  touch  upon  a  string  that  to  my  ear 
Doec  sound  Donusa. 

Mutta.  You  then  understand 
Who  'tis  I  aim  at. 

Antim.  Take  heed  ;  Mustapha, 
Remember  what  she  is,  and  whose  we  are ; 
TU  her  neglect,  perhaps,  that  you  complain  of; 
And,  should  you  practise  to  revenge  her  scorn, 
With  any  plot  to  taint  her  in  her  honour, 
Musta.   Hear  me. 

Asian.  I  will  be  heard  first, — there's  no  tongue 
A  subject  owes,  that  shall  out-thunder  mine. 
Musta    Well,  take  your  way. 
Asam.  I  then  again  repeat  it; 
If  Mustapha  dares,  with  malicious  breath, 
On  jealous  suppositions,  presume 
To  blast  the  blossom  of  Donusa's  fame, 
Because  he  is  denied  a  happiness 
Which  men  of  equal,  nay,  of  more  desert, 

Have  sued  in  vain  for 

Musta.  More ! 

Astim.  More.     'Twas  I  spake  it. 
The  basha  of  Natolia  and  myself 
Were  rivals  for  her ;  either  of  us  brought 


More  victories,  more  trophies,  to  plead  for  us 

To  our  great  master,  than  you  dare  lay  claim  to  ; 

Yet  still,  by  his  allowance,  she  was  left 

To  her  election  :  each  of  us  owed  nature 

As  much  for  outward  form  and  inward  worth, 

To  make  way  for  us  to  her  grace  and  favour, 

As  you  brought  with  you.    We  were  heard,  repulsed- 

Yet  thought  it  no  dishonour  to  sit  down 

With  the  disgrace,  if  not  to  force  affection 

May  merit  such  a  name. 

Musta.  Have  you  done  yet? 

Asam  Be,  therefore,  more  than  sure  the  ground  on 

which 

You  raise  your  accusation,  may  admit 
No  undermining  of  defence  in  her  : 
For  if,  with  pregnant  and  apparent  proofs, 
Such  as  may  force  a  judge,  more  than  inclined, 
Or  partial  in  her  cause,  to  swear  her  guilty, 
You  win  not  me  to  set  off  your  belief; 
Neither  our  ancient  friendship,  nor  the  rites 
Of  sacred  hospitality,  to  which 
I  would  not  offer  violence,  shall  protect  you. 
— Now,  when  \ou  please. 

Musta.  I  will  not  dwell  upon 
Much  circumstance  ;  yet  cannot  but  profess, 
With  the  assurance  of  a  loyalty 
Equal  to  yours,  the  reverent e  I  owe 
The  sultan,  and  all  such  his  blood  makes  sacred  ; 
That  there  is  not  a  vein  of  mine,  which  yet  is 
Unemptied  in  his  service,  but  this  moment 
Should  freely  open,  so  it  might  wash  off 
The  stains  of  her  dishonour.     Could  you  think, 
Or,  though  you  saw  it,  credit  your  own  eyes, 
That  she,  the  wonder  and  amazement  of 
Her  sex,  the  pride  and  glory  of  the  empire 
That  hath  di>dain'd  you,  slighted  me,  and  boasted 
A  frozen  coldness,  which  no  appetite 
Or  height  of  blood  could  thaw ;  should  now  so  far 
Be  hurried  with  the  violence  of  her  lust, 
As,  in  it  burying  her  high  birth,  and  fame, 
Basely  descend  to  fill  a  Christian's  arms.; 
And  to  him  yield  her  virgin  honour  up, 
Nay,  sue  to  him  to  take  it? 
Asam.  A  Christian ! 
Musta.  Temper 

Your  admiration: — and  what  Christian,  think  you? 
No  prince  disguised,  no  man  of  mark,  nor  honour : 
No  daring  undertaker  in  our  service; 
But  one,  whose  lips  her  foot  should  scorn  to  touch  ; 
A  poor  mechanic  pedlar. 
Asam.  He ! 
Mutta.  Nay,  more ; 

Whom  do  you  think  she  made  her  scout,  nay  bawd, 
To  find  him  out,  but  me  ?  What  place  make  choice  of 
To  wallow  in  her  foul  and  loathsome  pleasures, 
But  in  the  palace?   Who  the  instruments 
Of  close  conveyance,  but  the  captain  of 
Your  guard,  the  aga,  and  that  man  of  trust, 
The  warden  of  the  inmost  port? — I'll  prove  this  ; 
And,  though  I  fail  to  shew  her  in  the  act, 
Glued  like  a  neighing  gennet  to  her  stallion, 
Y  our  incredulity  shall  be  convinced 
With  proofs  I  blush  to  think  on. 

Asam.  Never  yet 

This  flesh  felt  such  a  fever.     By  the  life 
And  fortune  of  great  Amurath,  should  our  prophet 
(Whose  name  I  bow  to)  in  a  vision  speak  this, 
'Twould  make  me  doubtful  of  my  faith  ! — Lead  on; 
And,  when  my  eyes  and  ears  are,  like  yours,  guilty 


SCENE  V.] 


THE  RENEGADO. 


IS* 


My  rage  shall  then  appear;  for  I  will  <lo 
Something ; — but  what,  1  am  not  yet  determin'd. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — An  outer  Room  in  DONVSA'S  Palace. 
Enter  CARAZIE,  MANTO,  and  GAZET. 

Car.  They  are  private  to  their  wishes  ! 

Mant.  Doubt  it  not. 

Gaz.  A  pretty  structure  this !  a  court  doyou  call  it  ? 
Vaulted  and  arch'd  !  O,  here  has  been  old  jumbling 
Behind  this  arras. 

Cor.  Prithee  let's  have  some  sport 
\\  ith  this  fresh  codshead. 

Mant.  1  am  out  of  tune.  [hope 

But  do  as  you  please.     My  conscience  ! — tush,  the 
Of  liberty  throws*  that  burthen  off;  1  must 
Go  watch,  and  make  discovery.  [Exit. 

Car.  He  is  musing, 

And  will  talk  to  himself;  he  cannot  hold ; 
The  poor  fool's  ravish 'd. 

Gas.   I  am  in  my  master's  clothes, 
They  fit  me  to  a  hair  too  ;  let  but  any 
Indifferent  gamester  measure  us  inch  by  inch, 
Or  weigh  us  by  the  standard,  1  may  pass  : 
I  have  been  proved  and  proved  again  true  metal. 

Car.  How  he  surveys  himself! 

Gaz.  1  have  heard,  that  some 

Have  fool'd  themselves  at  court  into  good  fortunes, 
That  never  hoped  to  thrive  by  wit  in  the  city, 
Or  honesty  in  the  countrv.     if  1  do  not 
Make  the  best  laugh  at  me,  I'll  weep  for  myself, 
If  they  give  me  hearing-  'tis>  resolved — I'll  try 
\Vhat  mav  be  done,   Bv  your  favour,  sir,  1  pray  you, 
\Vere  you  born  a  courtier? 

C.n;  No,  sir;  why  do  you  ask? 

Gas.  Because  t  thought  that  none  could  be  pre- 
But  such  as  were  beuot  there.  [ferr'd, 

Cue.  O,  sir  !  many  ; 
And,  howsoe'er  you  are  a  citizen  born, 
\  et  if  vour  mother  were  a  handsome  woman, 
And  ever  long'd  to  see  a  m;isk  at  courtf, 
li  is  an  even  lay,  but  that  vou  had 
A  courtier  to  your  father  ;  and  I  think  so, 
Vou  bear  yourself  so  sprightly. 

Gas.  It  may  be  ; 

But  pray  you,  sir,  had  I  such  an  itch  upon  me 
To  change  my  copy,  is  there  hope  a  place 
May  be  had  here  for  money  ? 

Car.   i\ot  without  it, 
That  I  dare  warrant  you. 

Gaz.  I  have  a  pretty  stock, 

And  would  not  have  my  good  parts  undiscover'd  ; 
\\  ha^  places  of  credit  are  there  ? 

Car.  There's  your  beglerbegj. 

Gaz.  By  no  means  that ;  it  comes  too  near  the 
And  most  prove  so,  that  come  there.  [beggar, 


•  Of  liberty  throws,  &c.]  So  the  old  copy.  The  modern 
editors  read,  dors  throw,  which  <U:.-tm\  j  Ihe  metre,  nut  only 
•f  this  bn*  nl  the  two  subsequent  lines. 

t  Jf  yi>ur  mother  were  a  handtome  woman. 

And  ever  long'd  to  tee  a  mask  at  court,]  It  should  be  re- 
membered that  Carazie  was  burn  in  England,  and  that  lie 
addresses  •  Venetian;  the  consequences  of  ma«ks,  &c.,  were 
therefore  as  intelligible  lo  the  one,  ai  familiar  to  the  oiher. 
It  is  not  al » ays  that  so  good  »  p!ea  can  be  offered  for  the 
anther's  allusions  ;  tor,  to  confess  the  truth,  the  habits  and 
m.mners  of  different  countries  are,  in  some  of  these  scenes, 
u  I  have  said  before,  nm-t  cruelly  confounded. 

J  Car.  There'*  your  beglerbeg.]  i.  e.  chief  governor  of  a 
province. 


Car.  Or  your  sanzacke*. 

Ga:.  Sauce-jack  !   fie,  none  of  thatf. 

Cur.  Vour  chiausj. 

Gaz.  Nor  that. 

Car.  Chief  gardener. 

Gaz.  Out  upon't !  [woman. 

Twill  put  me  in  mind  my   mother   was  an  herb- 
\\  hat  is  your  pla.e,  I  prav  you? 

Car.  Sir,  an  eunuch. 

Gas.  An  eunuch  !  very  fine,  i'faith ;  an  eunuch  ! 
And  what  are  your  employments? 

Car.   Neat  and  eusy$: 

In  the  day,  1  wait  on  my  lady  when  she  eats, 
Carry  her  pantofles,  bear  up  her  train ; 
Sing  her  asleep  at  night,  and,  when  she  pleases, 
I  am  her  bedfellow. 

Gaz.  How  !  her  bedfellow  ? 
And  lie  with  her? 

Car.  Ves,  and  lie  with  her. 

Gaz.  O  rare! 

I'll  be  an  eunuch,  though  I  sell  my  shop  for't, 
And  all  my  wares. 

Car.  It  is  but  parting  with 
A  precious  stone  or  two:   1  know  the  price  on't. 

Gaz.  I'll  part  with  all  my  stones;  and  when  lam 

An  eunuch,  I'll  so  toss  and  touse  the  ladies 

Pray  you  help  me  to  a  chapman. 

Car.  The  court  surgeon 
Shall  do  you  that  favour. 

Gaz.  1  am  made!  an  eunuch! 
Enter  MANTO. 

Mant.  Carazie,  quit  the  room. 
Car.  Come,  sir;  we'll  treat  of 
Your  business  further. 

Gaz.  Excellent!  an  eunuch!  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — An  inner  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  DONUSA  and  YITELLI. 

Vitel.  Leave  me,  or  I  am  lost  again  :  no  prayers, 
No  penitence,  can  redeem  me. 

Don.  Am  I  grown 
Old  or  deform 'd  since  yesterday  ? 

Vitel.  You  are  still, 

(Although  the  sating  of  your  lust  hath  sullied 
The  immaculate  whiteness  of  your  virgin  beauties,) 
Too  fair  for  me  to  look  on :  and,  though  pureuess, 
The  sword  with  which  you  ever  fought  and  conquer'd, 
Is  ravish'd  from  you  by  unchaste  desires, 
You  are  too  strong  for  flesh  and  blood  to  treat  with, 
'I  hough  iron  grates  were  interposed  between  us, 
To  warrant  me  from  treason. 

Don.  \\  horn  do  you  fear  ? 

Vitel.  That  human  frailty  I  took  from  my  mother, 
That,  as  my  youth  increased,  grew  stronger  on  me; 
That  still  pursues  me,  and,  though  once  recover'd, 
In  scorn  of  reason,  and,  what's  more,  religion, 
Again  seeks  to  betray  me. 

•  Car.  Or  your  sanzacke.]  Governor  of  a  city. 

t  Cos.  Sauce  jack  !  fie,  none  of  that.  |  The  pleasantry  ot 
Gazet  is  not  very  conspicuous  for  its  humour;  the  modern 
editors  however  have  contrived  to  cloud  it:  Ihey  read, 
Saucy  Jack  I 

J  Car.  Your  chians.]  An  officer  in  the  Turkish  court,  who 
performs  the  duty  of  an  usher  ;  also  an  ambassador  to  foreign 
princes  and  states.— Cox  ETER. 

5  Car.  Neat  and  eaty.\  1  have  taken  this  from  Gazet,  to 
whom  it  has  hitherto  been  allotted,  and  given  it  to  Carazie. 
The  old  copy  h.is  no  mark  of  ir.leiroijalion  aK«r  easy,  fc  hxh 
seems  to  prove  that  the  words  originally  belonged  to  him. 


136 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr  III, 


Don.  If  you  mean,  sir, 
To  ray  embraces,  you  turn  rebel  to 
The  laws  of  nature,  the  great  queen  and  mother 
Of  all  productions,  and  deny  allegiance, 
Where  you  stand  bound  to  pay  it. 

Kite/.  I  will  stop 

Mine  ears  against  these  charms,  which,  if  Ulysses 
Could  live  again,  and  hear  this  second  syren, 
Though  bound  with  cables  to  his  mast,  his  ship  too 
Fasten'd  with  all  her  anchors,  this  enchantment 
Would  force  him,  in  despite  of  all  resistance, 
To  leap  into  the  sea,  and  follow  her  ; 
Although  destruction,  with  outstretch'd  arms, 
Stood  ready  to  receive  him. 

Don.  Gentle  sir. 

Though  you  deny  to  hear  me,  yet  vouchsafe 
To  look  upon  me :  though  I  use  no  language, 
The  grief  for  this  unkind  repulse  will  print 
Such  a  dumb  eloquence  upon  my  face, 
As  will  not  only  plead  but  prevail  for  me. 

Vitel.  I  am  a  coward.     I  will  see  and  hear  you, 
The  trial,  else,  is  nothing ;  nor  the  conquest, 
My  temperance  shall  crown  me  with  hereafter, 
Worthy  to  be  remember'd.     Up,  my  virtue  ! 
And  holy  thoughts  anil  resolutions  arm  me 
Against  this  fierce  temptation  !  give  me  voice 
Tuned  to  a  zealous  anger,  to  express 
At  what  an  over-value  I  have  purchased 
The  wanton  treasure  of  your  virgin  bounties  ; 
That,  in  their  false  fruition,  heap  upon  me 
Despair  and  horror. — That  I  could  with  that  ease 
Redeem  my  forfeit  innocence,  or  cast  up 
The  poison  I  received  into  my  entrails, 
From  the  alluring  cup  of  your  enticements, 
As  now  I  do  deliver  back  the  price 

[Returns  the  jewels. 

And  salary  of  your  lust !  or  thus  unclothe  me 
Of  £.n's  gay  trappings,  the  proud  livery 

(TArvirs  of  his  cloak  and  doublet. 
Of  wicked  pleasure,  which  but  worn  and  heated 
With  the  fire  of  entertainment  and  consent, 
Like  to  Alcides'  fatal  shirt,  tears  off 
Our  flesh  and  reputation  both  together, 
Leaving  our  ulcerous  follies  bare  and  open 
To  all  malicious  censure  ! 

Don.  You  must  grant, 
If  you  hold  that  a  loss  to  you,  mine  equals, 
If  not  transcends  it.     If  you  then  first  tasted 
'\  hat  poison,  as  you  call  it,  I  brought  with  me 
A  palate  unacquainted  with  the  relish 
Of  those  delights,  which  most,  as  I  have  heard, 
Greedily  swallow  ;  and  then  the  offence, 
If  my  opinion  may  be  believed, 
Is  not  so  great :  howe'er,  the  wrong  no  more 
Than  if  Hippolitus  and  the  virgin  huntress 
Should  meet  and  kiss  together. 

Vitel.   What  defences 
Can  lust  raise  to  maintain  a  precipice 

Enter  ASAMBEG  and  MUSTAPIIA,  above. 

To  the  abyss  of  looseness  ! — but  affords  not 
The  least  stair,  or  the  fastening  of  one  foot, 
To  reascend  that  glorious  height  we  fell  from. 

Musta.  By  Mahomet,  she  courts  him ! 

[Donuta  kneels. 

Asam.  Nay,  kneels  to  him ! 
Observe,  the  scornful  villain  turns  away  too, 
As  glorying  in  his  conquest. 

ban.  Are  you  marble  ? 


If  Christians  have  mothers,  sure  they  share  in 

The  tigress'  fierceness  ;  for,  if  you  were  owner 

Of  human  pitv,  you  could  not  endure 

A  princess  to  kneel  to  you,  or  look  on 

These  falling  tears  which  hardest  rocks  would  soften 

And  yet  remain  unmoved.     Did  you  but  give  me 

A  taste  of  happiness  in  your  embraces, 

That  the  remembrance  of  the  sweetness  of  it 

Might  leave  perpetual  bitterness  behind  it? 

Or  shew'd  me  what  it  was  to  be  a  wife, 

To  live  a  widow  ever? 

Asam.  She  has  confest  it! 

Seize  on  him,  villains. 

Enter  Capiaga  and  Aga,  with  Janizaries. 

O  the  Furies  ! 
[Exeunt  Asambeg  and  Mustapha  abois, 

Don.  How  ! 
Are  we  betray 'd  ? 

Vitel.  The  better;  I  expected 
A  Turkish  faith. 

Don.  Who  am  I,  that  you  dare  this  ? 
'Tis  I  that  do  command  you  to  forbear 
A  touch  of  violence. 

Aga.  We,  already,  madam, 
Have  satisfied  your  pleasure  further  than 
We  know  to  answer  it. 

Cap.  Would  we  were  well  off! 
We  stand  too  far  engaged,  I  fear. 

Don.  For  us  ? 

We'll  bring  you  safe  off :  who  dares  contradict 
What  is  our  pleasure  1 

Re-enter  ASAMBEO  and  MUSTAPHA,  below. 

Asam.  Spurn  the  dog  to  prison. 
I'll  answer  you  anon. 

Vitel.  What  punishment 
Soe'er  I  undergo,  I  am  still  a  Christian. 

[Ei it  Guard  with  Vitelli. 

Don.  What  bold  presumption's  this?   Under  what 
Am  I  to  fall,  that  set  my  foot  upon  [law 

Your  statutes  and  decrees  ? 

Musta.  The  crime  committed 
Our  Alcoran  calls  death. 

Don.  Tush  !  who  is  here, 
That  is  not  Araurath's  slave,  and  so,  unfit 
To  sit  a  judge  upon  his  blood? 

Asam.  You  have  lost, 

And  shamed  the  privilege  of  it;  robb'd  me  too 
Of  my  soul,  my  understanding,  to  behold 
Your  base  unworthy  fall  from  your  high  virtue. 

Don.  I  do  appeal  to  Amurath. 

Asam.  We  will  offer 

No  violence  to  your  person,  till  we  know 
His  sacred  pleasure  ;  till  when,  under  guard 
You  shall  continue  here. 

Don.  Shall  ! 

Asam.   I  have  said  it. 

Don.  We  shall  remember  this. 

Asam.  It  ill  becomes 
Such  as  are  guilty,  to  deliver  threats 
Against  the  innocent.     [The  Guard  leads  off  Donvsa. 
I  could  tear  this  flesh  now, 
But  'tis  in  vain  ;  nor  must  I  talk,  but  do. 
Provide  a  well-mann'd  galley  for  Constantinople : 
Such  sad  news  never  came  to  our  great  master. 
As  he  directs,  we  must  proceed,  and  know 
No  will  but  his,  to  whom  what's  ours  we  owe. 

[Exeunt. 


Scan  I.] 


THE  REN  EG  ADO. 


157 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  Grimaldi's  Houte. 
Enter  Master  and  Boatswain. 

Mast.  He  does  begin  to  eat  1 

Boiitsw.  A  little,  master  ; 
But  our  best  hope  for  his  recovery  is,  that 
His  raving  leaves  him  ;  and  those  dreadful  words 
Damnation  and  despair,  with  which  he  ever 
Ended  all  his  discourses,  are  forgotten. 

Mast.  This  stranger  is  a  most  religious  man  sure ; 
And  I  am  doubtful,  whether  his  charity 
In  the  relieving  of  our  wants,  or  care 
To  cure  the  wounded  conscience  of  Grimaldi, 
Deserves  more  admiration. 

Baitsw.  Can  you  guess 

What  the  reason  should  be,  that  we  never  mention 
The  church,  or  the  high  altar,  but  his  melancholy 
Grows  and  increases  on  him  1 

Mast.  I  have  heard  him, 

When  he  gloried  to  profess  himself  an  atheist, 
Talk  often,  and  with  much  delight  and  boasting, 
Of  a  rude  prank  he  did  ere  he  turu'd  pirate; 
The  memory  of  which,  as  it  appears, 
Lies  heavy  on  him. 

B'-atsic.  Pray  you,  let  me  understand  it. 

Mast.  I'pon  a  solemn  day,  when  the  whole  city 
Join'd  in  devotion,  and  with  barefoot  steps 
Pass'd  to  St.  Mark's,  the  duke,  and   the  whole  sig- 
llelping  to  perfect  the  religious  pomp  [nory, 

With  which  they  were  received  ;  when  all  men  else 
Were  full  of  tears,  and  groan'd  beneath  the  weight 
Of  past  offences,  of  whose  heavy  burthen 
They  came  to  be  absolved  and  freed  ;  our  captain, 
Whether  in  scorn  of  those  so  pious  rites 
He  had  no  feeling  of,  or  else  drawn  to  it 
Out  of  a  wanton,  irreligious  madness, 
(I  know  not  which,)  ran  to  the  holy  man, 
As  he  was  doing  of  thn  work  of  grace*, 
And,  snatching  from  his  hands  the  sanctified  means, 
Dash'd  it  upon  the  pavement. 

Bivitsw.  How  escaped  he, 
It  being  a  deed  deserving  death  with  torture  ? 

Mast.  The  general  amazement  of  the  people 
Gave  him  leave  to  quit  the  temple,  and  a  gondola, 
Prepared,  it  seems,  before,  brought  him  aboard  ; 
Since  which  he  ne'er  saw  Venice.     The  remembrance 
Of  this.  itse»ips,  torments  him  ;  aggravated 
W'th  a  strong  belief  he  cannot  receive  pardon 
For  this  foul  fact,  but  from  his  hands,  against  whom 
It  was  committed. 

Biintsw.  And  what  course  intends 
His  heavenly  physician,  reverend  Francisco, 
To  beat  down  this  opinion  ? 

Mant.  He  promised 
To  use  some  holy  and  religious  finenessf, 


•  At  he  was  doing  of  the  work  of  grace,  &c.]  This  is  a 
reverenti-dl  de?c,  iption  of  the  elevation  of  the  host ;  and 
could  only  be  written  by  a  man  on  whom  that  awful  act  of 
pious  daring  had  made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression. 

t  To  use  some,  holy  and  religious  fineness,]  i.  e.  subtile  and 
ingenious  device.  Coxeter,  whose  ideas  of  harmony  were 
never  paralleled,  unless  by  those  of  Mr.  M.  Mason,  cor- 
rupted tins  into  jfricfu',  though  the  line  was  reduced  to  abso- 
lute prose  by  it!  Massiuger  knew  no  such  word;  the  in- 
troduction of  which  is  justly  reprobated  by  Johnson,  as 
Wholly  unnecessary.  But,  indeed,  in  all  times,  our  language 
has  been  over-run  and  debased  by  i'.uuasuc  terms, 


To  this  good  end  ;  and  in  the  mean  time,  charged  me 
To  keep  him  dark,  and  to  admit  no  visitants  : 
But  on  no  terms  to  cross  him.     Here  he  comes. 
Enter  GRIMALDI  with  a  booh*. 

Grim.  For  theft,  he  that  restores  treble  the  value, 
.Makes  satisfaction  ;,  and  for  want  of  means 
To  do  so,  as  a  slave  must  serve  it  out,  [here 

Till  he  hath  made  full  payment.     There's  hope  left 
Oh  !   with  what  willingness  would  I  give  up 
My  liberty  to  those  that  I  have  pillaged ; 
And  wish  the  numbers  of  my  years,  though  wasted 
In  the  most  sordid  slavery,  might  equal 
The  rapines  I  have  made ;  till  with  one  voice, 
My  patient  sufferings  might  exact  from  my 
Most  cruel  creditors,  a  full  remission, 
An  eye's  loss  with  an  eye,  limb's  with  a  limb ; 
A  sad  account ! — vet,  to  find  peace  within  here, 
Though  all  such  as  I  have  maim'd  and  dismember'd 
In  drunken  quarrels,  or,  o'ercome  with  rage, 
When  they  were  given  up  to  my  power,  stood  here 
And  cried  for  restitution  ;  to  appease  them,      [now, 
I  would  do  a  bloody  justice  on  myself: 
Pull  out  these  eyes,  that  guided  me  to  ravish 
Their  sight  from  others  ;  lop  these  legs,  that  bore  me 
To  barbarous  violence  ;  with  this  hand  cut  off 
This  instrument  of  wrong,  till  nought  were  left  me 
But  this  poor  bleeding  limbless  trunk,  which  gladly 
I  would  divide  among  them. — Ha  !  what  think  I 

Enter  FR.AN'CI&CO  in  a  cope,  like  a  Bishop. 
Of  petty  forfeitures  !  in  this  reverend  habit, 
All  that  I  am  turu'd  into  eyes,  I  look  on 
A  deed  of  mine  so  fiend-like,  that  repentance, 
Though  with  my  tears  I  taught  the  sea  new  tides. 
Can  never  wash  off:  all  my  thefts,  my  rapes, 
Are  venial  trespasses,  compared  to  what 
I  offer'd  to  that  shape,  and  in  a  place  too, 
Where  I  stood  bound  to  kneel  to't.  [Kneea. 

Fran.  'Tis  forgiven : 

I  with  his  tongue,  whom  in  these  sacred  vestments, 
With  impure  hands  thou  didst  offend,  pronounce  it. 
I  bring  peace  to  thee  ;  see  that  thou  deserve  it 
In  thy  fair  life  hereafter. 

Grim.  Can  it  be  ! 

Dare  I  believe  this  vision,  or  hope 
A  pardon  e'er  may  find  me  1 

Fran.  Purchase  it 

Ky  zealous  undertakings,  and  no  more 
'Twill  be  remembered. 

Grim.  What  celestial  balm  [Rises. 

I  feel  now  pour'd  into  my  wounded  conscience  ! 
What  penance,  is  there  I'll  not  undergo,  [sure 

Though  ne'er  so  sharp  and  rugged,  with  more  plea- 
Than   flesh  and  blood  e'er  tasted !    shew  me  true 

Sorrow, 

Arm'd  with  an  iron  whip,  and  I  will  meet 
The  stripes  she  brings  along  with  her,  as  if 


"Which  sweet  Philisicles  fetch'd  of  late  from  France." 
The  word  occurs,  in  iis  natural  sense,  in  The  Devil' s an  Au : 

" you'll  mar  all  with  your  fineness." 

Here,  too,  Mr.  Syu.pson  proposes  to  read  finesse  /while 
Whalley,  who  properly  rejects  his  amendment,  eXpM«*th« 
original  word,  by  "shyness,  or  coyness  ;"  to  which  it  beari 
not  the  slightest  affinity. 

• with  a  book.]  The  book  was  a  vei-y  proper 

one  for  Grimaldi  •  from  his  references,  it  appears  to  be  the 
Bible. 


138 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr  IV. 


They  were  the  gentle  touches  of  a  hand 

That  comes  to  cure  me.    Can  good  deeds  redeem  me? 

I  will  rise  up  a  wonder  to  the  world. 

When  I  have  given  strong  proofs  how  I  am  alter'd. 

I,  that  have  sold  such  as  professed  the  faith 

That  I  was  born  in,  to  captivity, 

Will  make  their  number  equal,  that  I  shall 

Deliver  from  the  oar ;  and  win  as  many 

By  the  clearness  of  my  actions,  to  look  on 

Their  misbelief  and  loath  it.     I  will  be 

A  convoy  for  all  merchants  :  and  thought  worthy 

To  be  reported  to  the  world,  hereafter, 

The  child  of  your  devotion  ;  nurs'd  up, 

And  made  strong  by  your  charity,  to  break  through 

All  dangers  hell  can  bring  forth  to  oppose  me  : 

Nor  am  I,  though  my  fortunes  were  thought  desper- 

Now  you  have  reconciled  me  to  myself,  [ate, 

So  void  of  worldly  means,  but,  in  despite 

Of  the  proud  viceroy's  wrongs,  I  can  do  something 

To  witness  of  my  change :  when  you  please,  try  me*, 

And  I  will  perfect  what  you  shall  enjoin  me, 

Or  fall  a  joyful  martyr. 

F-an.  You  will  reap 

The  comfort  of  it :  live  yet  undiscover'd 
And  with  your  holy  meditations  strengthen 
Your  Christian  resolution  :  ere  long, 
You  shall  hear  further  from  me.  [Exit. 

Grim.  I'll  attend 

All  your  commands  with  patience ; — come,  my  mates, 
I  hitherto  have  lived  an  ill  example, 
And,  as  your  captain,  led  you  on  to  mischief ; 
But  now  will  truly  labour,  that  good  men 
May  say  hereafter  of  me  to  my  glory, 
(Let  but  my  power  and  means  hand  with  my  willf,) 
His  good  endeavours  did  weigh  down  his  ill. 

[Exeunt. 

Re-enter  FRANCISCO,  in  his  usual  habit. 

Fran.  This  penitence  is  not  counterfeit :  howso- 
Good  actions  are  in  themselves  rewarded.         [ever, 
My  travail's  to  meet  with  a  double  crown  : 
If  that  Vitelli  come  oft'  safe,  and  prove 
Himself  the  master  of  his  wild  affections — 

Enter  GAZET. 

O,  I  shall  have  intelligence  ;  how  now,  Gazet, 
Why  these  sad  looks  and  tears  1 

Gaz.  Tears,  sir  !  I  have  lost  [for 

My  worthy  master.     Your  rich  heir  seems  to  mourn 
A  miserable  father,  your  young  widow, 
Following  a  bedrid  husband  to  his  grave, 
Would  have  her  neighbours  think  she  cries  and  roars, 
That  she  must  part  with  such  a  goodman  do-nothing ; 
When  'tis  because  be  stays  so  long  above  ground, 
And  hinders  a  rich  suitor. — All's  come  out,  sir. 

*  /  can  do  something 

To  witness  of  my  change :  when  you  please,  try  me,  &c.] 
The  reader  must  be  convinced,  long  ere  this,  that  the  modern 
editions  of  Massinger  offer  a  very  inadequate  representation 
of  his  works.  Numerous  as  the  errors  pointed  out  arc,  a 
still  greater  number  have  been  corrected  in  silence  :  of  these 
the  source  is  generally  obvious;  here,  however,  is  one  for 
which  no  motive  can  be  assigned  ;  it  is  a  gratuitous  and 
wanton  deviation  from  the  original,  that  no  degree  of  folly 
can  justify,  no  excess  of  negligence  account  for : — In  Coxelcr 
and  Mr.  M.  Mason  the  pasmge  stands  thus: 
/  can  do  something 

To  prove  that  I  have  power,  when  you  please  try  me  ! 

1(Let  but  my  power  and  means  hand  with  my  will,)]  Or, 
as  we  should  now  nay, go  hand  in  hand,  co-operate  with  my 
will. 


We  are  smoak'd  for  being  coney-catchers  ;  my  mas- 
Is  put  in  prison  ;  his  she  customer  [ter 

Is  under  guard  too  ;  these  are  things  to  weep  for: — 
But  mine  own  loss  consider'd,  and  what  a  fortune 
I  have  had,  as  they  say,  snatch'd  out  of  my  chops, 
Would  make  a  man  run  mad. 

Fran.  1  scarce  have  leisure, 
I  am  so  wholly  taken  up  with  sorrow 
For  my  loved  pupil,  to  enquire  thy  fate ; 
Yet  1  will  hear  it. 

Gaz.  Why,  sir,  I  had  bought  a  place, 
A  place  of  credit  too,  an  1  had  gone  through  with  it ; 
I  should  have  been  made  an  eunuch  :  there  was  ho- 
nour 

For  a  late  poor  'prentice  !   when,  upon  the  sudden. 
There  was  such  a  hurlyburly  in  the  court, 
That  I  was  glad  to  run  away,  and  carry 
The  price  of  my  office  with  me. 

1'ran.   Is  that  all  ! 

You  have  made  a  saving  voyage :  we  must  think  now, 
Though  not  to  free,  to  comfort  s«d  Vitelli; 
My  grieved  soul  suffers  for  him. 

Gaz.  I  am  sad  too  ; 
But  had  I  been  an  eunuch 

Fran.  Think  not  on  it.  [Kiennt. 

SCENE  II.— -4  Hall  in  Asambeg's  Palace. 

Enter  ASAMBEG  ;    he  unlocks  a  door,  and    PAULINA 
conies  forth. 

Asam.  Be  your  own  guard:  obsequiousness  and 

service 

Shall  win  you  to  be  mine.     Of  all  restraint 
For  ever  take  your  leave,  no  threats  shall  awe  you, 
No  jealous  doubts  of  mine  disturb  your  freedom, 
No  fee'd  spies  wait  upon  your  steps  :  your  virtue, 
And  due  consideration  in  yourself 
Of  what  is  noble,  are  the  faithful  helps 
I  leave  you,  as  supporters,  to  defend  you 
From  falling  basely. 

Paul.  This  is  wondrous  strange  : 
Whence  flows  this  alteration  ? 

Asam.  From  true  judgment; 
And  strong  assurance  neither  grates  of  iron, 
Hemm'd  in  with  walls  of  brass,  strict  guards,  hig-h 
The  forfeiture  of  honour,  nor  the  fear  [birth, 

Of  infamy  or  punishment,  can  stay 
A  woman  slaved  to  appetite,  from  being 
False  and  unworthy. 

Paul.  You  are  grown  satirical 
Against  our  sex.     Why,  sir,  1  durst  produce 
Myself  in  our  defence,  and  from  you  challenge 
A  testimony  that's  not  to  be  denied, 
All  fall  not  under  this  unequal  censure. 
1,  that  have  stood  your  flatteries,  your  threats, 
Borne  up  against  your  fierce  temptations  ;  scorn 'd 
The  cruel  means  you  practised  to  supplant  me, 
Having  no  arms  to  help  me  to  hold  out, 
But  love  of  piety,  and  constant  goodness  ; 
If  you  are  unconfirmed,  dare  again  boldly, 
Enter  into  the  lists,  and  combat  with 
All  opposites  man's  malice  can  bring  forth 
To  shake  me  in  mv  chastity,  built  upon 
The  rock  of  my  religion. 

Asam.  I  do  wish 

I  could  believe  you ;  but,  when  I  shall  show  you 
A  most  incredible  example  of 
\  our  frailty,  in  a  princess,  sued  and  sought  to 
By  men  of  worth,  of  rank,  of  eminence ;  courted 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  RENEGADO. 


139 


By  happiness  itself,  and  her  cold  temper 
Approved  by  many  years ;  yet  she  to  fall, 
Fall  from  herself,  her  glories,  nay,  her  safety, 
Into  a  gulph  of  shame  and  black  despair  : 
1  think  you'll  doubt  yourself,  or,  in  beholding 
Her  punishment,  for  ever  be  deterr'd 
From  yielding  basely. 

Paul.  1  would  see  this  wonder; 
'Tis,  sir,  my  first  petition. 

Aiam.  And  thus  granted  ; 
Above,  you  shall  observe  all.  [Eiit  Paulina. 

Enter  MUSTAPHA. 

Musta.  Sir,  I  sought  you, 
And  must  relate  a  wonder.     Since  1  studied, 
And  knew  what  man  was,  I  was  never  witness 
Of  such  invincible  fortitude  as  this  Christian 
Shows  in  his  sufferings  :  all  the  torments  that 
We  could  present  him  with,  to  fright  his  constancy, 
Confirm'd,  not  shook  it ;  and  those  heavy  chains, 
That  eat  into  his  flesh,  appear'd  to  him 
Like  bracelets  made  of  some  loved  mistress'  hairs 
We  kiss  in  the  remembrance  of  her  favours. 
I  am  strangely  taken  with  it,  and  have  lost 
Much  of  my  fury. 

Ascim.   Had  he  suffer'd  poorly, 
It  had  call'd  on  my  contempt ;  but  manly  patience, 
And  all-commanding  virtue,  wins  upon 
An  enemy.     I  shall  think  upon  him.     Ha ! 

Enter  Aga*,  with  a  black  box. 

So  soon  return 'd  !  This  speed  pleads  in  excuse 
Of  your  late  fault,  which  I  no  more  remember. 
What's  the  grand  signior's  pleasure? 

Aga.  'Tis  enclosed  here. 
The  box  too  that  contains  it  may  inform  you 
How  he  stands  affected :  I  am  trusted  with 
Nothing  but  this,  on  forfeit  of  your  head, 
She  must  have  a  speedy  trial. 

Asam.  Bring  her  in 

In  black,  as  to  her  funeral :  [Exit  Ago."]  'tis  the  colour 
Her  fault  wills  her  to  wear,  and  which  in  justice, 
I  dare  not  pity.     Sit,  and  take  your  place : 
However  in  her  life  she  has  degenerated, 
May  she  die  ncbly,  and  in  that  confirm 
Her  greatness,  and  high  blood  ! 

Solemn  mmic.  Re-enter  the  Aga,  with  the  Capiaga 
ltadii>g  in  DONUSA  in  black,  her  train  borne  up  by 
CARAZIE  and  MANTO.  A  Guard  attending.  PAU- 
LINA enters  above. 

Mutta.  I  now  could  melt ; 
But,  soft  compassion  leave  me. 

Mant.  I  am  affrighted 

With  this  dismal  preparation.     Should  the  enjoying 
Of  loose  desires  find  ever  such  conclusions, 
All  women  would  be  vestals. 

Don.  That  you  clothe  me 


*  Enter  Aga,]  I  suppose  the  reader  will  be  inclined  to 
exclaim  with  Asambeg,  "  So  soon  return'd  !"  for  from  Tunis 
to  Constantinople  is  an  interval  humane  commodum.  I  have 
neither  entered,  nor  proposed  to  enter,  into  any  disquisitions 
on  the  preservation  of  the  unities  of  time  and  place,  which 
must  be  a  work  of  absolute  supererogation  in  criticizing  an 
author  who  totally  forgot  or  disregarded  them.  Massinger  ii 
uot  more  irregular  than  his  contemporaries  :  indeed  he  is 
less  so  than  many  of  them  ;  but,  in  all  cases,  I  am  persuaded 
that  he  followed  his  story,  without  entertaining  mnch  anxiety 
as  to  the  time  it  might  occupy,  or  the  various  changes  of 
Mtuation  it  might  require. 


In  this  sad  livery  of  death,  assures  me 
Your  sentence  is  gone  out  before,  and  I 
Too  late  am  call'd  for,  in  my  guilty  cause 

To  use  qualification  or  excuse 

Yet  must  I  not  part  so  with  mine  own  strengths*. 
But  borrow,  from  my  modesty,  boldness,  to 
Enquire  by  whose  authority  you  sit 
My  judges,  and  whose  warrant  digs  my  grave 
In  the  frowns  you  dart  against  my  life  ? 

Asam.  See  here, 

This  fatal  sign  and  warrant !  This,  brought  to 
A  general,  fighting  in  the  headf  of  his 
Victorious  troops,  ravishes  from  his  hand 
His  even  then  conquering  sword  ;  this,  shown  unto 
The  sultan's  brothers,  or  his  sons,  delivers 
His  deadly  anger;  and,  all  hopes  laid  by, 
Commands  them  to  prepare  themselves  for  heaven  ; 
Which  would  stand  with  the  quiet  of  your  soul, 
To  think  upon,  and  imitate. 

Dow.  Give  me  leave 
A  little  to  complain  ;  first,  of  the  hard 
Condition  of  my  fortune,  which  may  move  you, 
Though  not  to  rise  up  intercessors  for  me, 
Yet,  in  remembrance  of  my  former  life, 
(This  being  the  first  spot  tainting  mine  honour,) 
To  be  the  means  to  bring  me  to  his  presence : 
And  then  I  doubt  not,  but  I  could  allege 
Such  reasons  in  mine  own  defence,  or  plead 
So  humbly,  (my  tears  helping,)  that  it  should 
Awake  his  sleeping  pity. 

Asam.   'Tis  in  vain. 

If  you  have  aught  to  say,  you  shall  have  hearing; 
And,  in  me,  think  him  present. 

Don.  I  would  thus  then 

First  kneel,  and  kiss  his  feet ;  and  after,  tell  him 
How  long  I  had  been  his  darling ;  what  delight 
My  infant  years  afforded  him  ;  how  dear 
He  prized  his  sister  in  both  bloods,  my  mother: 
That  she,  like  him,  had  frailty,  that  to  me 
Descends  as  an  inheritance  ;  then  conjure  him, 
By  her  blest  ashes,  and  his  father's  soul, 
The  sword  that  rides  upon  his  thigh,  his  right  hand 
Holding  the  sceptre  and  the  Othoman  fortune, 
To  have  compassion  on  me. 

Asum.  But  suppose 

(As  I  am  sure)  he  would  be  deaf,  what  then 
Could  you  infer  ? 

Don.  I,  then,  would  thus  rise  up, 
And  to  his  teeth  tell  him  he  was  a  tyrant, 
A  most  voluptuous  and  insatiable  epicure 
In  his  own  pleasures  ;  which  he  hugs  so  dearly, 
As  proper  and  peculiar  to  himself, 
That  he  denies  a  moderate  lawful  use 
Of  all  delight  to  others.     And  to  thee. 
Unequal  judge,  I  speak  as  much,  and  charge  thee, 
But  with  impartial  eyes  to  look  into 
Thyself,  and  then  consider  with  what  justice 
Thou  canst  pronounce  my  sentence.  Unkind  nature, 
To  make  weak  women  servants,  proud  men  masters ! 
Indulgent  Mahomet,  do  thy  bloody  laws 
Call  my  embraces  with  a  Christian  death, 
Having  my  heat  and  May  of  youth  to  plead 
In  my  excuse  ?  and  yet  want  power  to  punish 

*  Yet  mutt  J  not  part  to  with  mine  man  strengths.]  The 
'  modern  editors  read  strength,  which  does  not  convey  Mas- 
singer's  meaning,  and,  indeed,  is  scarcely  sense  in  this  place: 
but  they  did  not  understand  the  word.  .Strengths  are  cas- 
tles, strong  places,  and  metaphorically  defences,  as  here. 

t  A  general  fighting  in  the  head,  &c.]  Mr.  M.  Mason 
chooses  to  modernize  this  expression,  and  lead,  at  the  head. 


140 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr  IV. 


These  that  with   scorn  break  through  thy  cobweb 

edicts, 

And  laugh  at  thy  decrees?     To  tame  their  lusts 
There's  no  religious  bit ;  let  her  be  fair, 
And  pleasing  to  the  eye,  though  Persian,  Moor, 
Idolatress,  Turk,  or  Christian,  you  are  privileged. 
And  freely  may  enjoy  her.     At  this  instant, 
I  know,  unjust  man,  thou  hast  in  thy  powei 
A  lovely  Christian  virgin  ;  thy  offence 
Equal,  if  not  transcending  mine  ;  why,  then, 
(We  being  both  guilty,)  dost  thou  not  descend 
From  that  usurp'd  tribunal,  and  with  me 
Walk  hand  in  bund  to  death  ? 

Asam.  She  raves;  and  we 
Lose  time  to  hear  her :  read  the  law. 

Don.  Do,  do ; 
I  stand  resolved  to  suffer. 

Aga.  [reads.]  If  any  virgin  of  what  degree  or 
quality  soever,  born  a  natural  Turk,  shall  be  convicted 
of  corporal  looseness,  and  incontinence,  with  aim  Chris- 
tian, she  is,  by  the  decree  trf  our  great  vrophet,  Mahomet, 
to  lose  her  le  id. 

Asam.  Mark  that,  then  tax  our  justice! 
Aga.  E i  er  provided,  That  if  she,  the  said  offender, 
by  any  reasons,  argnmrnts,  or  persiutsum,  can  win 
anil  prernil  n~>th  the  said  Christian  intending  with  her, 
to  alter  his  religion,  and  marry  her,  that  then  the  win- 
ning of  a  tout  to  the  Mahometan  sect,  thall  acquit 
tier  from  all  shame,  disgrace,  and  punishment  what- 
tuerer. 

Don.  I  lay  hold  on  that  clause,  and  challenge  from 

you 

The  privilege  of  the  law. 
Musta.   What  will  you  do  ? 

Do/i.  Grant  me  access  and  means,  I'll  undertake 
To  turn  this  (  hristian  Turk,  and  marry  him  : 
This  trial  you  cannot  deny. 

Musta.  O  base ! 

Can  fear  to  die  make  you  descend  so  low 
From  your  high  birth,  and  brand  the  Othoman  line 
With  such  a  mark  of  infamy? 

Asam.  This  is  worse 

Than  the  parting  with  your  honour.     Better  suffer 
Ten  thousand  deaths,  and  without  hope  to  have 
A  place  in  our  great  prophet's  paradise, 
Than  have  an  act  to  aftertimes  remember 'd. 
So  foul  as  this  is. 

Musta.  Cheer  your  spirits,  madam  ; 
To  die  is  nothing,  'tis  but  parting  with 
A  mountain  of  vexations. 

Asam.  Think  of  your  honour: 
In  dying  nobly,  you  make  satisfaction 
For  your  offence,  and  you  shall  live  a  story 
Of  bold  heroic  courage. 

Don.  You  shall  not  fool  me 
Out  of  my  life  :  I  claim  the  law,  and  sue  for 
A  speedy  trial ;  if  I  fail,  you  may 
Determine  of  me  as  you  please. 

Asam.  Base  woman  ! 

But  use  thy  ways,  and  see  thou  prosper  in  them ; 
For,  if  thou  fall  again  into  my  power, 
Thou  shall  in  vain,  after  a  thousand  tortures, 
Cry  out  for  death,  that  death  which  now  thou  fliest 

from. 

Unloose  the  prisoner**  chains.     Go,  lead  her  on 
To  try  the  magic  of  her  tongue.    I  follow  : 

[Erennt  all  but  Asambeg. 
I'm  on  the  rack — descend,  my  best  Paulina. 

[Etit  with  Paulina. 


SCENE  IH.— A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  FRANCISCO  and  Gaoler. 

Fran.  I  come  not  empty-handed ;  I  will  purchase 
Your  favour  at  what  rate  you  please.     There's  gold. 

Gnol.  'Tis  the  best  oratory.     1  will  hazard 
A  check  for  your  content.     Below,  there  ! 

Vitel.  [below  ]   Welcome ! 
Art  thou  the  happy  messenger,  that  brings  me 
News  of  my  death  ? 

Gaol.  Your  hand.  [Plucks  up  Vitelli 

Fran.   Now  if  you  please, 
A  little  privacy. 

Gaol.  You  have  bought  it,  sir ; 
Enjoy  it  freely.  [Exit. 

Fran.  O,  my  dearest  pupil  ! 
Witness  these  tears  of  joy,  I  never  saw  you, 
'Til!  now,  look  lovely  ;  nor  durst  I  ever  glory 
In  the  mind  of  any  man  1  had  built  up 
With  the  hands  of  virtuous  and  religious  precepts, 
Till  this  glad  minute.     Now  you  have  made  good 
My  expectation  of  you.     By  my  order, 
Ail  Roman  Caesars,  that  It-d  kings  in  chains, 
Fast  bound  to  their  triumphant  chariots,  if 
Compared  with  that  true  glory  arid  full  lustre 
You  now  appear  in  ;  all  their  boasted  honours. 
Purchased  with  blood  and  wrong,  would   lose  their 
And  be  no  more  remember'd  !  [names, 

Viiel.  This  applause, 

Confirm M  in  your  allowance,  joys  me  more 
Than  if  a  thousand  full-cranun'd  theatres 
Should  clap  their  eager  hands,  to  witness  that 
The  scene  I  act  did  please,  and  they  admire  it. 
But  these  are,  father,  but  beginnings,  not 
The  ends,  of  mv  high  aims.  I  grant,  to  have  master'd. 
The  rebel  appetite  of  flesh  and  blood, 
Was  far  above  my  strength  ;  and  still  owe  for  it 
To  that  great  power  that  lent  it :  but,  when  I 
Sh;ill  make't  apparent  the  grim  looks  of  death 
Affright  me  not ;  and  that  I  can  put  off 
The  fond  desire  of  life  (that,  like  a  garment, 
Covers  and  cloth<-s  our  frailty)  hastening  to 
My  martyrdom,  as  to  a  heavenly  banquet, 
To  which  I  was  a  choice  invited  guest  : 
Then  you  may  boldly  say,  you  did  not  plough 
Or  trust  die  barren  and  ungrateful  sands 
WTith  the  fruitful  grain  of  your  religious  counsels. 

Fran.  You  do  instruct  your  teacher.    Let  the  sun 
Of  your  clear  life,  that  lends  to  good  men  light, 
But  set  as  gloriously  as  it  did  rise, 
(Though    sometimes   clouded,)  nil  ultra  you   may 
To  human  wishes.  [write 

Vitel.  I  have  almost  gain'd 

The  end  o'  the  race,  and  will  not  faint  or  tire  now 
Enter  Aga  and  Gaoler. 

Aga.  Sir,  by  your  leave,  (nay,  stay  not*,)  (to  the 

Gaoler  who  goes  out, )  I  bring  comfort. 
The  viceroy,  taken  with  the  constant  bearing 
|   Of  your  afflictions  ;  and  presuming  too 
you  will  not  change  your  temper,  does  command 
Your  irons  should  be  ta'en  off.     [They  take  of  hit 

iron*.]     Now  arm  yourself 
With  your  old  resolution  ;  suddenly 
You  shall  be  visited.    You  must  leave  the  room  too, 
And  do  it  without  reply. 


nay,  stay  not,]    So  the  old  copy  reads. 


Coxeter  and  M.  Mason,  read  ttare  not. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  RENEGADO. 


141 


Fran.  There's  no  contending  : 

Be  still  thyself,  my  son.    [Exeunt  Aga  and  Francisco. 
Vitel.  'Tis  not  in  man, 

"Enter  DONUSA,  ASAMBEG,  MUSTAPHA,  and  PAULINA. 

To  change  or  alter  me. 

Pv..'    Whom  do  I  look  on  ? 
My  brother  ?  'tis  he  ! — but  no  more,  my  tongue  ; 
Thou  wilt  betray  all.  [Aside. 

Asam.  Let  us  hear  this  temptress  : 
The  fellow  looks  as  he  would  stop  his  ears 
Against  her  powerful  spells. 

Paul.  [Aside.  \   He  is  undone  else. 

Vitel.  I'll  stand  the  encounter — charge  me  home. 

Don.  I  come,  sir,  [Bows  herself. 

A  beggar  to  you,  and  doubt  not  to  find 
A  good  man's  charity,  which  if  you  deny, 
You  are  cruel  to  yourself;  a  crime  a  wise  man 
(And  such  I  hold  you)  would  not  willingly 
Be  guilty  of;  nor  let  it  find  less  welcome, 
Though  I,  a  creature  you  contemn,  now  show  you 
The  way  to  certain  happiness  ;  nor  think  it 
Imaginary  or  fantastical, 
And  so  not  worth  the  acquiring,  in  respect 
The  passage  to  it  is  nor  rough  nor  thorny  ; 
No  steep  hills  in  the  way  which  you  must  climb  up, 
No  monsters  to  be  conquer'd,  no  enchantments 
To  be  dissol  ved  by  counter  charms,  before 
You  take  possession  of  it. 

Vitel.  What  strong  poison 
Is  wrapp'd  up  in  these  sugar'd  pills? 

Don.  My  suit  is, 

That  you  would  quit  your  shoulders  of  a  bur*iien, 
Under  whose  ponderous  weight  you  wilfully 
Have  too  long  groan'd,  to  cast  those  fetters  off, 
With  which,  with  your  own  hands,  you  chain  your 

freedom. 

Forsake  a  severe,  nay,  imperious  mistress, 
Whose  service  does  exact  perpetual  cares, 
Watchings,  and  troubles  ;  and  give  entertainment 
To  one  that  courts  you,  whose  least  favours  are 
Variety,  and  choice  of  all  delights 
Mankind  is  capable  of. 

Vitel.  You  speak  in  riddles. 
What  burthen,  or  what  mistress,  or  what  fetters, 
Are  those  you  point  at  ? 

Don.  Those  which  your  religion. 
The  mistress  you  too  long  have  served,  compels  you* 
To  bear  with  slave-like  patience. 

Vitel.  Ha! 

Paul.  How  bravely 
That  virtuous  anger  shows ! 

Don.  Be  wise,  and  weight 
The  prosperous  success  of  things;  if  blessings 
Are  donatives  from  heaven,  (which,  you  must  grant, 
Were  blasphemy  to  question,)  and  that 
They  are  call'd  down  and  pour'd  on  such  as  are 
Most  gracious  with  the  great  Disposer  of  them, 
Look  on  our  flourishing  empire,  if  the  splendor, 

* •  compels  you.]  Coxeter  dropt  the  last  word 

at  the  press.  Mr.  M.  Mason  omits  it  of  course,  though  the 
passage  is  not  sense  without  it.  In  the  ne\t  speech,  fur 
that  virtuous  anger,  he  redds  the,  &c.  There  are  other 
errors  ami  omission?,  which  are  here  rectified  and  supplied. 

t  Don.  Be  wise,  and  weigh,  &c.]  Part  of  this  speech  is 
taken,  hut  with  great  ?kill,  from  Minucius  Felix  ;  indeed,  it 
was  the  leading  argument,  and  constantly  directed,  for  the 
two  first  ages  of  the  church,  against  the  Christians :  after  the 
Reformation,  the  church  of  Rome  took  it  up,  and  pointed  it 
wi  h  equal  propriety,  aud,  indeed,  with  equal  success,  against 
tUe  Prutesuuiu  1 


The  majesty,  and  glory  of  it  dim  not 

Your  feeble  sight :  and  then  turn  back,  and  see 

The  narrow  bounds  of  yours,  yet  that  poor  remnant 

Rent  in  as  many  factions  and  opinions 

As  you  have  petty  kingdoms; — and  then,  if 

You  are  not  obstinate  against  truth  and  reason, 

You  must  confess  the  Deity  you  worship 

Wants  care  or  power  to  help  you. 

Paul.  Hold  out  now, 

And  then  thou  -art  victorious.  [Aside 

Asam.  How  he  eyes  her ! 
Mitsta.   As  if  he  would  look  through  her. 
Asitm.  His  eyes  flame  too, 
As  threatening  violence. 
Vitel.  But  that  I  know 

The  devil,  thy  tutor,  fills  each  part  about  thee, 
And  that  I  cannot  play  the  exorcist 
To  dispossess  thee,  unless  I  should  tear 
Thy  body  limb  by  limb,  and  throw  it  to 
The  furies,  that  expect  it;  I  would  now 
Pluck  out  tiiat  wicked  tongue,  that  hath  blasphemed 
The  great  Omnipotency,  at  whose  nod 
The  fabric  of  the  world  shakes.     Dare  you  bring 
Your  juggling  prophet  in  comparison  with 
That  most  inscrutable  and  infinite  Essence, 
That  made  this  all,  and  comprehends  his  work  ;— 
The  place  is  too  profane  to  mention  him 
Whose  only  name*  is  sacred.     O  Donusa ! 
How  much,  in  my  compassion,  I  suffer, 
That  thou,  on  whom  this  most  excelling  form, 
And  faculties  of  discourse-^  beyond  a  woman, 
Were  by  his  liberal  gift  conferr'd,  shouldst  still 
Remain  in  ignorance  of  him  that  uave  it ! 
i    I  will  not  foul  my  mouth  to  speak  the  sorceries 
i    Of  your  seducer,  his  base  birth,  his  whoredoms, 
j    His  strange  impostures  ;  nor  deliver  how 
I    He  taught  a  pigeon  to  feed  in  his  ear; 
i   Then  made  his  credulous  followers  believe 
It  was  an  angel,  that  instructed  him 
In  the  framing  of  his  Alcoran — pray  you,  mark  me. 
Asam.  These  words  are  death,  were  he  in  nought 
Vitel.  Your  intent  to  win  iref  [else  guilty. 

To  be  of  your  belief,  proceeded  from 
Your  fear  to  die.     Can  there  be  strength  in  that 
Religion,  that  suffers  us  to  tremble 
At  that  which  every  day,  nay  hour,  we  haste  to  ? 

Don.  This  is  unanswerable,  and  there's  something 
I  err  in  my  opinion.  [tells  me 

Vitel.  Cherish  it, 

It  is  a  heavenly  prompter ;  entertain 
This  holy  motion,  and  wear  on  your  forehead 
The  sacred  badge  he  arms  his  servants  with$ ; 

*  The  place  it  too  profane  to  mention  him 

Whose  only  name  is  sacred.]  i.  e.  whose  name  is  the 
sole  or  only  name  that  is  sacred  :  a  mode  of  expression  fre- 
quently adopted  by  our  old  w liters. 

i  And  facultien  of  discourse,]  i.  e.  of  reason.  It  is  to 
be  regretted,  that  so  just  and  noble  a  speech  as  this  as- 
suredly is,  should  be  debased  by  the  inseition  of  the  con- 
temptible fable  with  which  it  concludes:  that  table,  how- 
ever, was  gravely  delivered  by  contemporary  historians 
and  divines:  Massinger,  therefore,  though  he  may  perhaps 
be  arraigned  for  want  of  taste,  cannot  faiily  be  charged 
with  over-credulity. 

I  Viti  1.  Your  intent  to  win  me,]  A  hemistich  preceding 
this,  is  lost ;  it  was  probably  an  cjaculatory  remark  from 
Paulina. 

$  and  wear  on  your  forehead 

The  tacred  badge  he  arm*  his  servants  with :]  This  is  a 
periphra.-is  of  baptism,  familiar  to  the  Catholic  writers.  It 
may  neither  be  unainusin^,  nur  iininstriictive,  for  the  reader 
to  compare  this  scene  with  the  third  act  of  The  Virgin 
Martyr:  he  will  find  many  passages  strkingly  similar. 


142 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr  V. 


Ycu  shall,  like  me,  with  scorn  look  down  upon 
All  engines  tyranny  can  advance  to  batter 
Your  constant  resolution.     Then  you  shall 
Look  truly  fair,  when  your  mind's  pureness  answers 
Your  outward  beauties. 

Don.  I  came  here  to  take  you, 
But  I  perceive  a  yielding  in  myself 
To  he  your  prisoner. 

Vitei.  Tis  an  overthrow  ^ 
That  will  outshine  all  victories.     O  Donusa, 
Die  in  my  faith,  like  me;  and  'tis  a  marriage 
At  which'  celestial  angels  shall  be  waiters, 
And  such  as  have  been  sainted  welcome  us. 
Are  you  confirm 'd? 

Don.  I  would  he :  but  the  means 


That  may  assure  me? 

Vitel.  Heaven  is  merciful, 
And  will  not  suffer  you  to  want  a  man 
To  do  that  sacred  office,  build  upon  it. 

Don.  Then  thus  I  spit  at  Mahomet. 

Asam.  Stop  her  mouth  : 
In  death  to  turn  apostata  !  I'll  not  hear 
One  syllable  from  any  ; — wretched  creature  ! 
With  the  next  rising  sun  prepare  to  die. 
Yet,  Christian,  in  reward  of  thy  brave  courage, 
Be  thy  faith  right  or  wrong,  receive  this  favour ; 
In  person  I'll  attend  thee  to  thy  death : 
And  boldly  challenge  all  that  I  can  give, 
But  what's  not  in  my  grant,  which  is — to  live. 

[Eieunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  YITELLI  and  FRANCISCO. 

Fran.  You  are  wondrous*  brave  and  jocund. 

Vitel.  Welcome,  father. 

Should  I  spare  cost,  or  not  wear  cheerful  looks, 
Upon  my  wedding  day,  it  were  ominous, 
And  show'd  I  did  repent  it;  which  I  dare  not, 
It  being  a  marriage,  howsoever  sad 
In  the  first  ceremonies  that  confirm  it, 
That  will  for  ever  arm  me  against  fears, 
Repentance,  doubts,  or  jealousies,  and  bring 
Perpetual  comforts,  peace  of  mind,  and  quiet 
To  the  glad  couple. 

Fran.  I  well  understand  you  ; 
And  my  full  joy  to  see  you  so  resolved 
Weak  words  cannot  express.     What  is  the  hour 
Design'd  for  this  solemnity  ? 

Vitel.  The  sixth : 

Something  before  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
We  take  our  last  leave  of  his  fading  light, 
And  with  our  soul's  eyes  seek  for  beams  eternal. 
Yet  there's  one  scruple  with  which  I  am  much 
Perplex'd  and  troubled,  which  1  know  you  can 
Resolve  me  of. 

Fran.  Whatis't? 

Vitel.  This,  sir ;  my  bride, 
Whom  I  first  courted,  and  then  won,  not  with 
Loose  lays,  poor  flatteries,  apish  compliments, 
But  sacred  and  religious  zeal,  yet  wants 
The  holy  badge  that  should  proclaim  her  fit 
For  these  celestial  nuptials  :  willing  she  is, 
I  know,  to  wear  it  as  the  choicest  jewel 
On  her  fair  forehead;  but  to  you,  that  well 
Could  do  that  work  of  grace,  I  know  the  viceroy 
Will  never  grant  access.     Now,  in  a  case 
Of  this  necessity,  I  would  gladly  learn, 
Whether,  in  me,  a  layman,  without  orders, 
It  may  not  be  religious  and  lawful, 
As  we  go  to  our  deaths,  to  do  that  office? 

Fran.    A  question  in  itself  with  much  ease  an- 
Midwives,  upon  necessity,  perform  it;         [swered: 


*  Fran.  You  are  wondrous  brave  and  jocund.]  i.  e.  as  has 
been  already  observed,  richly,  splendidly  apparelled. 


And  knights  that,  in  the  Holy  Land,  fought  for 
The  freedom  of  Jerusalem,  when  full  [mets 

Of  sweat  and  enemies' blood,  have  made  their  hel- 
The  fount,  out  of  which  with  their  holy  hands 
They  drew  that  heavenly  liquor:  'twas  approv'd  then 
By  the  holy  church,  nor  must  I  think  it  now, 
In  you,  a  work  less  pious. 

Vitel.  You  confirm  me  ; 

I  will  find  a  way  to  do  it.     In  the  mean  time, 
Your  holy  vows  assist  me ! 

Fran.  They  shall  ever 
Be  present  with  you. 

Vitel.  You  shall  see  me  act 
This  last  scene  to  the  life. 

Fran.  And  though  now  fall, 
Rise  a  bless'd  martyr. 

Vitel.  That's  my  end,  my  all.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— A  Street. 
Enter  GIUJIALDI,  Master,  Boatswain,  and  Sailors. 

Boatsw.  Sir,  if  you  slip  this  opportunity, 
Never  expect  the  like. 

Mast.  With  as  much  ease  now 
We  may  steal  the  ship  out  of  the  harbour,  captain, 
As  ever  gallants  in  a  wanton  bravery 
Have  set  upon  a  drunken  constable, 
And  bore  him  from  a  sleepy  rug-gown'd  watch  : 
Be  therefore  wise. 

Grim.  I  must  be  honest  too. 

And  you  shall  wear  that  shape,  you  shall  observe  me, 
If  that  you  purpose  to  continue  mine. 
Think  you  ingratitude  can  be  the  parent 
To  our  unfeign'd  repentance?  Do  I  owe 
A  peace  within  here,  kingdoms  could  not  purchase, 
To  my  religious  creditor,  to  leave  him 
Open  to  danger,  the  great  benefit 
Never  remember 'd!  no;  though  in  her  bottom 
We  could  stow  up  the  tribute  of  the  Turk ; 
Nay,  grant  the  passage  safe  too  ;  I  will  never 
Consent  to  weigh  an  anchor  up,  till  he, 
That  only  must,  commands  it. 

Boatiw.  This  religion 
Will  keep  us  slaves  and  beggars. 

Mast.  The  fiend  prompts  me 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  REN  EG  A  DO. 


To  change  my  copy  :  plague  upori't !  we  are  seamen  ; 
What  have  we  to  do  with't,  but  for  a  snatch  or  so, 
At  ihe  end  of  a  long  Lent*  ? 

Kilter  FRANCESCO. 

Boatsu:.  Mum  ;  see  who  is  here. 

Grim.  My  father! 

Fran.  My  good  convert.     I  am  full 
Of  serious  business  which  denies  me  leave 
To  hold  long  conference  with  you  :  only  thus  much 
Briefly  receive  ;  a  day  or  two,  ut  the  most, 
Shall  make  me  fit  to  take  my  leave  of  Tunis, 
Or  give  me  lost  for  ever. 

Grim.  Days  nor  years, 
Provided  that  my  stay  may  do  you  service, 
But  to  me  shall  be  minutes. 

Fran.  I  much  thank  you  : 
In  this  small  scroll  you  may  in  private  read 
What  my  intents  are ;  and,  as  they  grow  ripe, 
I  will  instruct  you  further  :  in  the  mean  time 
Borrow  your  late  distracted  looks  and  gesture  ; 
The  more  dejected  you  appear,  the  less 
The  viceroy  must  suspect  j  ou. 

Grim,  i  am  nothing. 
But  what  you  please  to  have  me  be. 

Fran.  Farewell,  sir. 

Be  cheerful,  master,  something  we  will  do, 
That  shall  reward  itself  in  the  performance  ; 
And  that's  true  prize  indeed. 

Mast.    I  am  obedient. 

Boatsw.  And  1 :  there's  no  contending. 

[Eieunt  Grim.  Must.  Boatsw.  and  Sailors. 

Fran.  Peace  to  you  all ! 

Prosper,  thou  great  Existence,  my  endeavours, 
As  they  religiously  are  undertaken, 
And  distant  equally  from  servile  gain, 

Enter  PAULINA,  CARAZIE,  and  MAXTO. 
Or  glorious  ostentation  ! — 1  am  heard 
In  this  blest  opportunity,  which  in  vain 
I  long  have  waited  for.     I  must  show  myself. 
O,  she  has  found  me  !  now  if  she  prove  right, 
All  hope  will  not  forsake  us. 

Pant.   Further  off; 

And  in  that  distance  know  your  duties  too. 
You  were  bestow'd  on  me  as  slaves  to  serve  me, 
And  nut  as  spies  to  pry  into  my  actions, 
And  after,  to  betray  me.     You  shall  find 
If  any  look  of  mine  be  unobserved, 
I  am  not  ignorant  of  a  mistress'  power, 
And  from  whom  I  receive  it. 

Cur.  Note  this,  Manto, 

The  pride  and  scorn  with  which  she  entertains  us, 
Now  we  are  made  her's  by  the  viceroy's  gift! 
Our  sweet  condition'd  princess,  fair  Donusa, 
Rest  in  her  death  wait  on  her !  never  used  us 
With  such  contempt.     I  would  he  had  sent  me 
To  the  gallies  or  the  gallows,  when  he  gave  me 
To  this  proud  little  devil. 

Mant.  I  expect 

All  tyrannous  usage,  but  I  must  be  patient ; 
And  though,  ten  times  a  day,  she  tears  these  locks, 
Or  makes  this  face  her  footstool,  'tis  but  justice. 

Paul.  'Tis  a  true  story  of  my  fortunes,  father. 
My  chastity  preserved  by  miracle, 

•  At  the  end  of  a  long  Lent?]  Massinger  alliides  to  the 
custom  which  all  good  Catholics  had  (and,  indeed,  still 
have)  of  confessing  themselves  at  Easter.  Good  Fri'lay  or 
Easter  Sunday  is  almost  the  only  day  on  which  the  French 
•ixl  Italian  sailors  ever  think  of  repairing  to  a  confessional. 


Or  )our  devotions  for  me  ;  and,  believe  it, 

\Vhat  outward  pride  soe'er  I  countert'eit, 

Or  state,  to  these  appointed  to  attend  ine, 

I  am  not  in  my  disposition  alter'd, 

But  still  your  humble  daughter,  and  share  with  you, 

In  my  poor  brother's  sufferings  ; — all  hell's  torments 

Revenge  it  on  accurs'd  Grimaldi's  ^-oul, 

That,  in  his  rape  of  me,  gave  a  beginning 

To  all  the  miseries  that  since  have  follow'd  ! 

Fran.    Be   charitable, "  and    forgive   bim,   gentle 

daughter. 

He's  a  changed  man,  and  may  redeem  his  fault 
In  his  fair  life  hereafter.     You  must  bear  too 
Your  forced  captivity,  for  'tis  no  better, 
Though  you  wear  golden  fetters,  and  of  him, 
\Vhom  death  affrights  not,  learn  to  hold  out  nobly. 

Paul.  You  are  still  the  same  good  counsellor, 

l-'ran.  And  who  knows, 

("Since  what  above  is  purposed,  is  inscrutable,) 
But  that  the  viceroy's  extreme  dotage  on  you 
May  be  the  parent  of  a  happier  birth 
Than  yet  our  hopes  dare  fashion.     Longer  conference 
May  prove  unsafe  for  you  and  me,  however 
(Perhaps  for  trial)  he  allows  you  freedom. 

[Delivers  a  paper. 

From  this  learn  therefore  what  you  must  attempt, 
Though  with  the  hazard  of  yourself :  heaven  guard 

you, 

And  give  Yitelli  patience !  then  I  doubt  not 
But  he  will  have  a  glorious  day,  since  some 
Hold  truly,  such  as  suffer,  overcome.  [Eieunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Hall  in  Asambeg's  Palace. 

Enter  ASAMBEG,  MVSTAPHA,  Aga,  and  Capiaga. 

Asam.  What  we  commanded,  see  perform 'd  ;  and 
In  all  things  to  be  punctual.  [fail  not 

Aga.  \\e  shall,  sir.          [Exeunt  Aga  and  Capiaga. 

Musta.  'Tis  strange,  that  you  should  use  such  cir- 
cumstance 
To  a  delinquent  of  so  mean  condition. 

Asam.  Had  he  appear'd  in  a  more  sordid  shape 
Than  disguised  greatness  ever  deign'd  to  mask  in, 
The  gallant  bearing  of  his  present  fortune 
Aloud  proclaims  him  noble. 

Musta.  if  you  doubt  him 
To  be  a  man  built  up  for  great  employments, 
And  as  a  cunning  spy,  sent  to  explore 
The  city's  strength,  or  weakness,  you  by  tortt 
May  force  him  to  discover  it. 

Asam.  That  were  base  ; 
Nor  dure  I  do  such  injury  to  virtue 
And  bold  assured  courage  :  neither  can  I 
Be  won  to  think,  but  if  I  should  attempt  it, 
I  shoot  against  the  moon.     He  that  hath  stood 
The  roughest  battery,  that  captivity 
Could  ever  bring  to  shake  a  constant  temper ; 
Despised  the  fawnings  of  a  future  greatness, 
By  beauty,  in  her  full  perfection,  tender'd  ; 
That  hears  of  death  as  of  a  quiet  slumber, 
And  from  the  surplusage  of  his  own  firmness, 
Can  spare  enough  of  fortitude,  to  assure 
A  feeble  woman  ;  will  not',  Mustapha, 


•A  feeble  woman;  will  not,  Muttaplia,]  For  not,  the 
old  copy  reads  now.  Instead  of  correcting  this  palpable 
error  of  the  press,  the  modern  editors  add  to  it  a  word  of 
no  authority,  and  thus  produce  a  verse  of  surprising  har- 
mony : 

A  feeble  woman;  will  now,  Muttapha,  never. 


144 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr  V 


Be  alter'a  in  his  soul  for  any  torments 
IV  e  can  afflict  his  body  with. 

Musta.  Do  your  pleasure  : 
Jonlv  oftVr'd  you  a  friend's  advice, 
But  without  pall  or  envy  to  the  man 
That  is  to  suffer.     But  what  do  you  determine 
f*f  poor  Grimaldi?  the  disgrace  call'd  on  him 
1  near,  has  run  him  mad. 

Asam.  There  weis>h  the  difference 
In  the  true  temper  of  their  minds.     The  one, 
A  pirate,  sold  to  mischiefs,  rapes,  and  all 
That  make  a  slave  relentless  and  obdurate, 
Yet,  of  himself  wanting  the  inward  strengths 
That  should  defend  him,  sinks  beneath  compassion 
Or  pity  of  a  man  :  whereas  this  merchant, 
Acquainted  only  with  a  civil*  life  ; 
Arm'd  in  himself,  intrench'd  and  fortified 
With  his  own  virtue,  valuing  life  and  death 
At  ihe  same  price,  poorly  does  not  invite 
A  favour,  but  commands  us  do  him  right ; 
Which  unto  him,  and  her  we  both  once  honour'd, 
As  a  just  debt  I  gladly  pay  ; — they  enter. 
Now  sit  we  equal  hearers. 

A  dreadful  music.  Enter  at  one  door,  the  Aga, 
Janizaries,  YIIEI.U,  FIUNCISCO,  and  GAZET  ;  at  the 
other,  DONUSA,  PAULINA,  CARAZIE,  and  MANTO. 

Musta.  I  shall  hear 
And  see,  sir,  without  passion  ;  my  wrongs  arm  me. 

Viiel.  A  joyful  preparation  !  To  whose  bounty 
Owe  we  our  thanks  for  gracing  thus  our  hymen  ? 
The  notes,  though  dreadful  to  the  ear,  sound  here 
As  our  epithalamium  were  sung 
By  a  celestial  choir,  and  a  full  chorus 
Assured  us  future  happiness.     These  that  lead  me 
Gaze  not  with  wanton  eyes  upon  my  bride, 
Nor  for  their  service  are  repaid  by  me 
With  jealousies  or  fears  ;  nor  do  they  envy 
My  passage  to  those  pleasures  from  which  death 
Cannot  deter  me.     Great  sir,  pardon  me  : 
Imagination  of  the  joys  I  haste  to 
Made  me  forget  my  duty  ;  but  the  form 
And  ceremony  past,  1  will  attend  you, 
And  with  our  constant  resolution  feast  you  ; 
Not  with  coarse  cates.  forgot  as  soon  as  tasted, 
But  such  as  shall,  while  you  have  memory, 
Be  pleasing  to  the  palate. 

•  Acquainted  only  with  a  civil  life;}  Civil,  in  Massinger- 
as  well  as  in  his  •Mrtcn|Mnricfl  alludes  to  the  political  re 
gtilations,  customs,  and  habits,  of  the  city,  as  distinguished 
from  the  court ;  sometimes,  indeed,  it  takes  a  wider  ran»e, 
and  compiisrs  a  deeree  of  civilization  or  moral  improve- 
ment, as  opposed  to  a  state  of  birbarUm,  or  pure  nature. 

Wherever  civil  occurs  in  Shakspeare,  S'eevens  inter- 
prets, or  rather  misinterprets,  it  by  "  grave,  solemn, decent," 
&c.  That  it  somelinu-s  bears  those  meanings  cannot  be  de- 
nied, but  then  it  is  always  in  it-f.  rence  to  citizenship,  or  to 
that  Mate  01  orderly  society  which  is  swayed  by  wise  and 
well-balanced  institutions:  in  its  abstract  sense  it  would  fre- 
quently have  no  meaning,  or,  at  least  none  that  was  worthy 
of  Shaks-peare  ;  e.  |. 

"  Yon,  lord  archbi-hop, — 
Whose  see  is  by  a  cicil  peace  maintain'd.V 

Second  I' art  of  Henry  IV. 

That    is,   (says  Slecvcns,)    a  "  grave    and    decent"   peace. 
What  is  that  .' 
Again : 

"  Why  should  this  desert  silent  be  f 

For  it  ii  unpeopled  !  No: 
Tongues  I'll  IIHIIJC  on  every  tree, 

Tlui  shall  CJDKMJ'lagl  fhow."  At  you  Like  It. 
"That  is,  grave  airl  solemn  »a\in-. i!"  No,  iuixl)  :  sajiujjs 
eo!|ect«U  I'ruiu  an  intercourse  with  civil  hie. 


Fran.  Be  not  lost 
In  what  you  purpose.  [En/. 

GHZ.  Call  you  this  a  marriage! 
It  differs  little  from  banging  ;  I  cry  at  it. 

Vitel.  See,  where  my  bride  appears  !  in  what  full 
As  if  the  virgins  that  bear  up  her  train  [lustre  ' 

Had  long  contended  to  receive  an  honour 
Above  their  births,  in  doing  her  this  service. 
Nor  comes  she  fearful  to  meet  those  delights. 
Which,  once  past  o'er,  immortal  pleasures  follow. 
I  need  not,  therefore,  comfort  or  encourage 
Her  forward  steps  ;  and  I  should  offer  wrong 
To  her  mind's  fortitude,  should  I  but  ask 
HQW  she  cnn  brook  the  rough  high-going  sea, 
Over  whose  foamy  back  our  ship,  well  rigg'd 
With  hope  and  strong  assurance,  must  transport  u» 
Nor  will  I  tell  her,  when  we  reach  the  haven, 
Which  tempests  shall  not  hinder,  what  loud  welcome 
Shall  entertain  us  ;  nor  commend  the  place, 
To  tell  whose  least  perfection  would  strike  dumb 
The  eloquence  of  all  boasted  in  story, 
Though  join 'd  together. 

Don.  Tis  enough,  my  dearest, 
I  dare  not  doubt  you  ;  as  your  humble  shadow, 
Lead  where  you  please,  I  follow. 

Vitel.  One  suit,  sir, 
And  willingly  I  cease  to  be  a  beggar  ; 
And  tlwt  you  may  with  more  security  hear  it, 
1   Know,  'tis  not  life  I'll  ask,  nor  to  defer 
I    Our  deaths,  but  a  few  minutes. 
Asam.  Speak  ;  'tis  granted. 
Vitel.  We  being  now  to  take  our  latest  leave, 
And  grown  of  one  belief,  1  do  desire 
I  may  have  your  allowance  to  perform  it, 
But  in  the  fashion  which  we  Christians  use 
Upon  the  like  occasions. 
Asam.  'Tis  allow'd  of. 

Vitel.  My  service  :  haste,  Gazet,  to  the  next  spring 
And  bring  me  of  it. 

Guz.  Would  I  could  as  well 
Fetch  you  a  pardon ;  I  would  not  run  but  fly, 
And  be  here  in  a  moment.  [Eri» 

Musta.  What's  the  mystery 
Of  this  ?  discover  it. 

Vitel.  Great  sir,  I'll  tell  you. 
Each  country  hath  its  own  peculiar  rites : 
Some,  when  they  are  to  die,  drink  store  of  wine, 
Which,  pour'd  in  liberally,  does  oft  beget 
A  bastard  valour,  with  which  arm'd,  they  bear 
The  not-to-be  declined  charge  of  death 
With  less  fear  and  astonishment:  others  take 
Drugs  to  procure  a  heavy  sleep,  that  so 
They  may  insensibly  receive  the  means 
That  casts  them  in  an  everlasting  slumber  ; 
Others 

He-enter  GAZET,  with  water 

O  welcome ! 

Asam.  Now  the  use  of  yours? 

Vitel.  The  clearness  of  this  is  a  perfect  sign 
Of  innocence :  and  as  this  washes  off 
Stains  and  pollutions  from  the  things  we  wear  ; 
Thrown  thus  upon  the  forehead,  it  hath  power 
To  purge  those  spots  that  cleave  upon*  the  mind, 
If  thankfully  received.  [Throws  it  on  her  face. 


—  that  clfave  upon  the  mind.}  So  the  old  copy : 
the  m.Hlern  idilors  with  as  little  judgment  as  necessity, 
read,  cli-av*  unto  ihe  mind. 


THE  RENEGADO. 


Asnm.  ' Tis  a  strange  custom. 

Vitel.  How  do  you  entertain  it,  my  Donusa? 
Feel  you  no  alteration,  no  new  motives, 
No  unexpected  aids,  that  may  confirm  you 
In  that  to  which  you  were  inclin'd  before? 

Don.  I  am  another  woman  ; — till  this  minute 
I  never  lived,  nor  durst  think  how  to  die. 
How  long  have  1  been  blind  !  yet  on  the  sudden, 
By  this  blest  means,  I  feel  the  films  of  error 
Ta'en  from  my  soul's  eyes.     0  divine  physician  ! 
That  hast  bestow'd  a  sight  on  me,  which  death, 
Though  ready  to  embrace  me  in  his  arms, 
Cannot  take  from  me  :  let  me  kiss  the  hand 
That  did  this  miracle,  and  seal  my  thanks 
Upon  those  lips  from  whence  these  sweet  words 

vanish'd, 

That  freed  me  from  the  cruellest  of  prisons, 
Blind  ignorance  and  misbelief.     False  prophet ! 
Impostor  Mahomet ! 

Atom.  I'll  hear  no  more, 
You  do  abuse  my  favours  ;  serer  them : 
\Vretch,  if  thou  hadst  another  life  to  lose* 
This  blasphemy  deserved  it ; — instantly 
Carry  them  to  their  deaths. 

Vitel.  We  part  now,  blest  one, 
To  meet  hereafter  in  a  kingdom,  where 
Hell's  malice  shall  not  reach  us. 

Paul,  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Asam.  What  means  my  mistress? 

Puul.  Who  can  hold  her  spleen. 
When  such  ridiculous  follies  are  presented, 
The  scene,  too,  made  religion  ?  O,  my  lord, 
How  from  one  cause  two  contrary  effects 
Spring  up  upon  the  sudden ! 

Asam.  This  is  strange. 

Paul.  That  which  hath  fool'd  her  in  her  death, 

wins  me, 

That  hitherto  have  barr'd  myself  from  pleasure, 
To  live  in  all  delight. 

Asam.  There's  music  in  this, 

Paul.  I  now  will  run  as  fiercely  to  your  arms 
As  ever  longing  woman  did,  born  high 
On  the  swift  wings  of  appetite. 

Vitel.  O  devil ! 

Paul.  Nay,  more;  for  there  shall  be  no  odds  be- 
twixt us, 
I  will  turn  Turk*. 

Gaz.  Most  of  your  tribe  do  so, 
When  they  begin  in  whore.  [Aside. 

Asam.  You  are  serious,  lady  ? 

Pant.  Serious  ! — but  satisfy  me  in  a  suit 
That  to  the  world  may  witness  that  I  have 
Some  power  upon  you,  and  to-morrow  challenge 
Whatever's  in  my  gilt ;  for  1  will  be 
At  your  di-posef. 

Gaz.  That's  ever  the  subscription 
To  a  damn'd  whore's  false  epistle.  [Aside. 

Asam.  Ask  this  hand, 


*  /  will  turn  Turk. 

Gv/..  .Hfost  of  your  tribe  do  to, 

I  Then  they  bryin  in  whore.}  To  turn  Turk,  was  a  figu- 
rative fxpres-ion  lor  a  change  of  condition,  or  opinion.  It 
slioul  I  be  otastrvtil,  that  Gazet  wantonly  perverts  the 
phrase,  \\liicli  i*  nseii  in  its  literal  acceptation  by  Paulina. 

t  1  toill  be 

At  j/otir  dispose.  |  Mr.  M.  Mason,  for  no  other  reason, 
»*  appears,  th.uj  tint  of  spoiling  the  metre,  alters  this  to 

1  wM  be 

At  your  disposal  1 


Or,  if  thou  wilt,  the  heads  of  these.     I  am  rapt 
Beyond  myself  with  joy.     Speak,  speak,  what  is  it? 

Paul.  But  twelve  short   hours  reprieve  for  this 
base  couple. 

Asam.  The  reason,  since  you  hate  them  ? 

Paul.  That  I  may 

Have  time  to  triumph  o'er  this  wretched  woman. 
I'll  be  myself  her  guardian  ;   I  will  feast, 
Adorned  in  her  choice  and  richest  jewels  : 
Commit  him  to  what  guards  you  please.  Grant  this, 
I  am  no  more  mine  own,  but  yours. 

Asam.  Enjoy  it; 

Repine  at  it  who  dares  :  bear  him  safe  off 
To  the  black  tower,  but  give  him  all  things  useful  : 
The  contrary  was  not  in  your  request? 

Paul.   I  do  contemn  him. 

Don.  Peace  in  death  denied  me ! 

Paul.  Thou  shall  not  go  in  liberty  to  thy  grave; 
For  one  night  a  sultana  is  my  slave. 

Mnstii.  A  terrible  little  tyranness. 

Asam.  No  more; 
Her  will  shall  be  a  law.     Till  now  ne'er  happy ! 

[Exeum 

SCENE  IV.— A  Street. 

Enter  FRANCISCO,  GHIMAI.DI,  Master,  Boatswain, 
and  Sailors. 

Grim.  Sir,  all  things  are  in  readiness;  the  Turks, 
That  seized  upon  my  ship,  stowM  under  hatches ; 
My  men  resolved  and  cheerful.     Use  but  means 
To  get  out  of  the  ports,  we  will  be  ready 
To  bring  you  aboard,  and    then   ^heaven    be   but 
This  for  the  viceroy's  fleet!  [pleased, ) 

Fran.  Discharge  your  parts, 
In  mine  I'll  not  be  wanting  :   Fear  not,  master, 
Something  will  come  along  to  fraught  your  bark, 
That  you  will  have  just  cause  to  say  you  never 
Made  such  a  voyage. 

Mast.  We  will  stand  the  hazard. 

Fran.  What's  the  best  hour? 

Boitsw.  After  the  second  watch. 

Fran.  Enough  :  each  to  his  charge. 

Grim.  We  will  be  careful.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — .4  Room  in  Asambeg's  Palace. 
Enter  PAULINA,  DONUSA,  CARAZIE,  and  MANTO. 

Paul.  Sit, madam,  it  is  fit  that  I  attend  you; 
And  pardon,  I  beseech  you,  my  rude  language, 
To  which  the  sooner  you  will  be  invited, 
When  you  shall  understand,  no  way  was  left  me 
To  free  you  from  a  present  execution, 
But  by  my  personating  that  which  never 
My  nature  was  acquainted  with. 
Don.  1  believe  you. 

Paul.  You  will,  when  yon  shall  understand  I  may 
j   Receive  the  honour  to  be  known  unto  you 
I   By  a  nearer  name  :  — and,  not  to  rack  you  further, 
|   The  man  you  please  to  favour  is  my  brother ; 
i   No  merchant,  madam,  but  a  gentleman 
Of  the  best  rank  in  Venice. 

Don.  1  rejoice  in't ; 

But  what's  this  to  his  freedom  ?  for  myself, 
Were  he  well  off,  I  were  secure. 
Paul.  I  have 


146 


THE  RENEGADO. 


[Acr  V 


A  present  means,  not  plotted  by  myself, 
But  a  religious  man,  my  confessor, 
That  may  preserve  all,  if  we  had  a  servant 
Whose  faith  we  might  rely  on. 

Don.  She,  that's  now 

\  our  slave,  was  once  mine  ;  had  I  twenty  lives, 
I  durst  commit  them  to  her  trust. 

Alant.  O  madam ! 

I  have  been  false, — forgive  me  :  I'll  redeem  it 
By  any  thing,  however  desperate, 
You  please  to  impose  upon  me. 

Paul.  Troth  these  tears, 
I  think,  cannot  be  counterfeit ;  I  believe  her, 
And,  if  you  please,  will  try  her. 

Dun.  At  your  peril ; 
There  is  no  further  danger  can  look  towards  me. 

Paul.  This  only  then— canst  thou  use  means  to 

carry 
This  bake-meat  to  Vitelli. 

Mant.  With  much  ease  ; 
I  am  familiar  with  the  guard ;  beside, 
It  being  known  it  was  I  that  betray'd  him*, 
My  entrance  hardly  will  of  th*-m  be  question'd. 

Paul.  About  it  then.     Say  that  'twas  sent  to  him 
From  his  Donusa;  bid  him  search  the  midst  of  it, 
He  there  shall  find  a  cordial. 

Mant.  What  I  do 
Shall  speak  my  care  and  faith.  [Exit. 

Don.  Good  fortune  with  thee  ! 

Paul.  You  cannot  eat  1 

Don.  The  time  we  thus  abuse 
We  might  employ  much  better 

Paul.  I  am  glad 

To  hear  this  from  you.     As  for  you,  Carazfe, 
If  our  intents  do  prosper,  make  choice,  whether 
You'll  steal  iiway  with  your  two  mistresses, 
Or  take  vour  fortune. 

Car.  I'll  be  gelded  twice  first ; 
Hang  him  that  stays  behind. 

Paul.  I  wait  you,  madam. 
Were  but  my  brother  off,  by  the  command 
Of  the  doting  yiceroy  there's  no  guard  dare  stay  me ; 
And  I  will  safely  bring  you  to  the  place, 
Where  we  must  expect  him. 

Don.  Heaven  be  gracious  to  us !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI.— A  Room  in  the  Black  Tower. 
Enter  VITELLI,  Aga,  and  Guard. 

Vilel.  Paulina  to  fall  off  thus  !  'tis  to  me 
More  terrible  than  death,  and,  like  an  earthquake, 
Totters  this  walking  building,  such  I  am  ; 
And  in  my  sudden  ruin  would  prevent, 
By  choaking  up  at  once  my  vital  spirits, 
This  pompous  preparation  for  my  death. 
But  1  am  lostf  ;  that  good  man,  good  Francisco, 
Deliver'd  me  a  paper,  which  till  now 
I  wanted  leisure  to  peruse.  [Reads  the  paver. 

Aga.  This  Christian 

Fears  not,  it  seems,  the  near  approaching  sun, 
Whose  second  rise  he  never  must  salute. 


•  //  be  ing  known  it  wai  1  that  bf  tray' A  him,]  Betides  ma- 
king  several  petty  alterations  in  this  line,  Coxier  subjoined 
htm  to  ii,  which  is  not  found  in  the  old  copy.  This  is  re- 
tained, ai  either  that  or  you  seems  necessary  10  complete  the 
tense  :  his  imaginary  improvements  I  have  removed. 

t  But  I  am  lost  ;j  i.  r.  I  forget  inysrlt. 


Enter  MANTO  with  the  baked  meat. 

1  Guard.  Who's  that? 

2  Guard.  Stand. 
Aga.  Manto ! 

Mant.  Here's  the  viceroy's  ring 
Gives  warrant  to  my  entrance;  yet  you  may 
Parrake  of  any  thing  1  shall  deliver. 
'Tis  but  a  present  to  a  dying  man, 
Sent  from  the  princess  that  must  suffei  with  him. 

Aga.  Use  your  own  freedom. 

Mant.  I  would  not  disturb 
This  his  last  contemplation. 

Vltel.  O,  'tis  well ! 

He  has  restored  all,  and  I  at  peace  again 
With  my  Paulina. 

Mant.  Sir,  the  sad  Donusa, 

Grieved  for  your  sufferings  more  than  for  her  own, 
Knowing  the  long  and  tedious  pilgrimage 
"You  are  to  take,  presents  you  with  this  cordial, 
Which  privately  she  wishes  you  should  taste  of; 
And  search  the  middle  part,  where  you  shall  find 
Something  that  hath  the  operation  to 
Make  death  look  lovely. 

Vitel.  1  will  not  dispute 
What  she  commands,  but  serve  it.  [Exit, 

Aga.  Prithee,  Manto, 

How  hath  the  unfortunate  princess  spent  this  night, 
Under  her  proud  new  mistress  ? 

.Mant.  With  such  patience 
As  it  o'ercomes  the  o'her's  insolence, 
Nay,  triumphs  o'er  her  prid»>.     My  much  haste  now 
Commands  me  hence  ;  but,  the  sad  tragedy  past, 
I'll  give  you  satisfaction  to  the  full 
Of  all  hath  pass'd,  and  a  true  character 
Of  the  proud  Christian's  nature.  [Exit. 

•Aga.  Break  the  watch  up ; 
What   should    we   fear   i'the  midst    of    our*  own 

strengths? 
'Tis  but  the  ba&ha's  jealousy.     Farewell,  soldiers. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — An  upper  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  VITELLI  with  the  baked  meat. 

Vitel.  There's  something  more  in  this  than  means 
to  cloy 

A  hungry  appetite,  which  I  must  discover. 

She  will'd  me  search  the  midst  :  thus,  thus  I  pierce  it. 

— Ha!  what  is  this?  a  scroll  bound  up  in  pack- 
thread ! 

What  may  the  mystery  be  7  [ Reads. 

Son,  let  down  this  packthread  at  the  v:est  window  of 
the  castle,  hi/  it  von  shull  draw  up  a  ladder  of  ropes, 
6y  which  you  mail  descend  ;>ioiir  dearest  Donusu  tcith  the 
rent  <>f  your  Jriends  below  attend  you.  Heaven  prosper 
you!  FRANC  sco. 

O  best  of  men  !  he  that  gives  up  himself 

To  a  true  religious  friend,  leans  not  ujxm 

A  false  deceiving  reed,  but  boldly  builds 

I'pon  a  rock  :  which  now  with  joy  I  find 

In  reverend  Francisco,  whose  good  vows, 

Labours,  and  watchings,  in  my  hoped-for  freedom, 

Appear  u  pious  miracle.     1  come, 

•   n  hat  xlwuld  we  fear  in  the  midst  of  our  own  strength*  t 

i'c.j   i.  e.  our  own  lorlreuci. 


CENE  VII  I.] 


THE  RENEGADO. 


147 


1  come  with  confidence  ;  though  the  descent 
Were  steep  as  hell,  L  know  I  cannot  slide, 
Being  call'd  down  by  such  a  faithful  guide. 


[Exit. 


SCENE  VIII.— A  Room  m  ASAMBEG'S  Palace. 
Enter  ASAMBEG,  MUSTAPHA,  and  Janizaries. 

Asam.  Excuse  me,  Mustapha,  though   this  night 

to  me 

Appear  as  tedious  as  that  treble  one 
Was  to  the  world  when  Jove  on  fair  Alcmena 
Begot  Alcides.     Were  you  to  encounter 
Those  ravishing  pleasures,    which   the  slow-paced 

hours 

(To  me  they  are  such)  bar  me  from,  you  would, 
With  your'continued  wishes,  strive  to  imp* 
New  feathers  to  the  broken  wings  of  time, 
And  chide  the  amorous  sun,  for  too  long  dalliance 
In  Thetis'  watery  bosom. 

Miista.  You  are  too  violent 
In  your  desires,  of  which  you  are  yet  uncertain  ; 
Having  no  more  assurance  to  enjoy  them, 
Than  a  weak  woman's  promise,  on  which  wise  men 
Faintly  rely. 

Asam.  Tush  !  she  is  made  of  truth  ; 
And  what  she  says  she  will  do,  holds  as  firm 
As  laws  in  brass,  that  know  no  change  :   [The  cham- 
ber shot  off\.]  What's  this* 
Some  new  prize  brought  in,  sure — 

Enter  AGA. 

Why  are  thy  looks 
So  ghastly  ?  Villain,  speak  ! 

Aga.  Great  sir,  hear  me, 
Then  after  kill  me  ; — we  are  all  betray'd. 
The  false  Grimaldi,  sunk  in  your  disgrace, 
With  his  confederates,  has  seized  his  ship, 
And  those  that  guarded  it  stow'd  under  hatches. 
With  him  the  condemn'd  princess,  and  the  merchant, 
That,  with  a  ladder  made  of  ropes,  descended 
From  the  black  tower,  in  which  he  was  enclosed ; 
And  your  fair  mistress 

A  num.   Ha! 

•  —  -    to  imp 

New  feathers  tothe  broltenwinys  of  time.}  To  imp,  says 
the  compiler  of  the  Fautconer'ft  Dictionary,  "  is  to  insert  a 
feather  iiit.i  the  win;;  of  a  hawk,  i.r  oilier  bird,  in  the  place 
ol'  one  (hat  is  bro  en."  To  this  practice  our  old  writers, 
who  seem  to  have  been,  in  ihe  language  of  the  present  day, 
keen  sportsmen,  perpetually  allude.  There  is  a  passage  in 
Toinkit's  Albtimasa,  which  would  be  admired  even  in  the 
noblest  scenes  ol'  Shakspeare: 

"  How  slow  the  day  slides  on!  when  we  desire 

Time's  haste,  he  seems  to  lose  a  match  with  lobsters ; 

And  when  we  wish  him  stay,  he  imp*  bis  wings 

With  leathers  plumed  with  thought  I" 

*  The  chamber  shot  off.}     Such  is  the  marginal  direction 
in  ilie  old  copy.     The  modern  editors,  in  kindness  lo  their 
readers'  ignorance,  have  considerately  expunged  the   word 
chamber,  anil  inserted  piece  (it  should  have  been  great  yun) 
in  it>  pl.ice.     Yet  a  litlle  while,  and  we  shall  happily  purge 
our  language  of  every  mifa^iioiiable  expression.     Chambers 
occur  continual!)  in  our  old  writers;  they  are.  as  Mr.  M  alone 
bays,  small  pieces  of  ordnance,  such  as    are  still  fired  in  the 
Park  on  rej-iicing  days.     From  the    marginal  direction,  it 
seems  as  if  the  theatres,  in  our  author's  time,  were  provided 
with  one  or  mure  of  these  pieces :    and    indeed,   it   appears 
from  Jonson's  h'xrcratitm  upon  Pit/can,  that  the  Globe  play- 
In. use  wa»  sel  on  fire  by  the  discharge  of  this  holiday  artil- 
lery: 

" the  Globe,  the  glory  of  the  Bank, 

I  saw  with  J'.vo  poor  chambers  taken  in. 

And  razed,  ere  thought  could  urge,  this  might  have  been." 


Aga.  With  all  their  train, 
And  choicest  jewels,  are  gone  safe  aboard  : 
Their  sails  spread  forth,  and  with  a  fore-right  gale* 
Leaving  our  coast,  in  scorn  of  all  pursuit, 
As  a  farewell  they  shew'd  a  broadside  to  usf. 

Asam.  No  more. 

Musta.  Now  note  your  confidence! 

Asam.  No  more. 
O  mv  credulity  !  I  am  too  full 
Of  grief  and  rage  to  speak.     Dull,  heavy  fool ! 
Worthy  of  all  the  tortures  that  the  frown 
Of  thy  incensed  master  can  throw  on  thee, 
Without  one  man's  compassion  !  I  will  hide 
This  head  among  the  deserts,  or  some  cave 
Fill'd  with  my  shame  and  me ;  where  I  alone 
May  die  without  a  partner  in  my  moan.      [Exeunt]. 


* • and  with  a  fore-right  gale.]    The  old  copy 

has  afore  gale.  Mr.  M.  Mason  saw  the  measure  was  de- 
fective, and  proposed  to  read  a  riyht  fore-gale.  I  prefer 
the  lection  which  I  have  inserted  in  the  text,  as  it  is  a 
common  expression,  and  has  indeed  been  already  used  by 
the  poet  himself.  Thus,  in  the  Bondman, : 

" sink  him  with 

A  fore-right  gale  of  liberty." 

t  At  a  farewell  they  shew'd  a  broadside  to  us.}  I  take 
this  opportunity  of  observing,  thai  our  old  dramatic  writers 
were  extremely  well  acquainted  with  nautical  terms;  this 
was  owing  to  the  avidity  with  which  voyages  were  read  by 
all  descriptions  of  people.  Great  eti'ects  were  then  produced 
by  small  means,  and  created  a  wonderful  interest  in  Ihe 
public  mind:  the  writers,  too,  of  these  popular  works  entered 
into  them  with  \\.f\r  whole  soul,  and  gave  a  fullness  and  pre- 
cision to  their  narratives  which  are  not  always  to  be  found 
in  those  of  the  present  day.  I  know  not  how  I  have  been 
drawn  on  so  far  ;  but  I  meant  to  say  that  from  some  cause 
or  other  (perhaps  from  what  I  last  hinted  at)  m.iritime 
language  is  not  so  generally  understood  now  .is  it  was  two 
centuries  ato.  There  is  scarcely  a  nautical  expression  in 
Shakspeare  which  is  not  illustraded  into  obscurity,  or  mis- 
interpreted. Witu  respect  to  the  expression  which  gave  rise 
to  these  remarks,  1  shall  only  observe,  (not  to  puzzle  the 
reader  with  terms  which  he  would  perhaps  ill  understand,) 
that  to  shew  a  broadside  to  an  enemy,  argues  the  highest 
degree  of  confi  ience  and  security  ;  and  is  here  adduced  wilh 
great  propriety  to  prove  that  the  fugitives  thought  them- 
selves out  of  the  danger  of  pursuit. 

+  The  quantity  of  action  in  this  play  is  the  very  cause  of 
the  forced  contrivances  which  are  to  be  found  in  it:  yet, 
however  extravagant  in  its  plan,  or  improbable  in  its  con- 
duct, it  contains  many  beautiful  sentiments  and  interesting 
situations.  There  was  no  such  call  I'T  some  of  the  licen- 
tiousness which  stains  it.  However,  its  conclusion  is  favour- 
able to  the  cause  of  virtue.  The  final  influence  of  truth  is 
seen  in  the  conversion  of  Donusa ;  and  the  force  of  con- 
science in  the  reclaiming  of  Vitelli  and  the  Renegado. 
Massinger  seems  to  have  pleased  himself  with  the  discrimi- 
nation of  their  repentance,  Act  V.  sc.  iii. ;  and  it  may  be 
remarked  in  general,  that  when  his  plots  are  unhappy,  or 
his  action  confused,  he  makes  amends  by  the  superior  care 
bestowed  on  certain  of  his  characters. 

The  Renegado  is  described  as  impious,  atheistical,  sacri- 
legious, vindictive,  licentious,  and  cruel,  ..ccordingly,  his 
remorse  is  of  a  violent  nature.  He  is  abject  and  forlorn, 
despairs  of  the  power  of  heaven  itself  to  save  him,  and 
appears  frantic  with  imaginations  of  horror.  He  is  super- 
stitions too,  (a  true  mark  of  nature  thus  agitated,)  and  will 
only  be  comforted  if  he  can  atone  to  the  holy  man  in  per- 
son whose  administration  of  the  sacred  rites  he  had  profaned. 
And  when  this  is  dexterously  contrived  by  Francisco,  his 
protestations  of  penance  are  as  tumultuonsly  uttered  as  they 
are  gloomily  conceived.  Inflictions  the  most  severe  shall  be 
his  pleasures ;  the  s  ripes  of  iron  whips  shall  be  but  gentle 
touches  of  a  saving  hand;  and  his  whole  life  shall  be  one 
continued  atonement  to  his  native  faith,  which  he  had  re- 
nounced 

The  recovery  of  the  tender  but  misguided  Vitelli  is  of  a 
different  kind.  At  first  he  is  pleased  with  the  success  of  his 
pursuit,  talks  lightly  of  virtue,  and  is  resolved  to  proceed 
with  his  indulgence  But  he  is  soon  checked  by  the  appear- 
ance of  his  coniessor,  acknowledges  his  error,  earnestly  ask* 
forgiveness,  avows  the  struggle  between  his  passions  and  bis 


148 


THE  RKNEGADO. 


[Acr  V 


duty,  but  piomises  submission,  and  keeps  his  promise.  In 
bis  conference  with  Donusa  (.in  impressive  scene)  he  shews 
himself  superior  to  the  enticements  which  yet  he  deeply 
feels;  and  tlie  sati-faction  of  conscience,  now  secure  from 
a  relapse,  gives  him  constancy  in  prison,  and  amid  the 
prospect  ol  death.  He  rises  to  a  sacred  vehemence  in 
favour  of  his  religion,  and  converts  Donusa  herself.  This 
incident,  though  but  fclightly  managed,  reminds  us  of  The 
Virgin- Martyr,  and  in  bo'h  plays  we  may  observe  a  similar 
use  of  religious  terms  and  ecclesiastical  questions,  which, 
with  the  language  and  events  of  the  Roman  Marty  rologies, 
Mem  to  be  familiar  to  Mas.-inger. 

The  Jesuit  is  represented  in  a  manner  highly  flattering  to 
ku  order.     Pious,  sagacious,  charitable,  disinterested,  and 


without  ostentation,  he  watches  over  (he  welfare  of  hit 
charge,  and  directs  all  the  proceedings  of  the  Ctsired  con- 
clusion. 

The  Turkish  characters  are  not  ill-drawn.  The  women 
are  wanton,  capricious,  and  stick  at  nothing  to  accomplish 
their  ends.  The  men  are  shrewd  and  interested,  haughty 
and  violent,  and  of  course  become  alternately  fawning  and 
ferocious. 

The  chief  lesson  to  be  drawn  from  this  play  is,  to  be  on 
our  guard  against  the  effects  of  vicious  habits.  Gross  sini 
make  repentance  a  terror.  The  return  to  duty  is  most  easy 
and  consolinc,  when  the  departure  from  it  has  been  neitiier 
long  nor  wilful : 

breve  tit  quod  turyiter  audei. 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE, 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE.]  A  comedy  of  this  name  was  entered  on  the  books  of  the  Stationers'  Com- 
pany, June  29,  1660 ;  and  a  manuscript  play  so  called,  and  said  to  be  written  by  W.  Rowley,  was  in  the 
number  of  those  destroyed  by  Mr.  Warburton's  servant.  I  suspect  this  to  be  the  drama  before  us.  It  is, 
beyond  all  possibility  of  doubt,  the  genuine  work  of  .Massinger,  and  was  licensed  for  the  stage  by  Sir  H. 
Herbert  on  the  3rd  of  June,  1624.  I  have  already  mentioned  mv  obligations  to  Mr.  Malone  for  the  use  of 
the  manuscript,  with  permission  to  insert  it  in  the  present  edition,  of  which  it  forms  no  inconsiderable 
ornament :  it  is  here  given  with  the  most  scrupulous  fidelity,  not  a  word,  not  a  syllable,  being  altered  or 
omitted,  except  in  one  or  two  instances,  where  the  inadvertence  of  the  old  copyist  had  occasioned  a  palpable 
blunder,  of  which  the  remedy  was  as  certain  as  the  discovery  was  easy. 

It  would  not  have  required  much  pains,  or  the  exertion  of  much  ingenuity,  to  supply  most  of  the  chasms 
occasioned  by  the  defect  of  the  manuscript,  which  are  here  pointed  out  by  short  lines  :  but  it  seemed  the  safer 
method  to  present  them  as  they  stood.  The  reader  may  now  be  confident  that  all  is  genuine,  and  exercise 
his  skill  in  filling  up  the  vacant  spaces,  in  a  manner  most  consonant  to  his  own  opinion  of  the  drift  of  the 
author.  He  must  not  flatter  himself  with  the  hope  of  further  aids,  for  unless  another  manuscript  of  this 
play  should  be  discovered,  (of  which  there  is  little  probability,)  no  subsequent  researches  will  add  to  what 
is  now  before  him.  Such,  unfortunately,  is  the  decayed  state  of  the  present,  that  with  every  precaution 
which  the  most  anxious  concern  could  suggest,  it  crumbled  under  the  inspection  :  a  repetition,  therefore,  of 
my  labours,  which  I  scarcely  think  will  be  lightly  undertaken,  will  produce  nothing  but  disappointment; 
since  many  lines,  and  fragments  of  lines,  which  are  faithfully  copied  in  che  succeeding  pages,  will  be  found 
in  it  no  more. 

I  cannot  entertain  a  doubt  but  that  this  curious  relick  will  be  perused  with  uncommon  interest;  at  least 
with  all  that  perfect  novelty  can  give :  since  it  is  highly  probable,  that  not  a  single  page  of  it  has  been 
read  by  any  person  now  in  existence. 

The  plot  is  founded  upon  those  celebrated  Courts  or  Parliaments  of  Love,  said  to  be  holden  in  France 
during  the  twelfth,  thirteenth,  and  fourteenth  centuries,  for  the  discussion  of  amorous  questions,  and  the 
distribution  of  rewards  and  punishments  among  faithful  and  perfidious  lovers. 

The  origin  of  these  institutions  is  due  to  the  lively  imagination  of  the  Troubadours  .  petty  discussions  on 
points  of  gallantry,  which  probably  took  place  between  them  and  their  mistresses,  are  magnified,  in  their 
romantic  writings,  into  grave  and  solemn  debates,  managed  with  all  the  form  and  ceremony  of  provincial 
councils,  by  the  most  distinguished  personages  of  both  sexes. 

In  their  tales  this  does  not  look  amiss :  when  the  whole  business  of  the  world  is  love,  every  thing  con- 
nected with  it  assumes  an  air  of  importance ;  but,  unfortunately,  these  reveries  of  a  warm  fancy  have  found 
admittance  into  general  history,  where  the  improbability  and  folly  of  them  become  instantly  apparent.  .No- 
thing, in  short,  can  be  more  mean  and  absurd  than  tlio  causes  proposed  for  judgment,  except,  perhaps,  it  be 
the  sentences  of  this  motley  tribunal. 

In  France  the  existence  of  these  Parliaments  has  been  discussed  with  much  warmth.  Monsieur  de  Chas- 
teuil  a  Provencal,  and  therefore  interested  in  the  honour  of  his  country,  collected  from  the  Troubadours 
and  their  followers  a  number  of  anecdotes  on  the  subject,  which  he  moulded  into  a  consistent  and  entertain- 
ing narrative :  it  wanted,  however,  the  foundation  of  truth,  and  was  controverted  in  all  its  parts  by  Monsieur 
de  Haitze.  The  question  is  of  little  interest  to  us  :  those,  however,  who  feel  any  degree  of  curiosity  on  the 
subject,  may  consult  the  Abbe  de  Sade*,  who  has  stated  the  arguments  on  both  sides  with  that  candour 
and  perspicuity  which  are  visible  in  every  page  of  his  entertaining  work. 

De  Sade  himself,  though  he  laughs  at  the  pretensions  of  the  Troubadours,  is  yet  inclined  to  think  thai 
Courts  or  Parliaments  of  Love  were  sometimes  held  ;  though  not  with  the  state  and  formality  ascribed  to 
them  by  the  historians  of  Provence.  He  mentions  a  celebrated  one  at  Troyes,  where  the  Countess  of 
Champagnef  presided;  and  he  gives  a  few  of  the  arrets,  or  decrees,  which  emanated  from  it:  these  a.-' 
still  more  frivolous  than  those  of  the  Troubadours,  and  in  no  age  of  the  world  could  have  been  received 
without  derision  and  contempt. 

After  all,  the  reality  of  these  tribunals  was  not  doubted  in  Massinger's  time,  nor  in  the  ages  preceding 
it  he  had  therefore  sufficient  authority  for  his  (able.  Add,  too,  that  he  has  given  the  establishment  a  dig- 
nity which  renders  its  decisions  of  importance.  A  dame  de  chuleau  issuing  her  ridiculous  arrets  (for  so  they 
were  styled)  excites  little  notice  ;  but  a  great  and  victorious  monarch  sitting  in  judgment,  attended  by  his 
peers,  and  surrounded  with  all  the  pomp  of  empire,  is  an  imposing  object.  Nor  are  the  causes  selected, 

•  Memoircs  pour  la  Vie  de  Francoit  Petrarque,  torn.  II.  notes,  p.  44. 

t  Mr.  Godwin  says — "the  queen  of  France;"  bui  he  seems  to  have  posted  through   de  Sade,  as  Yorick  and  Ui  |T^1 
did  through  Europe — "  at  a  prodigious  rate." 

13 


150 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[Acrl. 


altogether  unworthy  of  the  tribunal :  it  is  not  a  miserable  question,  "  whether  lovers  must  needs  be  jealous/ 
"  whether  love  can  consist  with  matrimony*,"  &c.  which  is  to  be  heard  ;  but  injuries  of  a  serious  nature, 
and  which  can  only  be  redressed  by  a  court  of  this  peculiar  kind.  In  a  word,  a  Parliament  of  Love,  if 
ever  respectable,  is  only  so,  as  convoked  in  this  delightful  drama. 

As  the  list  of  the  dramatis  persons  is  destroyed,  we  are  reduced  to  guess  at  the  period  in  which  the  sup- 
posed events  of  this  drama  took  place:  luckily,  there  is  not  much  room  for  deliberation,  since  the  king's 
speech,  on  his  first  appearance,  confines  it  to  Charles  VIII.  That  moi.arch  led  his  army  into  Italy  on  the 
6th  of  "October,  1494,  and  entered  Naples  in  triumph  on  the  20th  of  February  in  the  following  yeiir:  thus 
says  Mezerai,  "  in  four  months  this  young  king  marched  through  all  Italy,  was  received  everywhere  as 
their  sovereign  lord,  without  using  any  force,  only  sending  his  harbingers  to  mark  out  his  lodgings,  and 
conquered  the  «  hole  kingdom  of  Naples,  excepting  only  Brindes,  in  fifteen  days." 

Charles  was  the  gayest  monarch  that  ever  sat  upon  the  throne  of  France  ;  he  was  fond  of  masks,  revels, 
dances,  and  the  society  of  the  ladies,  to  a  culpable  degree;  Massinger,  therefore,  could  not  have  found  a 
fitter  prince  for  the  establishment  of  a  Parliament  of  Love.  During  ;\  treaty  with  Lodowick  Sforza,  (father 
of  Francis  Duke  of  Milan,)  on  which  the  security  of  his  conquests  in  a  great  measure  depended,  he  was  so 
impatient  to  return  to  his  favourite  amusements,  that  he  broke  through  all  restraint,  and  br fore  any  of  its 
stipulations  were  put  in  execution,  "  went  away,"  continues  the  honest  historian,  "  to  dance,  masquerade,  and 
make  love."  By  this  precipitation,  he  lost  all  the  fruit  of  his  victories  ;  for  Sforza  did  not  perform  one 
article  of  the  treaty. 

This  play  was  acted  at  the  Cockpit,  in  Drury  Lane.  I  have  been  sparing  of  my  observations,  being 
desirous  (as  far  as  was  consistent  with  my  plan)  that  it  might  enjoy  the  reader's  undivided  attention. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS, 

AS   FAR    AS   THEY    APPEAR    IN   THE   REMAINING    SCENES    OP   THIS    FLAT 

CHARLES  VIII.  king  of  France.  ,    DINANT,  physician  to  the  court. 


Duke  of  Orleans 

Duke  of  Nemours. 

CHAMONT,   o  nobleman ;  once  guardian  to  Eellisant. 

PHILAMOUR,  )  .. 

;  counsellors. 
LA  KMT,         ) 

MONTHOSE,  a  n»ble  gentleman,  in  love  with  Bellisant. 

Ci.EnEMOND,  in  love  with  Leonora. 

CLAHINDOUE,} 

PERIGOT,        ItciU  courtier*. 

NOVALL,  3 

SCENE,  Paris,  and  the  adjacent  country 


BELLISANT,   a  noble  lady._ 

LAMIHA,  wife  to  Chamont. 

BEAUTRE,  (supposed  Calista,)  wife  to  Clarindore. 

LEONORA. 

CLARINDA,  wife  to  Diuant. 

Other  Courtiers,  Priest,  Officers,  Servants,  $0. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  Bellisant's  House. 

Enttr  CHAMONT  and  BELLISANT. 
Cham,     ....... 

I  didf  discharge  the  trust  imposed  upon  me, 
Being  your  guardian. 


•  Mtmoiret  pour    la  Vie  dt  Petrarque,  torn.   1 1.  note*, 
p.  60. 

*  1  did  &r.]  Here  the  fragment  bpgins.    It  is  not  powible 
to  M\  hi>w  much  of  this  act  is  1...-I,  as  the  HUIIUM-I  i|>t  it  not 
paged ;  but,  perhaps,  two  or  three  »c*-nes.     One  must  Lave 
taken  place  between  Chainotil   anit  JBeauprc,  in  which  the 
latter  di-<'l<>M-d  her  history  ;  another,  perhaps  between  Clere- 
mi. ml   and   Leonora  ;  the   assemblage    of   the   "  uiirsu"   at 
llriliitant'.-  house  probably  formed  a  third,  ami  the  prcrrnt 
conirrciu-e,  in  whirh  »he  quit?  her  guests  to  attend  on  Cha- 
iiipiii.iiMy  be  the  toiitth.     The  reader  will  please  to  observe, 
Hut  all  this  if  conjecture,  and  given  for  nothing  more:  to 
faciliutc  references,  it  is  nr.-essary  to  fix  on  some  determi- 
iMie  number:  the  ultimate  choice,  however,  ii  of  no  great 
moment,  iln.in.li  I  flatter  myself  it  cannot  be  far  from  the 
tinih.     Very  little  uf  this  scene  appears  to  be  lost ;  Ch.tmont 
U  liciv,  pti hap*,  in  hit  nril  ipeech 


Bell.  'Tis  with  truth  acknowledged. 

Cham.  The  love  I  then  bore  to  you,  and  desira 
To  do  you  all  good  offices  of  a  friend, 
Continues  with  me,  nay,  increases,  lady : 
And,  out  of  this  assurance,  1  presume, 
What,  from  a  true  heart,  1  shall  now  deliver, 
Will  meet  a  gentle  censure. 

Bell.  When  you  speak, 
VVhate'er  the  subjrct  be,  I  gladly  hear. 

Cham.  To  tell  you  of  the  prea'ness  of  your  state, 
And  from  what  noble  stock  you  are  derived, 
Were  but  impertinence,  anil  a  common  theme, 
Since  you  well  know  both.     What  1  am  to  speak  of 
Touches  you  nearer ;  therefore  ^iv*  me  l«?ave 
To  say,  that,  howsoever  your  gre.it  bounties, 
Continual  feasting,  princely  entertainments, 
May  gain  you  the  opinion  ol  some  few 
Of  a  brave  generous  spirit,  (the  best,  harvest 
That  you  can  hope  for  from  such  costly  seed,) 
You  cannot  yet,  amongst  the  multitude, 
(Since,  next  unto  the  princes  of  the  blood, 
The  eyes  of  all  are  lix'd  on  you,)  but  give 


SCENE  V'.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


151 


Some  wounds,  which  will  not  close  without  a  scar 

To  your  fnir  reputation,  and  good  name, 

In  suffering  such  a  crew  of  riotous  gallants, 

Not  of  the  best  repute,  to  be  so  frequent 

Both  in  vour  house  and  presence  :  this,  'tis  rumour'd, 

Little  agrees  with  the  curiousness*  of  honour, 

Or  modesty  or  a  maid. 

BetL  Not  to  dwell  long 

Upon  my  answer,  I  must  thank  your  goodness, 
And  provident  care,  that  have  instructed  me 
What  mv  revenues  are,  by  which  I  measure 
How  far  I  may  expend  ;  and  yet  I  find  not 
That  I  begin  to  waste,  nor  would  I  add 
To  what  I  now  possess.     I  am  myself; 
And  for  my  fame,  since  I  am  innocent  here. 
This  for  the  world's  opinion  ! 

Chum.  Take  heed,  madam. 

That  [world'sf]  opinion,  which  you  slight,  confirms 
This  lady  for  immodest,  and  proclaims 
Another  for  a  modest ;  whereas  the  first         [second 
Ne'er  knew  what  loose  thoughts  were,  and  the  piaised 
Had  never  a  cold  dream. 

I'flL  I  dare  not  argue  : 
But  what  means  to  prevent  this  ? 

Cham.  Noble  marriage. 

Bell.  Purdon  me,  sir;  and  do  not  think  I  scorn 
Your  grave  advice,  which  I  have  ever  folio  ived, 

Though  not  pleased  in  it. [not: 

AVould  you  have  me  match  with  wealth?    I  need  it 
Or  hunt  for  honour,  and  increase  of  titles  ? 
In  truth,  I  rest  ambitious  of  no  greater 
Than  what  my  father  left.     Or  do  you  judge 
Mv  blood  to  run  so  high,  that  'tis  not  in 
Physic  to  cool  me?  I  yet  feel  no  such  heat: 
But  when,  against  mv  will,  it  grows  upon  me, 
I'll  think  upon  your  counsel. 

Chum.  If  you  resolve,  then, 
To  live  a  virgin,  you  have        ... 
To  which  you  may  retire,  and  ha 

To 

In 

And  live  cont          ..... 

Bell.  What  proof 

Should  I  give  of  my  continence,  if  I  lived 
Not  seen,  nor  seeing  any?  Spartan  Helen, 
Corinthian  Lais,  or  Rome's  Messaline, 
So  mew'd  up,  might  have  died  as  they  were  born, 
13y  lust  untempted  ;  no,  it  is  the  glory 
Of  chastity  to  be  tempted,  tempted  home  too, 
The  honour  else  is  nothing  !   I  would  be 
The  first  example  to  convince,  for  liars. 
Those  poets,  that,  with  sharp  and  bitter  rhymes 
Proclaim  aloud,  that  chastity  has  no  being,' 
But  in  a  cottage  :  and  so  confident 
I  am  in  this  to  conquer,  that  I  will 
Expose  myself  to  all  assaults  ;  see  masks, 
Ana  hear  bewitching  sonnets  ;  change  discourse 
\\  ith  one  that,  for  experience,  could  teach  Ovid 
To  write,  a  better  way,  his  Art  of  L-ve : 
Feed  high,  and  take  and  give  free  entertainment, 
Lend  Cupid  eyes,  and  new  artillery, 
Deny  his  mother  for  a  deity  ; 
Ye*  every  burning  shot  he  made  at  me, 


•  Little  agree*  tcith  the  cnrion«ne»s  of  honour,']  i.  t.  the 
punctilious  nicety  or'  honour:  in  tliis  sense  (be  word  often 
occur*. 

t  That  [world's]  opinion  which  you  tl'tyht,  &c.]  I  have 
ventured  to  complete  the  metre  bv  inwriir.e  the  word  be- 
turen  brackets,  which  was  probably  ovvrluoked  by  the 


Meeting  with  my  chaste  thoughts,  should  lose   their 

ardour ; 

Which  when  I  have  o'ercome,  malicious  men 
Must,  to  thnir  shame,  confess  'ti*  possible 
For  a  young  ladv  (some  say  fairj  at  court, 
To  keep  her  virgin  honour. 

Cham.  May  you  prosper 
In  this  great  undertaking!  I'll  not  use 
A  syllable  to  divert  you  :  but  must  be 
A  suifor  in  another  kind. 

Belt.   Whate'er  it  be,   . 
'Tis  grunted. 

Chum.  Jt  is  only  to  accept 
A  present  from  me. 

Bell.  Call  you  this  a  suit! 

Cham.  Come  in,  Calista. 

Enter  BEAUPRE,  disguised  as  a  Moorish  Slave. 

This  is  one  I  would 
Bestow  upon  you. 

Bell.  Tis  the  handsomest 
I  e'er  saw  of  her  countrv  ;  she  hath  neither 
Thick  lips,  nor  rough  curl'd  hair. 

Cham.   Her  manners,  lady, 
I'pon  my  honour,  better  her  good  shape  : 
She  speaks  our  language  too;  for  being  surprised 
In  Barbary,  she  was  bestowed  upon 
A  pirate  of  Marseilles*,  with  whose  wife  f her, 

She  lived  five  years,  and  learn'd  it:  there  I  bought 
As  pitying  her  hard  usage  ;  if  you  please 
To  make  her  yours,  you  may. 

Bell.  With  many  thanks. 

Come  hiiher,  pretty  one;  fear  not,  you  shall  find  me 
A  gentle  mistress. 

Bean.  With  my  care  and  service 
I'll  studv  to  preserve  you  such. 

Bell.   Well  answered. 

Come,  follow  me  ;  we'll  instantly  to  court, 
And  take  my  guests  along. 

Cham.  They  wait  you,  madam.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — A  State  Eoom  in  the  Palace. 

Flonrith. — Enter   CHARLES,   On  LEANS,    NEMOURS, 
PHILAMOUK,  and  LAFOHT. 

Char.  What  solitude  does  dwell  about  our  court ! 
Why  this  dull  entertainment?  Have  I  march'd 
Victorious  through  Italy,  enter'd  Rome, 
Like  a  triumphant  conqueror,  set  my  foot 
Upon  the  neck  of  Florence,  tamed  the  pride 
Of  the  Venetians,  scourged  those  petty  tyrants, 
That     ....  den  of  the  world,  to  b« 
---     home,  nay,  my  house  neglected ! 

(A>ic  Speaker.)     -         the  courtiers  would  appear 
----         therefore  they  presumed 


(A"«ic  Speaker.) 


the  ladies,  sir, 
that  glad  time 
-  the  choice. 


Enter  BEI.LISANT,  LEONORA,  LAMIRA,  CI.ARINDA, 
CHAMONT,  MONTROSE,  ( 'LEREMOSD.  CI.AIIINOOHE, 
PERIGOT,  NOVALL,  and  other  Courtiers. 

Phil.  Here  they  come. 

Ladies.  All  happiness  to  your  mnjesfy  ! 

Courtiers.  And  victor)  sit  evei  on  your  sword! 


A  pirate  of  ,\I  irM-iile.*,1  Marteillt*  btre.  a»  i»  l-t  • 
natural  Combnt.  i»  a  trisvlUh'r 


152 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[Acr  I 


Char.  Our  thanks  to  all. 
But  wherefore  come  you  in  divided  troops, 
As  if  the  mistress  would  not  accept 
Their  servants'  guardship*.  or  the  servants,  slighted, 
Refuse  to  oft'er  it?  You  all  wear  sad  looks  : 
On  Perigot  appears  not  that  blunt  mirth 
Which  his  face  used  to  promise  ;  on  Montrose 
There  hangs  a  heavy  dulness  ;  Cleremond 
Droops  even  to  death,  and  Clarindore  hath  lost 
Much  of  his  sharpness  ;  nay,  these  ladies  too, 
Whose  sparkling  eyes  did  use  to  fire  the  court 
With  various  inventions  of  delight,  [whence 

Part  with  their  splendour.     What's  the  cause  ?  from 
Proceeds  this  alteration  ? 

Peri.  I  am  troubled 

With  the  toothach,  or  with  love,  I  know  not  whether : 
There  is  a  worm  in  both.  [Aside. 

Clarin.  It  is  their  pride. 

Bell.  Or  your  unworthiness. 

Clar.  The  honour  that 
The  French  dames  held  for  courtesy,  above 
All  ladies  of  the  earth,  dwells  not  in  these, 
That  glory  in  their  cruelty. 

Leon.  The  desert 

The  chevaliers  of  France  were  truly  lords  of, 
And  which  your  grandsires  really  did  possess, 
At  no  part  you  inherit. 

Bell.  Ere  they  durst 
Presume  to  offer  service  to  a  lady 
In  person  they  performed  some  gallant  acts, 
The  fame  of  which  prepared  them  gracious  hearing, 
Ere  they  made  their  approaches  :  what,  coy  she,  then, 
Though  great  in  birth,  not  to  be  parallel 'd 
For  nature's  liberal  bounties,  both  set  off 
With  fortune's  trappings,  wealth  ;  but,  with  delight, 
Gladly  acknowledged  such  a  man  her  servant 
To  whose  heroic  courage,  and  deep  wisdom, 
The  flourishing  commonwealth,  and  thankful  king, 
Confess'd  themselves  for  debtors?   Whereas  now, 
If  you  have  travelled  Italy,  and  brought  home 
Some  remnants  of  the  language,  and  can  set 
Your  faces  in  some  strange  and  ne'er  seen  posture, 
Dance  a  lavoltaf,  and  be  rude  and  saucy  ; 
Protest,  and  swear,  and  damn,  (for  these  are  acts 
That  most  think  grace  them,)  and  then  view  your- 
In  the  deceiving  mirror  of  self-love,  [selves 

You  do  conclude  there  hardly  is  a  woman 
That  can  be  worthy  of  you. 

Mont.  We  would  grant 
We  are  not  equal  to  our  ancestors 
In  noble  undertakings,  if  we  thought, 
In  us  a  free  confession  would  persuade  you 
Not  to  deny  your  own  most  wilful  errors  : 
And  where  you  tax  usj  for  unservi-><»,  lady, 


•   nut  wherefore  come  you  in  divided  troop*, 


me  now  call  the  reader's  attention  to  the  exquisite  melody 
of  this  speech  :  nothing  is  forced,  nothing  is  inverted  •  plain- 
ness and  simplicity  are  all  the  aids  of  which  the  po<  t  has 
availed  himself,  yet  a  more  perfect  specimen  of  flowiii" 
rlcgant,  and  rythmical  modulation  is  not  to  be  found  in  the 
English  language.  The  »priglnliue>«,  energy,  and  spirit 
which  pervade  the  remainder  of  this  scene  are  worthy  of  all 
praise 

•»  Dance  a  lavolta,]  For  this  dance  (for  which  the  courtiers 
of  England  as  well  as  of  France  were  indebted  to  Italy)  see 
the  Great  Duke  of  Florence. 

t  And  where  ymt  tax  ut,  &c.]  Where  is  used  for  whereas : 
•  practice  to  common  with  Massinger,  and  indeed  with  all 


I  nerer  knew  a  soldier  yet,  that  could 

Arrive  into  your  favour;  we  may  suffer 

The  winter's  frost,  and  scorching  summer's  heat. 

When  the  hot  lion's  breath  singeth  the  fields, 

To  seek  out  victory;  yet,  at  our  return, 

Though  honour'd  in  our  manly  wounds,  well  taken, 

You  say  they  do  deform  us,  and  the  loss 

Of  much  blood  that  way,  renders  us  unfit 

To  please  you  in  your  chambers. 

Clarin.  I  must  speak 

A  little  in,  the  general  cause  :  your  beauties 
Are  charms  that  do  enchant  so 

Knowing  that  we  are  fastened  in  your  toils  ; 
In  which  to  struggle,  or  strive  to  break  out, 
Increases  the  captivity.     Never  Circe, 
Sated  with  such  she  purposed  to  transform, 
Or  cunning  Siren,  for  whose  fatal  music 
Nought  but  the  hearer's  death  could  satisfy, 
Knew  less  of  pity.     Nay,  I  dare  go  further, 
And  justify  your  majesty  hath  lost 
More  resolute  and  brave  courageous  spirits 
In  this  same  dull  and  languishing  fight  of  love, 
Than  e'er  your  wars  took  from  you. 

Char.  No  reply  : 

This  is  a  cause  we  will  determine  of, 

And  speedily  redress  :  tamed  Italy, 

V\  ith  fear,  confesses  me  a  warlike  king, 

And  France  shall  boast  I  am  a  prince  of  love. 

Shall  we,  that  keep  perpetual  parliaments 

For  petty  suits,  or  the  least,  injury 

Offer'd  the  goods  or  bodies  of  our  subjects, 

Not  study  a  cure  or  the  sickness  of  the  mind, 

Whose  venomous  contagion  hath  infected 

Our  bravest  servants,  and  the  choicest  beauties 

Our  court  is  proud  of?     These  are  wounds  require 

A  kingly  surgeon,  and  the  honour  worthy 

By  us  to  be  accepted. 

Phil.  It  would  add 
To  the  rest  of  your  great  actions. 

Laf.  But  the  means 
Most  difficult,  I  fear 

Cham.  You  ^iall  do  more,  sir, 
If  you  perform  this,  than  I  e'er  could  read 
The  sons  of  Saturn,  that  by  lot  divided 
The  government  of  the  air,  the  sea.  and  hell 
Had  spirit  to  undertake. 

Char.  Why,  this  more  fires  me  ; 
And  now  partake  of  my  design.     With  speed 
Erect  a  place  of  justice  near  the  court, 
Which  we'll  have  styled,  the  PARLIAMENT  or  LOVE. 
Here  such  whose  humble  service  is  not  consider 'd 
By  their  proud  mistresses,  freely  may  complain  ; 
And  shall  have  hearing  and  redress. 

Nov.  O  rare  ! 

Peri.  1  like  this  well. 

Char.  And  ladies  that  are  wrong'd 
By  such  as  do  profess  themselves  their  servants. 
May  cite  them  hither,  and  their  cause  deliver'd 
Or  by  their  own  tongues,  or  fee'd  advocates, 
Find  sudden  satisfaction. 

Nov.   What  a  rascal 

Was  I  to  It-ave  the  law  !  I  might  have  had 
Clients  and  clients.     Ne'er  was  such  a  time 
For  any  smooth-chinn'd  advocate. 

Peri.  They  will  get  the  etart 


our  old    writers,  that   it    is  unnecessary   to  proaac* 
example  of  U. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  PARLAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


1.53 


Of  the  ladies' spruce  physicians,  starve  their  chap- 
Though  never  so  well  timber'd.  [lains, 

Char.  'Tis  our  will, 

Nor  shall  it  be  disputed.     Of  this  court, 
Or  rather,  sanctuary  of  pure  lovers, 
My  lord  of  Orleans,  and  Nemours,  assisted 
By  the  messieurs  Philamour  and  Lafort,  are  judges. 
You  have  worn  Venus'  colours  from  your  youth, 


And  cannot,  therefore,  but  be  sensible 
Of  all  her  mysteries:  what  you  shall  determine, 
In  the  way  of  penance,  punishment,  or  reward, 
Shall     .     -     -     the  trial ;  a  month  we  grant  you 
------     amours,  which  expired, 

.  make  your  complaints,  and  be  assured 

-     -     -     impartial  hearing ;  this  determined, 
------     rest  of  our  affairs.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  Clarindore's  Houte. 
Enter    CLARINDORE,    MONT  ROSE,    PERIGOT,    and 

NOVALL. 

Peri.  I  do  not  relish 

The  last  part  of  the  king's  speech,  though  I  was 
Much  taken  with  the  first. 

Nov.  Your  reason,  tutor? 

Peri.  Why,   look  you,  pupil ;  the  decree,  that 

women 

Should  not  neglect  the  service  of  their  lovers, 
But  pay  them  from  the  exchequer  they  were  born  with, 
Was  good  and  laudable  ;  they  being  created 
To  be  both  tractable  and  tactable, 
When  they  are  useful :  but  to  have  it  order'd, 
All  women  that  have  stumbled  in  the  dark, 
Or  given,  by  owl-light,  favours,  should  complain, 
Is  most  intolerable :  I  myself  shall  have,  [ets, 

Of  such  as  trade  in  the  streets,  and  'scaped  my  pock- 
Of  progress  laundresses,  and  marketwomen, 
When  the  king's  pleasure's  known,  a  thousand  bills 
Preferr'd  against  me. 

Clarin.  This  is  out  of  season : 
Nothing  to  madam  Bellisant,  that,  in  public, 
Hath  so  inveighed  against  us. 

Nov    She's  a  fury, 
I  dare  no  more  attempt  her. 

Peri.  I'll  not  venture 

To  change  six  wort's  with  her  for  half  her  state, 
Or  stay,  till  she  be.  /rimm'd*,  from,  wine  and  women, 
For  any  new  monopoly. 

Mont.  I  will  study 

How  to  forget  her,  shun  the  tempting  poison 
Her  looks,  and  magic  of  discourse,  still  offer, 
And  be  myself  again :  since  there's  no  hope, 
'Twere  madness  to  pursue  her. 

Pert.  There  are  madams  [not 

Better  brought  up,  'tis  thought,  and  wives  that  dare 
Complain  in  parliament ;  there's  safe  trading,  pupil : 
And,  when  slie  finds  she  is  of  all  forsaken. 
Let  my  lady  pride  repent  in  vain,  and  mump, 
And  envy  others'  markets. 

Clarin.  May  1  ne'er  prosper 
But  you  are  three  of  the  most  fainting  spirits 
That  ever  I  conversed  with  !    You  do  well 
To  talk  of  progress  laundresses,  punks,  and  beggars : 
The  wife  of  some  rich  tradesman  with  three  teeth, 
And  twice  so  many  hairs :  truck  with  old  ladies, 


•  Or  stay,  till  she  be  trimm'd  from  wine  and  women,] 
This  word  is  very  indistinct  in  the  manuscript;  I  copied  it 
with  my  best  care,  but  still  doubt  whether  it  be  the  one 
given  by  the  author. 


That  nature  hath  given  o'er,  that  owe  their  doctors 

For  an  artificial  life,  that  are  so  frozen, 

That  a  sound  plague  cannot  thaw  them ;  but  despair 

I  give  you  over  :  never  hope  to  take 

A  velvet  petticoat  up,  or  to  commit 

With  an  Italian  cutwork  smock,  wnen  torn  too. 

Mont.  And  what  hopes  nourish  you  ? 

Clarin,  Troth,  mine  are  modest. 
I  am  only  confident  to  win  the  lady 
You  dare  not  look  on,  and  now,  in  the  height 
Of  her  contempt  and  scorn,  to  humble  her. 
And  teach  her  at  what  game  her  mother  play'd, 
When   she  was  got ;  and,  cloy'd  with    those   poor 

toys, 

As  I  find  her  obedient  and  pleasing, 
I  may,  perhaps,  descend  t.>  marry  her : 
Then,  with  a  kind  of  state,  I  take  my  chair*, 
Command  a  sudden  muster  of  my  servants. 
And,  after  two  or  thrse  majestic  hums, 
It  being  known  all  is  mine,  peruse  my  writings, 
Let  out  this  manor,  at  an  easy  rate, 
To  such  a  friend,  lend  this  ten  thousand  crowns 
For  the  redemption  of  his  mortgaged  land, 
Give  to  each  by-blow  I  know  mine,  a  farm, 
Erect         -  this  in  conse- 

That  pleased  me  in  my  youth,  but  now  grown  stale. 
These  things  first  ordered  by  me,  and  confirm'd 
By  Bellisant,  my  wife,  I  care  not  much 
If,  out  of  her  own  lands,  I  do  assign  her 
Some  pretty  jointure, 

Peri.  Talkest  thou  in  thy  sleep? 

Nov.  Or  art  thou  mad  ? 

Ctar.  A  little  elevated 
With  the  assurance  of  my  future  fortune : 
Why  do  you  stare  and  grin?  I  know  this  must  be, 
And  I  will  lay  three  thousand  crowns,  within 
A  month  I  will  effect  this. 

Mont.  How ! 

Clarin.   Give  proof 

I  have  enjoy 'd  fair  Bellisant,  evident  proof 
I  have  pluck'd  her  virgin  rose,  so  long  preserved, 
Not,  like  a  play-trick,  with  a  chain  or  ringf 
Stolen  by  corruption,  but,  against  her  will, 
Make  her  confess  so  much 

Mont.  Impossible. 

*  Then  with  a  kind  of  *tate,  /  take  my  chair,  &c.]  This 
is  imitated  from  the  soliloquy  of  Malvolio,  in  Twelfth  IViyht; 
whicli  is  ti<elf  -in  iiiiit-ttioii  of  the  reverie  01  Alii.t--cii.ir,  in 
the  Arabian  Xiyhts  EatrrtaiameM 

t  Not,  like  a  play -trick,  with  a  chain  or  ring 

Stolen  bi/  corruption,  ii^c.]  Here  is  .<n  .illusion,  perhaps, 
to  the  bracelet  of  l.iiogeu:  the  Hick,  howtvt/r,  of  which 
Clarindore  tpeaks,  is  found  in  many  of  our  old  dramas. 


154 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[Act  II. 


Clarin.  Then  the  disi-  race  be  mine,  the  profit  yours, 
If  that  you  think  her  chastity  a  rock 
Aot  to  be  moved  or  shaken,  or  hold  me 
A  flam  rer  of  myself,  or  overweener. 
Let  me  pay  for  my  foolery. 

Peri.   I'll  engage 
Myself  for  a  thousand. 

A'.n>.  I'll  not  out  for  a  second. 

Mont.  I  would  gladly  lose  a  third  partfor  assurance 
No  virgin  c;m  stand  constant  long. 

Clariu.  Leave  that 
To  the  :nal :  1ft  us  to  a  notary, 
Draw  the  condi'ions,  see  the  crowns  deposited, 
And  thfii  1  will  not  en-,  St.  Dennis  for  me*  ! 
But  Love,  biind  archer,  aid  me! 

Peri.   Look  you  thrive  ; 
I  would  not  be  so  jeer'd  and  hooted  at, 
As  vou  will  be  else. 

I  will  run  the  hazard.  [I'.ieunt. 


SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  Li-oxom's  House. 
Enter  LKONORA  and  a  Servant. 

Sen.  lie  will  not  be  denied 

Leon.  Slave,  beat,  him  back  ! 
I  feed  such  whelps. 

Serv.  Madam,  1  rattled  him, 
Rattled  him  home. 

I. fan.  Rattle  him  hence,  you  rascal, 
Or  never  see  me  more. 

Entrr  Ci.EnF.MOND. 

Serv.  lie  comes  :  a  swonl! 

What  would  you  have  me  do?  Shall  I  cry  murder 
Or  raise  the  constable  ? 

Leon.  Hfnce,  you  shaking  coward!  [sum 

Sere.  1  am  glad  1  arn  so  got  off:  here's  a  round 
For  a  few  bitter  words !  be  not  shook  off,  sir; 
I'll  see  none  shall  disturb  you.  [Eait. 

Cler.  Vou  might  spare 

These  frowns,  good  lady,  on  me ;  they  are  useless, 
I  am  shot  through  and  through  with  your  disdain. 
And  on  my  heart  the  darts  of  scorn  so  thick. 
That  there's  no  vacant  place  left  to  receive 
Another  wound  ;  their  multitude  is  grown 
My  best  defence,  and  do  confirm  me  that 
Vou  cannot  hurt  me  further. 

LAW.  \\ert  thou  not 

Made  up  of  impudence,  and  slaved  to  folly, 
Did  any  drop  of  noble  blood  remain 
In  thy  lustful  veins,  Ladst  thou  or  touch  or  relish, 
Of  modesty,  civility,  or  nv.mners, 
Or  but  in  thy  deformed  outside  only 
Thou  didst  retain  the  essence  of  a  man, 
-     -  ------     so  many     -     -     - 

And  loathing  to  thy  person,  thou  wouldst  not 
Force  from  a  blushing  woman  that  rude  language, 
Thy  baseness  first  made  me  acquainted  with. 

i'ler.  Now  saint-like  patience  guard  me! 

Leon.  I  have  heard 

Of  mountebanks   that,  to  vent  their  drugs  and  oils, 
Have  so  inur'd  themselves  to  poison,  that 
They  could  digest  a  venom 'd  toad,  or  spider, 
better  than  wholesome  viands :  in  the  list 


St.  Denni*  far  me.']  This  was  the 

watchword  of  the  French  soldiers  when  they  chatged  their 
tuemic*. 


Of  such  I  hold  thee  ;  for  that  bitterness 
Of  sjK?ech,  reproof,  and  scorn,  by  her  delivered 
Whom  thou  professest  to  adore,  and  shake  at, 
Which  would  deter  all  mankind  but  thyself, 
Do  nourish  in  thee  saucy  hopes,  with  pleasure. 
Cler.  Hear  but  my  just  defence. 
Leon.  Vet,  since  thou  art 
So  spaniel-like  affected,  and  thy  dotage 
Increases  from  abuse  and  injury. 
That  way  I'll  once  more  feast  thee.     Of  all  men 
I  ever  saw  yet,  in  my  settled  judgment, 
'Spite  of  thy  barber,  tailor,  and  perfumer, 
And  thine  adulterate  and  borrow'd  helps, 
Thou  art  the  ugliest  creature  ;  and  when  trimm'd  up 
To  the  height,  as  thou  imagin'st,  in  mine  eyes, 
A  leper  with  a  clap-dish,  (to  give  notice 
He  is  infectious*,)  in  respect  of  thee. 
Appears  a  young  Adonis. 
Cler.  Vou  look  on  me 
In  a  false  glass,  madam. 

Leon.  Then  thy  dunghill  mind, 
Suitable  to  the  outside,  never  yet 
Produced  one  gentle  thought,  knowing  her  want 
Of  faculties  to  put  it  into  act. 
Thy  courtship,  as  absurd  as  any  zany's, 
After  a  practised  manner  ;  thy  discourse, 
Though  full  of  bombast  phrase,  never  brought  matter 
Worthy  the  laughing  at,  much  less  the  hearing. — 
But  I  grow  weary ;  for,  indeed,  to  speak  thee, 
Thy  ills  I  mean,  and  speak  them  to  the  full, 

',    Would  tire  a  thousand  women's  voluble  tongues, 

!    And  twice  so  many  lawyers' — for  a  farewell, 
I'll  sooner  clasp  an  incubus,  or  hug 

•   A  fork'd-tongued  adder,  than  meet  thy  embraces, 
Which,  as  the  devil,  I  fly  from. 

Cler.  Now  you  have  spent 
The  utmost  of  your  spleen,  I  would  not  say 
Vour  malice,  set  off  to  the  height  with  fiction, 
Allow  me  leave,  (a  poor  request,  which  judges 
Seldom  deny  unto  a  man  condemn'd.) 

|   A  little  to  complain  :  for,  being  censured, 
Or  to  extenuate,  or  excuse  my  guilt, 
Were  but  to  wash  an  Ethiop.     How  oft,  with  tears, 
W  hen  the  inhuman  porter  has  forbid 
My  entrance  by  your  most  severe  commands, 


'  A  leper  with  a  clap-diih,  (to  give  notice 

tie  it  infectious, )i  Tliis  explains  the  origin  of  the 
custom,  to  which  oar  old  writers  have  such  frequent  all* 
»iun». 

The  leprosy  was  once  very  common  here;  this  the 
writers  on  the  subject  properly  attribute  to  ihe  want  of 
linen,  of  fre.-h  meat  in  winter,  and  above  all,  to  the  tlolh  ia 
which  the  poor  vegetated  in  their  mo«t  filthy  hovels.  Out 
old  poets  seldom  mention  a  leper,  without  noticing,  at  the 
same  time,  hi*  constant  accompaniments,  the  cup  ana 
clipper.  'Muis  Henry.-on: 

"  Thus  sh.ilt  ihon  go  beting  fro  hous  to  hous, 
With  cuppe  and  clajtper,  like  a  I.azarout." 

Testament  of  Cretteute. 

The  clapper  wai  not,  as  some  imagine,  an  instrument 
solely  calculated  tor  making  a  noise;  it  was  simply  the 
cover  of  the  cup  or  disk,  which  the  poor  wretch  opened  and 
shut  with  a  loud  clap,  at  the  Uoors  of  the  well-disposed. 
Cleanliness  and  a  wholesome  diet  have  eradicated  this 
loathsome  disease  amongst  us;  bi:t  it  still  exists  in  many 
parts  «t  the  continent,  where  I  have  seen  little  communities 
of  the  infected,  begging  by  the  road  side  with  a  clap  dish, 
which  they  continue  to  strike,  as  formerly,  on  the  appear- 
ance of  a  traveller.  In  England  the  clap  dish  \\m  in, 
pudently  assumed  by  vagrants,  sturdy-beggars,  &c.,  who 
found  it  (as  Farquhar  says  of  the  title  of  captain)  "conve- 
nient for  travelling,"  as  the  terror  or  pity  the  sound  of  it 
excited  was  »vell  calculated  to  draw  contributions  from  (lit 
public. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


155 


Have  these  eyes  wash'd  your  threshold  !   Did  there 
Come  novelty  to  Paris,  rich  or  rare,  [ever 

Which  hut  as  soon  as  known  was  riot  presented, 
Howe'er  with  frowns  refused?   Have  1  not  brought 
The  braveries  of  France*  before  your  window, 
To  fight  at.  barriers,  or  to  break  a  lance, 
Or,  in  their  full  career,  to  take  the  ring, 
To  do  your  honour?  and  then,  being  refused 
To  speak  my  grief,  my  arms,  my  impresses, 
The  colours  that  I  wore,  in  a  dumb  sorrow 
Express'd  how  much  I  suffer'd  in  the  rigour 
Of  your  displeasure. 

Leon.   1'wo  months  hence  I'll  have 

The 

Cter.  Stay,  best  madam, 
I  am  growing  to  a  period. 

Lean.   Prav  you  do; 
[  heiv  shall  take  a  nap  else,  'tis  so  pleasing. 

Cler.  Then  only  this :  the  voice  you  now  contemn, 
You  once  did  swear  was  musical ;  you  have  met  too 
These  lips  in  a  soft  encounter,  and  have  brought 
An  eijiial  ardour  with  you:  never  lived 
A  happier  pair  of  lovers.     I  confess, 
After  you  promised  marriage,  nothing  wanting 
But  a  few  days  expired,  to  make  me  happy, 
My  violent  impatience  of  delay 
Made  me  presume,  and  with  some  amorous  force, 
T'>  ask  a  full  fruition  of  those  pleasures 
Which  sacred  Hymen  to  the  world  makes  lawful, 
Before  his  torch  was  lighted ;  in  this  only, 
You  justly  can  rccuse  me. 
Leon.    Dar'st  thou  think 
That  this  offence  can  ever  find  a  pardon, 
Unworthy  as  thou  art! 

Cler.   But  you  most  cruel, 
That,  in  your  studied  purpose  of  revenge, 
Cast  both  divine  and  human  laws  behind  you, 
And  only  see  their  rigour,  not  their  mercy. 
Offences  of  foul  shape,  by  holy  writ 
Are  warranted  remission,  provided 
That  the  delinquent  undergo  the  penance 
Imposed  upon  him  by  his  confessor: 
But  you  that  should  be  mine,  and  only  can 
Or  punish  or  absolve  me,  are  so  far 
From  doing  me  right,  that  you  disdain  to  hear  me. 
Leon.   Now  1  may  catch  him  in  my   long- wish 'd 
toils ;  pose, 

My  hate  help  me  to  work  it !  (aside.")  To  what  pur- 
Poor  and  pale  spirited  man,  should  I  expect 
From  thee  the  satisfaction  of  a  wrong, 
Compared  to  which,  the  murder  of  a  brother 
Were  but  a  gentle  injury  ? 
Cler.   Witness,  heaven, 

All  blessings  hoped  by  good  men,  and  all  tortures 
The  wicked  shake  at,  no  saint  left  unsworn  by, 
That,  uncompell'd,  1  here  give  up  myself 
Wholly  to  your  devotion  ;  if  I  fail 
To  do  whatever  you  please  to  command, 
To  expiate  my  trespass  to  your  honour, 
So  that,  the  task  perform 'd,  you  likewise  swear, 
First  to  forgive,  and  after,  marry  me, 
May  I  endure  more  sharp  and  lingering  torments 
Than  ever  tyrants  found  out!  may  my  friends 
With  scorn,  not  pity,  look  upon  my  sufferings, 
And  at  my  last  gasp,  in  the  place  of  hope, 
Sorrow,  despair,  possess  me ! 


*  The  braveries  of  France,]  We  have  had  this  expression 
before.     See  The  Bondman. 


Leon,  You  are  caught, 
Most  miserable  fool,  but  fit  to  be  so  ; — 
And  'tis  but  justice  that  thou  art  delivered 
Into  her  power  that's  sensible  of  a  wrong, 
And  glories  to  revenge  it.     Let  me  study 
What  dreadful  punishment,  worthy  my  fury, 
I  shall  inflict  upon  thee  ;  all  the  malice 
Of  injured  women  help  me!  death?  that's  nothing, 
'Tis,  to  a  conscious  wretch,  a  benefit, 
And  not  a  penance  ;  else,  on  the  next  tree, 
For  sport's  sake,  I  would  make  thee  hang  thyself. 
Cler.   What  have  J  done  ? 
Leon.  What  cannot  be  recall'd. 
To  row  for  seven  years  in  the  Turkish  gallies  ? 
A  flea- biting !  To  be  sold  to  a  brothel, 
Or  a  common  bagnio?  that's  a  trifle  too! 
-          Furies     ------ 

The  lashes  of  their  whips  pierce  through  the  mind. 
I'll  imitate  them  :   I  have  it  too. 

Cler.  Remember 
You  are  a  woman. 

Leon.  I  have  heard  thee  boast, 
That  of  all  blessings  in  the  earth  next  me, 
The  number  of  thy  trusty,  faithful  friends, 
Made  up  thy  happiness :    out  of  these,    I  charge 

thee, 

And  by  thine  own  repeated  oaths  conjure  thee, 
To  kill  the  best  deserver.     Do  not  start ; 
I'll  have  no  other  penance  :  then  to  practise, 
To  find  some  means  he  that  deserves  the  best, 
By  undertaking  something  others  fly  from  : 
This  done,  1  am  thine. 
Cler.  BuUhear  me. 
Leon.  Not  a  syllable  : 
And  till  then  never  see  me.  [Exit. 

Clrr.  1  am  lost, 

Foolishly  lost  and  sunk  by  mine  own  baseness  : 
I'll  say  only, 

With  a  heart-breaking  patience,  yet  not  rave. 
Better  the  devil's  than  a  woman's  slave.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  Bellisant's  House. 
Enter  CLARINDORE  and  BEAVPRE. 

Clarin.  Nay,  prithee,  good  Calista — 

Bean.  As  I  live,  sir, 

She  is  determined  to  be  private,  and  charged  me, 
Till  of  herself  she  broke  up  her  retirement, 
Not  to  admit  a  visitant. 

Cliirin.  Thou  art  a  fool, 

And  I  must  have  thee  learn  to  know  thy  strength  j 
There  never  was  a  sure  path  to  the  mistress, 
But  by  her  minister's  help,  which  I  will  pay  for : 

[Gives  her  hit  purte. 

But  yet  this  is  but  trash  ;  hark  in  thine  ear — 
By  Love !  I  like  thy  person,  and  will  make 
Full  payment  that  way  ;  be  thou  wise. 

Beau,  Like  me,  sir! 
One  of  my  dark  complexion  ! 

Clarin.  I  am  serious : 

The  curtains  drawn,  and  envious  light  shut  out, 
The  soft  touch  heightens  appetite,  and  takes  more 
Than  colour,  Venus'  dressing,  in  the  day  time. 
But  never  thought  on  in  her  midnight  revels. 
Come,  I  must  have  thee  mine. 

Beau.  But  how  to  serve  you  ?  ' 

Clarin.  Be  speaking  still  my  praises  to  thy  lodr, 
IIow  much  1  love  and  languish  for  her  bounties  : 


156 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE 


[Acr  1 1. 


You  may  remember*  too,  how  many  madams 

Are  rivals  for  me,  and  in  way  of  caution, 

Say  you  have  heard,  when  I  was  wild,  how  dreadful 

My  name  was  to  a  profess'd  courtezan, 

Still  asking  more  than  she  could  give. 

Enter  BELLISAXT. 
Beau.  My  lady ! 
Bell.  lie  within  call : 

[Aside,  to  the  Servants  within. 

How  now,  Clarindore, 

Courting  my  servant !  Nay,  'tis  not  my  envy — • 
You  now  express  yourself  a  complete  lover, 
That,  for  variety's  sake,  if  she  be  woman, 
Can  change  discourse  with  any. 

Clarin.  All  nre  foils 

I  practise  on,  but  when  you  make  me  happy 
In  doing  me  that  honour:   I  desired 
To  hear  her  speak  in  the  Morisco  tongue; 
Troth,  'tis  a  pretty  language. 

Bell..  Yes,  to  dance  to : 
Look  to  those  sweetmeats.  [Exit  Bemipre. 

Clarin.  How  !   by  heaven,  she  aims 
To  speak  with  me  in  private  ! 

Bell  .  Come,  sit  down  ; 
Let's  have  some  merry  conference. 

Clarin.  In  which     ----- 

It 

That  my  whole  life  employ'd  to  do  you  service, 
At  no  part  can  deserve. 

Bell.  If  you  esteeem  it 
At  such  a  rate,  do  not  abuse  my  bounty, 
Or  comment  on  the  granted  privacy,  further 
Than  what  the  text  may  warrant ;  so  you  shall 
Destroy  what  I  have  built. 

Clarin.  I  like  not  this.  [Aside. 

Bell.  This  new-erected  Parliament  of  Love, 
It  seems,  has  frighted  hence  my  visitants  : 
How  spend  Montrose  and  Perigot  their  hours? 
Novall  and  Cleremond  vanish 'd  in  a  moment  j 
I  like  your  constancy  yet. 

Clarin.  That's  good  again  ; 
She  hath  restored  all :  Pity  them,  good  madam  , 
The  splendour  of  your  house  and  entertainment, 
Knrich'd  with  all  perfections  by  yourself, 
Is  too,  too  glorious  for  their  dim  eyes : 
You  are  above  their  element ;  modest  fools  ! 
That  only  dare  admire :  and  bar  them  from 
Comparing  of  these  eyes  to  the  fairest  flowers, 
Giving  you  Juno's  majesty,  Pallas'  wit, 
Diana's  hand,  and  Thetis'  pretty  foot ; 
Or,  when  you  dance,  to  swear  that  Venus  leads 
The  Loves  and  Graces  from  the  Idalian  green, 
And  such  hyperboles  stolen  out  of  playbooks, 
They  would  stand  all  day  mute,  and  as  you  were 
Some  curious  picture  only  to  be  look'd  on, 
Presume  no  further. 

Bell.  Pray  you  keep  your  distance, 
And  grow  not  rude. 

Clarin.  Rude,  lady !  manly  boldness 
Cannot  deserve  that  name  ;  I  have  studied  you, 
And  love  hath  made  an  easy  gloss  upon 
The  most  abstruse  and  hidden  mysteries 
Which  you  may  keep  conceal'd.     You  well  may  praise 
A  bashful  suitor,  that  is  ravish'd  with 
A  feather  of  your  fan,  or  if  he  gain 
A  riband  from  your  shoe,  cries  out  Nil  ultra  ! 

•  You  man  remember  too,]  i.  e.  put  her  mind. 


Bell.  And  what  would  satisfy  you  ? 

Clarin.  Not  such  poor  trifles, 
I  can  assure  you,  lady.     Do  not  I  see 
You  are  gamesome,  young,  and  active  ?  that  you  love 
A  man  that,  of  himself,  comes  boldly  on, 
j   That  will  not  put  your  modesty  to  trouble, 
|   To  teach  him  how  to  feed,  when  meat's  before  him? 
That  knows  that  you  are  llesh  and  blood,  a  creature, 
And  born  with  such  affections,  that  like  me, 
Now  1  hnve  opportunity,  and  your  favour, 
Will  not  abuse  my  fortune  ?  Should  1  stand  now 
Licking  my  fingers,  cry.  ah  me  !  then  kneel, 
And  swear  you  were  a  goddess,  kiss  the  skirts 
Of  your  proud  garments,  when  1  were  gone,  I  am 

sure 

I  should  be  kindly  laugh 'd  at  for  a  coxcomb; 
The  story  made  the  subject  of  your  mirth, 
At  your  next  meeting,  when  you  sit  in  council, 
Among  the  beauties. 

Bell.  Is  this  possible  ? 
All  due  respect  forgotten  ! 

Clarin.  Hang  respect  ! 

Are  we  not  alone  ]  See,  I  dare  touch  this  hand, 
And  without  adoration  unglove  it. 
A  spring  of  youth  is  in  this  palm:  here  Cupid, 
The  moisture  turn'tl  to  diamonds,  heads  his  airows 
The  far-famed  English  Bath,  or  German  Spa, 
One  drop  of  this  will  purchase.     Shall  this  nectar 
Run  useless,  then  to  waste  >  or  -  -  -  these  lips, 
That  open  like  the  morn,  breathing  perfumes 
On  such  as  dare  approach  them,  be  uutoudi'd  ? 
They  must — nay,  'tis  in  vain  to  make  resistance, — 
Be  often  kiss'd  and  tasted  :  —  You  seem  angry 
At     -     -     -         I  have  displeased  you. 

Bell,  [to  the  servants  within.]     ---.-. 
And  come  prepared,  as  if  some  Africk  monster, 
By  force,  had  broke  into  my  house. 

Enter  Servants,  with  drawn  swordt. 

Clarin.  How's  this  ? 

Bell.  Circle  him  round  with  death,  and  if  he  stir. 
Or  but  presume  to  speak,  till  I  allow  it, 
His  body  be  the  navel  to  the  wheel, 
Jn  which  your  rapiers,  like  so  many  spokes, 
Shall  meet  and  fix  themselves. 

Clarin.  Were  I  off  with  life 
This  for  my  wager  ! 

Bell.  Villain,  shake  and  tremble 
At  my  just  anger  !   Which,  of  all  my  actions, 
Confined  in  virtuous  limits,  hath  given  life 
And  birth  to  this  presumption  ?     Hast  thou  ever 
Observed  in  me  a  wanton  look  or  gesture 
Not  suiting  with  a  virgin?     Have  I  been 
Prodigal  in  my  favours,  or  given  hopes, 
To  nourish  such  attempts  ?  Swear,  and  swear  truly, 
What  in  thy  soul  thou  think'st  of  me. 

Clarin.  As  of  one 

Made  up  of  chastity  ;  and  only  tried, 
Which  1  repent,  what  this  might  work  upon  you. 

Bell.  The  intent  deserves  not  death  ;  but,  sirrah, 

know 
'Tis  in  my  power  to  look  thee  dead. 

Clarin.  'Tis  granted. 

Bell.  I  am  not  so  cruel ;  yet  for  this  insolence 
Forbear  my  house  for  ever  :  if  you  are  hot, 
You,  ruffian-like,  may  force  a  parting  kiss, 
As  from  a  common  gamester. 

Clarin.  I  am  cool: 
She's  a  virago. 


SCE\K  I.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


Bell.  Or  you  may  go  boast, 
How  bravely  you  came  on,  to  your  companions  ; 
I  will  not  bribe  your  silence  :  no  reply. 
Now  thrust,  him  headlong  out  of  doors,  and  see 
He  never  more  pass  my  threshold.  [•&"* 

Clarin.  This  comes  of 

My  daring :  all  hell's  plagues  light  on  the  proverb 
That  says,  faint  heart but  it  is  stale. 


Serv,  Pray  you  walk,  sir, 
We  must  shew  you  the  way  else. 

Clarin.  lie  not  too  officious. 
I  am  no  bar*  for  you  to  try  your  strength  on. 
Sit  quietly  by  ibis  disgrace  1  cannot : 
Some  other  course  I  must  be  forced  to  take, 
Not  for  my  wager  now,  but  honour's  sake. 

[Exeunt 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  CHAMONT'S  House. 

Enter  CHAMONT,  PERIGOT,  NOVALL,  DINANT,  LA- 
MIUA,  und  CLARINDA. 

Peri.  "Twas  prince-like  entertainment. 

Cham.   You  o'erprize  it. 

Din.   Your  cheerful  looks  made  every  dish  a  feast, 
.And  'tis  that  crowns  a  welcome. 

Lam.  For  my  part, 
I  liold  society  and  honest  mirth 
The  greatest  blessing  of  a  civil  life. 

Cla.  Without  good  company,  indeed,  all  dainties 
Lt«e  their  true  relish,  and,  like  painted  grapes, 
Are  only  seen,  not  tasted. 

Nov.  By  this  light, 

She  speaks  well  too  !  I'll  have  a  fling  at  her ; 
She  is  no  fit  electuary  for  a  doctor : 
A  coarser  julap  may  well  cool  his  worship ; 
This  cordial  is  for  gallants. 

Cham.  Let  me  see, 

The  night  grows  old  ;  pray  you  often  be  my  guests. 
Such  as  dare  come  unto  a   -     -     -   table, 
Although  not  crack'd  with  curious  delicates, 
Have  liberty  to  command  it  as  their  own : 
I  may  do  the  like  with  you,  when  you  are  married. 

Peri.  Yes,  'tis  likely, 
When  there's  no  forage  to  be  bad  abroad, 
Nor  credulous  husbands  left  to  father  children 
Of  bachelors'  begetting  ;  when  court  wives 
Are  won  to  grant  variety  is  not  pleasing, 
And  that  a  friend  at  a  pinch  is  useless  to  them, 
I but  till  then 

Cham.  You  have  a  merry  time  of  't ; 

But  we  forget  ourselves  : — Gallants,  good  night. 
Good  master  doctor,  when  your  leisure  serves, 
Visit  my  house  ;  when  we  least  need  their  art, 
Physicians  look  most  lovely. 

Din,  All  that's  in  me, 

Is  at  your  lordship's  service.     Monsieur  Perigot, 
Monsieur  Novall,  in  what  I  may  be  useful, 
Pray  you  command  me. 

Nov.  We'll  wait  on  you  home. 

Din.  By  no  means,  sir  ;  good  nigbt. 

[Exeunt  ill  but  Novall  and  Perigot. 

Nov.  The  knave  is  jealous. 

Peri.  'Tis  a  disease  few  doctors  cure  themselves  of. 

Nov.  I  would  he  were  my  patient ! 

Peri.  Do  but  practise 
To  get  his  wife's  consent,  the  way  is  easy. 

Nov.  You  may  conclude  so  ;  for  myself,  I  grant 
I  never  was  so  taken  with  a  woman, 


Nor  ever  had  less  hope. 

Peri.  Be  not  dejected  ; 
Follow  but  my  directions,  she's  your  own  : 
1  '11  set  thee  in  a  course  that  shall  not  fail. — 
I  like  thy  choice  ;  but  more  of  that  hereafter : 
Adultery  is  a  safe  and  secret  sin ; 
The  purchase  of  a  maidenhead  seldom  quits 
The  danger  and  the  labour :  build  on  this, 
He  that  puts  home  shall  find  all  women  coming, 
The  frozen  Bellisant  ever  excepted. 
Could  you  believe  the  fair  wife  of  Cbamont, 
A  lady  never  tainted  in  her  honour, 
Should  at  the  first  assault,  for  till  this  night 
I  never  courted  her,  yield  up  the  fort 
That  she  hath  kept  so  long  ? 

Nov.  ' Tis  wondrous  strange. 
What  winning  language  used  you] 

Peri.  Thou  art  a  child ; 

'Tis  action,  not  fine  speeches,  take  a  woman. 
Pleasure's  their  heaven  ;  and  he  that  gives  assurance 
That  he  hath  strength  to  tame  their  hot  desires, 
Is  the  prevailing  orator :  she  but  saw  me 
Jump  over  six  join'd  stools,  and  after  cut 
Some  forty  capers  ;  tricks  t*iat  never  missf, 
In  a  magnificent  mask,  to  draw  the  eyes 
Of  all  the  beauties  in  the  court  upon  me, 
But  straight  she  wrung  my  hand,  trod  on  my  toe, 
And  said  my  mistress  could  not  but  be  happy 
In  such  an  able  servant.     I  replied 
Bluntly,  I  was  ambitious  to  be  hers  ; 
And  she,  nor  coy  nor  shy,  straight  entertain'd  ma 
I  begg'd  a  private  meeting,  it  was  granted, 
The  time  and  place  appointed. 

Nov.  But  remember, 
Chaniont  is  your  friend. 

Peri.  Now  out  upon  thee,  puisne  ! 
As  if  a  man  so  far  e'er  loved  that  title, 
But  'twas  much  more  delight  and  tickling  to  him, 
To  hug  himself,  and  say,  This  is  my  cuckold ! 

Ncv.  But  did  he  not  observe  thee  ? 

Peri.  Though  he  did, 
As  I  am  doubtful,  I  will  not  desist ; 
The  danger  will  endear  the  sport. 


*  /  am  no  bar  for  you  to  try  your  strength  on.}  Alluding 
to  the  threats  of  the  servants  "  to  quoit  him  down  stairs." 
Pitching  the  liar  is  still  a  game  at  which  the  rustics  of  Ihil 
country  try  their  strength. 

t •  tricks  that  never  miss,  &c.] 

"  He,  indeed,  danced  well: 
A  turn  o'  the  toe,  with  a  lofty  trick  or  two, 
To  argue  nimbleness  and  a  stron.;  back, 
Will  go  far  with  a  madam." 

The  Custom  of  t 


158 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[Acr  III. 


Enter  CLARINDORE. 

Nov.  Forbear ; 
Here's  Clarindore. 

Peri.  We  will  be  merry  with  him  ; 
I  have  heard  his  entertainment.     Join  but  with  me, 
And  we  will  jeer  this  self-opinion'd  fool 
Almost  to  madness. 

Nov.  He's  aln  ady  grown 
Exceeding  melancholy,  and  some  say 
That's  the  first  step  to  frenzy. 

Peri.  I'll  upon  him. 

Save  you,  good  monsieur!  no  reply?  grown  proud 
Of  your  success?  it  is  not  well     -     ... 

Ctar.  'Tis  come  out ;  these  goslings 
Have  heard  of  my     ------ 

Nov.  We  gratulate. 

Though  we  pay  for't,  your  happy  entrance  to 
The  certain  favours,  nay,  the  sure  possession, 
Of  madam  Hellisant. 

Clarin.  The  young  whelp  too  ! 
'Tis  well,  exceeding  well. 

Pert.  'Tis  so  with  you,  sir; 
But  bear  it  modestly,  'faith  it  will  become  you.: 
And  being  arrived  at  such  a  lordly  revenue, 
As  this  your  happy  match  instates  you  with, 
Two  thousand  crowns  from  me,  and  from  Novall, 
Though  we  almost  confess  the  wager  lost, 
Will  be  a  small  addition. 

Nov.  You  mistake  him  ; 
Nor  do  I  fear,  out  of  his  noble  nature, 
But  that  he  may  be  won  to  license  us 
To  draw  our  venture. 

Clarin.    Spend  your  frothy  wits, 
Do,  do  ;  you  snarl,  but  hurt  not. 

Nov.  O,  give  leave 
To  losers  for  to  speak. 

Peri.  Tis  a  strange  fate 
Some  men  are  born  to,  and  a  happy  star 
That  reign 'd  at  your  nativity  !  it  could  not  be  else, 
A  lady  of  a  constancy  like  a  rock, 
Not  to  be  moved,  and  held  impregnable, 
Should  yield  at  the  first  assault ! 

A'oe.  'Tis  the  reward 
Of  a  brave  daring  spirit. 

Pen'.  Tush  !  we  are  dull ; 
Abuse  our  opportunities. 

Clarin.  Have  you  done  yet? 

Peri.   When  he  had  privacy  of  discourse,  he  knew 
How  to  use  that  advantage  ;  did  he  stand 
Fawning,  and  crouching  ?  no  ;  he  ran  up  boldly, 
Told  her  what  she  was  born  to,  ruffled  her, 
Kiss'd  her,  and  toused  her: — all  the  passages 
Are  at  court  already  ;  and,  'tis  said,  a  patent 
Is  granted  him,  if  any  maid  be  chaste, 
For  him  to  humhle  her,  and  a  new  name  given  him, 
The  scornful  virgin  tamer. 

Clarin.  I  may  tame 
Your  buffoon  tongues,  if  you  proceed. 

Nov.  No  anger. 

I  have  heard  that  Bellisant  was  so  taken  with 
Your  manly  courage,  that  she  straight  prepared  you 
A  sumptuous  banquet. 

Peri.  Yet  his  enemies 
Report  it  was  a  blanket. 

Nov.  Malice,  malice ! 
She  was  shewing  him  her  chamber  too,  and  call'd 

for 
Perfumes,  and  cambric  sheets. 

Peri.  When,  see  the  luck  on't! 
Against  her  will,  her  most  unmannerly  grooms. 


For  so  'tis  rumour'd,  took  him  by  the  shoulders, 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doors. 

Nov.  Faith,  sir,  resolve  us  ; 
How  was  it?  we  would  gladly  know  the  truth. 
To  stop  the  mouth  of  calumny. 

Clarin.  Troth,  sir,  I'll  tell  you  : 
One  took  me  by  the  nose  thus,  and  a  second 
Made  bold  with  me  thus — but  one  word  more,  you 

shall 

Feel  new  expressions — and  so  my  gentle  boobies, 
Farewell,  and  be  hang'd  !  [Ejif. 

Nov.  We  have  nettled  him. 

Peri.  Had  we  stung  him  to  death,  it  were  but 

justice, 
An  overweening  braggard! 

Nov.  This  is  nothing 
To  the  doctor's  wife. 

Peri.  Come,  we'll  consult  of  it, 
And  suddenly. 

Nov.  I  feel  a  woman's  longing  till  I  am  at  it, 

Peri.  Never  fear;  she's  thine  own,  boy. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  U.-A  Street, 
Enter  CI.ERKMOXD. 
Cler.  What  have  my  sins  been,  heaven  ?  yet  thy 

great  pleasure 

Must  not  be  argued.     Was  wretch  ever  bound 
On  such  a  black  adventure,  in  which  only 
To  wish  to  prosper  is  a  greater  curse 
Than  to---------     me 

Of  reason,  understanding,  and  true  judgment. 

'Twere  a  degree  of  comfort  to  myself 

I  were  stark  mad  ;  or,  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Prick'd  on  by  griping  hunger,  all  my  thoughts 

And  faculties  were  wholly  taken  up 

To  cloy  my  appetite,  and  could  look  no  further  : 

But  1  rise  up  a  new  example  of 

Calamity,  transcending  all  before  me  ; 

And  I  should  gild  my  misery  with  false  comforts, 

If  1  compared  it  with  an  Indian  slave's, 

That  with  incessant  labour  to  search  out 

Some  unknown  mine,  dives  almost  to  the  centre  ; 

And,  if  then  found,  not  thank'd  of  his  proud  master. 

But  this,  if  put  into  an  equal  scale 

With  my  unparallel'd  fortune,  will  weigh  nothing ; 

For  from  a  cabinet  of  the  choicest  jewels 

That  mankind  ere  was  rich  in,  whose  least  gem 

All  treasure  of  the  earth,  or  what  is  hid 

In  Neptune's  watery  bosom,  cannot  purchase, 

I  must  seek  out  the  richest,  fairest,  purest, 

And  when  by  proof  'tis  known  it  holds  the  value, 

As  soon  as  found  destroy  it.     O  most  cruel ; 

And  yet,  when  I  consider  of  the  many 

That  have   profess'd  themselves  my  friends,   and 

vow'd  [ments 

Their  lives  were  not  their  own  when  my  engage- 
Should  summon  them  to  be  at  my  devotion, 
Not  one  endures  the  test ;  I  almost  grow 
Of  the  world's  received  opinion,  that  holds 
Friendship  but  a  mere  name,  that  binds  no  further 
Than  to  the  altar* — to  retire  with  safety. 
Here  comes  Montrose. 


that  bind*  no  further 


t  Than  to  the  altar,  An  allusion  to  the  saying  Pcricle», 
that  he  would  support  the  interests  ot  his  friend  f*«Xp'  6w/iB, 
as  far  a*  the  altar  ;  i.  e.  as  tar  as  Uis  respect  lor  I  he  godi 
would  give  him  leave. 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


159 


Enter  MONTROSE  and  BEAUPRE. 

What  sudden  joy  transports  him  1 
1  never  saw  man  rapt  so. 

Mont.  Purse  and  all, 

And  'tis  too  little,  though  it  were  cramm'd  full 
With  crowns  of  the  sun.     O  blessed  .blessed  paper! 
But  made  so  by  the  touch  of  her  lair  hand. 
What  shall  I  answer?  Say,  I  am  her  creature, 
Or,  if  tliou  canst  find  out  a  word  that  may 
Express  subjection  in  an  humbler  style, 
Use  it,  I  prithee  ;  add  too,  her  commands 
Shall  be  with  as  much  willingness  perform'd, 
As  I  in  this  fold,  this,  receive  her  favours* 

Beau.  I  shall  return  so  much. 

Mont.  And  that  two  hours 
Shall  bring  me  to  attend  her. 

Beau.  With  all  care 

And  circumstance  of  service  from  yourself, 
I  will  deliver  it. 

Mont.  I  am  still  your  debtor.  [Exit  Beaupre. 

Cler.  I  read  the  cause  now  clearly  ;   I'll  slip  by  : 
For  though,  even  at  this  instant,  he  should  prove 
Himself,  which  others'  falsehood  makes  me  doubt, 
That  constant  and  best  friend  I  go  in  quest  of, 
It  were  inhuman  in  their  birth  to  strangle 
His  promising  hopes  of  comfort. 

Mont.  Cleremond 

Pass  by  me  as  a  stranger !  at  a  time  too 
When  I  am  fill'd  with  such  excess  of  joy, 
So  swollen  and  surfeited  with  true  delight, 
That  had  I  not  found  out  a  friend,  to  whom 
I  might  impart  them,  and  so  give  them  vent, 
In  their  abundance  they  would  force  a  passage, 
And  let  out  life  together !  Prithee,  bear. 
For  friendship's  sake,  a  part  of  that  sweet  burthen 
Which  I  shrink  under  ;  and  when  thou  hast  read 
Fair  Bellisant  subscribed,  so  near  my  name  too, 
Observe  but  that, — thou  must,  with  me,  confess, 
There  cannot  be  room  in  one  lover's  heart 
Capacious  enough  to  entertain 
Such  multitudes  of  pleasures. 

Cler.  I  joy  with  you, 

Let  that  suffice,  and  envy  not  your  blessings  ; 
May  they  increase  !    Farewell,  friend. 

Mont.  How  !  no  more  ? 

By  the  snow-white  hand  that  writ  these  characters, 
It  is  a  breach  to  courtesy  and  manners, 
So  coldly  to  take  notice  of  his  good, 
Whom  you  call  friend  !  See  further  :  here  she  writes 
That  she  is  truly  sensible  of  my  sufferings, 
And  not  alone  vouchsafes  to  call  me  servant, 
But  to  employ  me  in  a  cause  that  much 
Concerns  her  in  her  honour ;  there's  a  favour  ! 
Are  you  yet  stupid  ? — and  that,  two  hours  hence, 
She  does  expect  me  in  the  private  walks 
Neighbouring  the  Louvre  :    connot  all  this  move 

you  1 

I  could  be  angry.     A  tenth  of  these  bounties 
But  promised  to  you  from  Leonora, 
To  witness  my  affection  to  my  friend, 
In  his  behalf,  had  taught  me  to  forget 
All  mine  own  miseries. 

Cler.  Do  not  misinterpret 
This  coldness  in  me  ;  for  alas!  Montroj" 
I  am  a  thing  so  nii.de  up  of  affliction, 


'  A*  J  in  this  fold,  this,  receive  her  favour*.}    Massinger 
I'oini   of  these   repetitions,  which  indeed,  sparingly  used, 
have  a  very  good  effect. 


So  every  wav  contemn'd.  that  I  conclude 

My  sorrows  are  iu'ect'ous  ;  and  my  company, 

Like  such  us  have  foul  ulcers  running  on  them, 

To  be  with  care  u voided.     May  your  happiness, 

In  the  favour  of  the  matchless  15elli>;uU, 

Hourly  increase  !  and  my  best  wishes  guard  you  ! 

"Tis  all  that  1  can  (rive. 

Mo/it.   You  mu-.;t  not  leave  me. 

Cler.  Indeed  1  must  and  will  ;  mine  own  engage- 
ments 
Call  me  away. 

Mont.  What  are  they  ?  I  presume 
There  cannot  be  a  secret  of  that  weight, 
You  dare  not  trust  me  with ;  and  should  you  doubt 

me, 

I  justly  might  complain  that  my  affection 
Is  placed  unfortunately. 

Cler.  1  know  you  are  honest; 
And  this  is  such  a  business,  and  requires 
Such  sudden  execution,  that  it.  cannot 
Fall  in  the  compass  of  your  will,  or  power. 
To  do  me  a  friend's  office.     In  »  word, 
On  terms  that  ne<:r  concern  nip  in  mine  honour, 
I  am  to  tight  the  quarrel,  mortal  too, 
The  time  some  two  hours  hence,  the  place  ten  miles 
Distant  from  Paris ;  and  when  you  shall  know 
I  yet  am  unprovided  of  a  second, 
You  will  excuse  my  sudden  parting  from  you. 
Farewell,  Montrose. 

Mont.  Not  so  ;  I  am  the  man 

Will  run  the  danger  with  you  ;  and  must  tell  you, 
That,  while  I  live,  it  was  a  wrong  to  seek 
Another's  arm  to  second  you.     Lead  the  way; 
JMv  horse  stands  ready. 

Cler.  I  confess  'tis  lioble 
For  you  to  offer  this,  but  it  were  base 
In  me  to  accept  it. 

Mont.  Do  not  scorn  me,  friend. 

Cler.  No ;  but  admire  and  honour  you  ;  and  from 

that 

Serious  consideration,  must  refuse 
The  tender  of  your  aid.     France  knows  you  valiant 
And  that  jou  might,  in  single  opposition, 
Fight  for  a  crown  ;  but  millions  of  reasons 
Forbid  me  your  assistance.     You  forget 
Your  own  designs  ;  heing  the  very  minute 
I  am  to  encounter  with  mine  ene.niv. 
To  meet  your  mistress,  such  a  mistress  too, 
Whose  favour  you  so  many  years  have  sought : 
And  will  you  then,  when  she  vouchsafes  access, 
Nay  more,  invites  you,  check  at  her  fair  offer? 
Or  shall  it  be  repeated,  to  my  shame, 
For  my  own  ends  I  rohb'd  you  of  a  fortune 
Princes  might  envy  ?  Can  you  even  hope 
She  ever  will  receive  you  to  her  presence, 
If  you  neglect  her  now? — Be  wise,  dear  friend, 
And,  in  jour  prodigality  of  sj'oodness, 
Do  not  undo  yourself.     Live  long  and  happy. 
And  leave  me  to  my  dangers. 

Mont.  Cleremond, 

1  have  with  patience  heard  you,  and  consider'd 
The  strength  of  your  best  arguments ;  weigh'd  the 

dangers 

I  run  in  mine  own  fortunes  ;  but  again. 
When  I  oppose  the  sacred  name  of  friend 
Against  those  joys  I  have  so  long  pursued, 
Neither  the  beauty  of  fair  Bellisant, 
Her  wealth,  her  viriues,  can  prevail  so  far, 
In  such  a  desperate  case  as  this,  to  leave  you.— 
To  have  it  to  posterity  recorded, 


160 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[Acr  IIX. 


At  such  a  time  as  this  I  proved  true  gold, 
And  current  in  my  friendship,  shall  be  to  me 
A  thousand  mistresses,  and  such  embraces 
As  leave  no  sting  behind  them  :  therefore,  on ; 
J  am  resolved,  unless  you  beat  me  off, 
1  will  not  leave  you. 

Cler.  O.i!  here  is  a  jewel 
Fit  for  the  cabinet  of  the  greatest  monarch  ! 
But  1  of  all  men  miserable 

Mimt.  Come,  be  cheerful ; 
Good  fortune  will  attend  us. 

Cler.  That,  to  me, 

To  have  the  greatest  blessing,  a  true  friend, 
Should  be  the  greatest  curse  !  — Be  yet  advised. 

Mout.  It  is  in  vain. 

Cler.  That  e'er  I  should  have  cause 
To  wish  you  had  loved  less  ! 

Mont.  The  hour  draws  on  : 
We'll  talk  more  as  we  ride. 

Cler.  Of  men  must  wretched  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  Bellisant's  House. 
Enler  BELLISANT  and  BEAUPRE. 

Bell.  Nay,  pray  you,  dry  your  eyes,  or  your  sad 

story , 

Whose  every  accent  still,  methinks,  I  hear, 
Twas  with  such  passion,  and  such  grief  deliver'd, 
Will  make  mine    bear   your's  company.      All  my 

fear  is, 

The  rigorous  repulse  this  worst  of  men, 
False,  perjured  Clarindore — I  am  sick  to  name  him — 
Received  at  his  last  visit,  will  deter  him 
From  coining  again. 

Bean.  No  ;  he's  resolved  to  venture  ; 
And  has  bribed  me,  with  hazard  of  your  anger, 
To  get  him  access,  but  in  another  shape*  : 
The  time  prefix'd  draws  near  too. 

Bell.  ''I  is  the  better.  [Knocking  within. 

One  knocks. 

Beau.  1  am  sure  'tis  he. 

Bell.  Convey  him  in  ; 
But  do  it  with  a  face  of  fear.  [Exit   Beaupre. 

I  cannot 

Resolve  yet  with  what  looks  to  entertain  him. 
\  ou  powers  that  favour  innocence,  and  revenge 
W'rongs  done  by  such  as  scornfully  de-uie 
Your  awful  names,  inspire  me!  [Walks  aside. 

Pe-enter  BEAUPUE  with  CIAIUXDOUE  disguised. 

Beau.  Sir,  I  hazard 
My  service  in  this  action. 

Clurin.  Thou  shalt  live 
To  he  the  mistress  of  thyself  and  others, 
If  that  my  projects  hit :  all's  at  the  stake  now : 
And  as  the  die  falls,  I  am  made  most  happy, 
Or  past  expression  wretched. 

Bell.  Ha!  who's  that? 

What  bold  intruder  usher  you?     This  rudeness  ! 

From  whence?  what  would  he? 

Beau,  lie  brings  letters,  madam, 
As  he  says,  from  Lord  Chamont. 

Clurin.  How  her  frowns  fright  me! 

Bell.  From  Lord  Chamont?  A  re  they  of  such  import, 
That  you,  before  my  pleasure  be  enquired, 


btfr.ie  obierved,  in  mother  dreu. 


but  in  another  shape  :]  i.  e.  u  I  have 


Dare  bring  the  bearer  to  my  private  chambet ' 
No  more  of  this :  your  packet,  sir? 

CLirm.  The  letters 

Deliver'd  to  my  trust  arid  faith  are  writ 
In  such  mysterious  and  dark  characters, 
As  will  require  the  judgment  of  your  soul, 
More  than  your  eye,  to  read  and  understand  them. 

Bell.  What  riddle's  this?          [Discovering  Clurin, 

Ha  !  am  I  then  contemn'd  ? 
Dare  you  do  this,  presuming  on  my  soft 
And  gentle  nature!— Fear  not,  1  must  show 
A  seeming  anger.     [Aside  to  Beaupre.]     What  new 

boist'rous  courtship, 

After  your  late  loose  language,  and  forced  kiss, 
Come  you  to  practise  ?  1  know  none  beyond  it. 
If  you  imagine  that  you  may  commit 
A  rape  in  mine  own  house,  and  that  my  servants 
Will  stand  tame  lookers  on 

Clarin  If  I  bring  with  me 
One  thought,  but  of  submission  and  sorrow, 
Or  nourish  any  hope,  but  that  your  goodness 
May  please  to  sign  my  pardon,  may  I  perish 
In  your  displeasure  !  which  to  me  is  more 
Than  fear  of  hell  hereafter.     I  confess, 
The  violence  1  offered  to  your  sweetness, 
In  my  presumption,  with  lips  impure, 
To  force  a  touch  from  yours,  a  greater  crime 
Than  if  I  should  have  mix'd  lascivious  flames 
With  those  chaste  fires  that  burn  at  Dian's  altar. 
Ihat  'twas  a  plot  of  trea  on  to  your  virtues, 
To  think  you  could  be  tempted,  or  believe 
You  were  not  fashion 'd  in  a  better  mould, 
And  made  of  purer  clay  than  other  women. 
Since  you  are,  then,  the  phoenix  of  your  time, 
And  e'en  now,  while  you  bless  the  earth,  partake 
Of  their  angelical  essence,  imitate 
Heaven's  aptness  to  forgive,  when  mercy's  sued  for, 
And  once  more  take  me  to  your  grace  and  favour. 

Bell.   What  charms  are  these  !  what  an  enchanting 

tongue ! 

What  pity  'tis,  one  that  can  speak  so  well, 
Should  in  his  actions  be  so  ill ! 

Beau.  Take  heed, 
Lose  not  yourself. 

iietl.  So  well,  sir,  you  have  pleaded, 
And,  like  an  advocate,  in  your  own  cause, 
That,  though  your  guilt  were  greater,  I  acquit  you, 
The  fault  no  more  remember 'd  ;  and  for  proof 
My  heart  partakes  in  my  tongue,  thus  seal  your 
pardon ;  [Kisses  him 

And  with  this  willing  favour  (which  forced  from  me 
Call'd  on  my  anger)  make  atonement  with  you. 

Clarin.  If  I  dream  now,  O,  may  I  never  wake, 
But  slumber  thus  ten  ages  ! 

Bell.  Till  this  minute, 
You  ne'er  to  me  look'd  lovely. 

Clarin.  How ! 

Bell.  Nor  have  I 

E'er  seen  a  man,  in  my  opinion,  worthy 
The  bounty  I  vouchsafe  you  ;  therefore  fix  h?re, 
And  make  me  understand  that  you  can  bear 
Your  fortune  modestly. 

Clarin.  I  find  her  coming  : 
This  kiss  was  but  the  prologue  to  the  play, 
And  not  to  seek  the  rest  were  cowardice. 
Help  me,  dissimulation!  (aside.)   Pardon,  madam, 
1  hough  now,  when  I  should  put  on  cheerful  look* 
In  being  blest  with  what  I  durst  not  hope  for, 
I  change  the  comic  scene,  and  do  present  you 
I   With  a  most  tragic  spectacle. 


I.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


1M 


Bell.  Heaven  avert 
This  prodigy  I  what  mean  you? 

Clarin.  To  confirm, 

In  death,  how  truly  I  have  loved.     I  grant 
Your  favours  done  me,  yield  this  benefit, 
As  to  make  way  for  me  to  pass  in  peace 
To  my  long  rest :  what  I  have  tasted  from  you 
Informs  me  only  of  the  much  I  want : 
For  in  your  pardon,  and  the  kiss  vouchsafed  me, 
You  did  but  point  me  out  a  fore-right  way 
To  lead  to  certain  happiness,  and  then  will'd  me 
To  move  no  further.   Pray  you,  excuse  me,  therefore, 
Though  I  desire  to  end  a  lingering  torment: 
And,  if  you  please,  with  your  fair  hand,  to  make  me 
A  sacrifice  to  your  chastity,  I  will  meet  [vour 

The  instrument  you  make  choice  of,  with  more  fer- 
Than  ever  Caesar  did,  to  hug  the  mistress 
He  doted  on,  plumed  victory ;  but  if  that 
You  do  abhor  the  office,  as  too  full 
Of  cruelty  and  horror,  yet  give  leave, 
That,  in  your  presence,  I  myself  may  be 
Both  priest  and  offering.  [DrwM  his  tword. 

Bell.  Hold,  hold,  frantic  man  ! 
The  shrine  of  love  shall  not  be  bathed  in  blood. 
Women,  though  fair,  were  made  to  bring  forth  men, 
And  not  destroy  them  ;  therefore  hold.  I  say  ! 
I  had  a  mother,  and  she  look'd  upon  me 
As  on  a  true  epitome  of  her  youth : 
Nor  can  I  think  I  am  forbid  the  comfort 
To  bring  fortli  little  models  of  myself, 
If  heaven  be  pleased  (my  nuptial  joys  perform *d) 
To  make  uie  fruitful. 

C/.ri/i.  Such  cele -tial  music 

Ne'er  blest  these  ears.     O  !  you  have  argued  better 
For  me,  than  1  could  for  myself. 

BelL  For  you ! 
What,  did  1  give  you  hope  to  be  my  husband? 

Cl/irin,    Fallen  off  again  !  [Atide. 

Bell.  Yet  since  you  have  given  sure  proof 
Of  love  and  constancy,  I'll  unmask  those  thoughts. 
That  long  have  been  conceal'd  ;  I  am  yours,  but  how? 
In  an  honourable  way. 

Clarin.  I  were  more  than  base, 
Should  I  desire  you  otherwise. 


BelL  True  affection 

Needs  not  a  contract :  and  it  were  to  doubt  me, 
To  engage  me  further  ;  yet,  my  vow  expired, 
Which  is,  to  live  a  virgin  fora  year, 
Challenge  my  promise. 

Clarin.  For  a  year !  O,  madam  ! 
Play  not  the  tyranness  :  do  not  give  me  hopes, 
And  in  a  moment  change  them  to  despair. 
A  year  !  alas,  this  body,  that's  all  tire, 
If  you  refuse  to  quench  it  with  your  favour, 
Will,  in  three  days,  be  cinders  ;  and  vour  mercy 
Will  come  too  late  then.     Dearest  ladv,  marriage 
Is  but  a  ceremony  ;  and  a  hurtful  vow 
Is  in  the  breach  of  it  better  commended, 
Than  in  the  keeping.     O  !  I  burn,  I  burn  ; 
And,  if  you  take  not  pity,  I  must  fly 
To  my  last  refuge.  [Offers  to  slab  himself 

Bell.  Hold  !  Say  I  could  yield 
This  night,  to  satisfy  you  to  the  full, 
And  you  should  swear,  until  the  wedding  day, 
To  keep  the  favours  I  now  grant  conceal'd  ; 
You  would  be  talking. 

Clarin.  May  my  tongue  rot  out,  then  ! 

Bell.  Or  boast  to  your  companions  of  your  con- 
quest, 
And  of  my  easiness. 

Clarin,  I'll  endure  the  rack  first. 

BelL  And,  having  what  you  long  for,  cast  me  off. 
As  you  did  madam  Beaupre. 

Clarin.  May  the  earth 
First  gape,  and  swallow  me  ! 

Bell.  I'll  press  you  no  further. 
Go  in,  your  chamber's  ready  :  if  you  have 
A  bedfellow,  so:  but  silence  I  enjoin  you, 
And  liberty  to  leave  you  when  I  please: 
1  blush,  if  you  reply. 

Clarin.  Till  now  ne'er  happy  !  [Eiit. 

Beau.   What  means  your  ladyship? 

BelL  Do  not  ask,  but  do 
As  1  direct  you :  though  as  yet  we  tread 
A  rough  and  thorny  way,  faint  not;  the  ends 
1  hope  to  reach  shall  make  a  large  amends. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  Dinant's  House. 


Enter  NOVALL  and  DIXANT. 

Din.  You  are  welcome  first,  sir :  and  that  spoke, 

receive 

A  faithful  promise,  all  that  art,  or  long 
Experience,  hath  taught  me,  shall  enlarge 
Themselves  for  your  recovery. 

Nov.  Sir,  I  thank  you, 
As  far  as  a  weak,  sick,  and  unable  man 
Has  power  to  express  ;  but  what  wants  in  my  tongue, 
My  hand  (for  yet  my  fingers  feel  no  gout,) 
Shall  speak  in  this  dumb  language. 

Gives  him  his  purse. 

Din.  You  are  too  magnificent. 

Now.  Fie !    no,  sir ;    health  is,   sure,  a  precious 
We  cannot  buy  it  too  dear.  (jewel, 

Din  Take  comfort,  sir; 


I  find  not,  by  your  urine,  nor  your  pulse, 
Or  any  outward  symptom,  that  you  are 
In  any  certain  danger. 

Nov.  Oh  !  the  more  my  fear: 
Infirmities  that  are  known  are     -     -     -     cured, 
But  when  the  causes  of  them  are  conceal'd, 
As  these  of  mine  are,  doctor,  they  prove  mortal: 
Howe'er,  I'll  not  forget  you  while  I  live, 
Do  but  your  parts. 

Din.  Sir,  they  are  at  your  service. 
I'll  give  you  some  preparatives,  to  instruct  me 
Of  your  inward  temper ;  then,  as  I  find  cause. 
Some  gentle  purge. 

Nov.  Yes,  I  must  purge  ;  I  die  else: 
But  where,  dear  doctor,  you  shall  not  find  out. 
This  is  a  happy  entrance,  may  it  end  vmll ! 
I'll  mount  your  nightcap,  Doddipol.  [Amu 

Din-  In  what  part, 


IAS 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[Acr  IV. 


We  are  sworn  to  secrecy,  and  you  must  be  free,) 
Do  you  find  your  greatest  agony? 

AW.  Oh  !  I  have 

Strange  motions  on  the  sudden  ;  villanous  tumours, 
That  rise,  then  fall,  then  rise  again  ;  oh,  doctor  ! 
Not  to  be  shown  or  named. 

Din.  Then,  in  my  judgment, 

You  had  best  leave  Paris;  choose  some  fresher  air ; 
That  does  help  much  in  physic. 

AW.   By  no  means. 

Here,  in  your  house,  or  no  where,  you  must,  cure  me  : 
The  eye  of  the  muster  fats  the  horse  :  anil  when 
His  doctor's  by,  the  patient  may  drink  wine 
In  a  fit  of  a  burning  fever:  for  your  presence 
Works  more  than  what  you  minister.     Take  physic, 
Attended  on  by  ignorant  grooms,  mere  strangers 
To  your  directions,  I  must  hazard  life, 
And  you  your  reputation  !  whereas,  sir, 
I  hold  your  house  a  college  of  your  art, 
And  every  boy  you  keep,  by  you  instrui  ted, 
A  pretty  piece  of  a  Galenist:   then  the  females, 
From  your  most  fair  wife  to  your  kitchen  drudge, 
Are  so  familiar  with  your  learned  courses, 
That,  to  an  herb,  they  know  to  make  thin  broth  : 
Or,  when  occasion  serves,  to  cheer  the  heart, 
And  such  ingredient  1  shall  have  most  need  of, 
How  manv  cocks  <>'  the  game  make  a  strong  cullis, 
Or  phea.xant's  eggs  a  caudle. 

Din.  1  am  glad 
To  hear  you  argue  with  such  strength. 

Enter  CI.AUINDA  ;  the  u'/iis/jers  DINANT. 
AW.  A  Hash,  sir: 

But  now  I  feel  my  (it  again.     She  is 
Made  up  of  u!l  perfection  ;  any  danger 
That  leads  to  the  enjoying  so  much  sweetness 
Is  pleasure  at  the  height :   1  din  ravish 'd  with 

The  mere  imagination.    Oh  hap[  iness  ! [Aside. 

Din.  How's  ttiis  !  One  from  the  duke  N'emours? 
Cla.    Yes,  sir. 
Din.  'I  is  rank: 

The  sight  of  my  wife  hath  forced  him  to  forget 
To  counterfeit: — I  now  guess  at  your  sickness. 

And  if  I  fit  you  not ! 

Cla.  The  gentleman  stays  you.  [wife, 

Din.  1  come  to  him  presently;    in  the  mean  time, 
Be  careful  of  this  monsieur:  nay,  no  coyness, 
You  may  saline  him  boldly  j  his  pule  lips 
Enchant  not  in  the  touch. 
AW.  Iler's  do,  I'm  sure. 
Din.  Ki.ss  him  again. 
(V.i.  Sir,  this  is  more  than  modest. 
Din.  Modest  !   why,  Cool,  desire  is  dead  in  him: 
(.'all  it  a  charitable,  pious  work, 
If  it  refresh  his  spirits. 

AW.   Yes,  indeed,  sir. 
I  find  great  ease  in  it. 

Din.  Mark  that !  and  would  you 
Deny  a  sick  man  comfort?  meat's  against 
-----     physic,  must  be  granted  too, 
•    -     -     -     wife     -     ...  you  shall, 
In  person,  wait  on  him  ;  nay,  hang  not  off, 
I  say  you  shall:  this  night,  with  your  own  hands, 
I'll  have  you  air  his  bed,  and  when  he  eats 
Of  what  you  have  prepared,  you  shall  sit  by  him, 
And,  with  some  merry  chat,  help  to  repair 
Decayed  appetite;  watch  by  him  when  he  slumbers; 
Nay,  play  his  page's  part:  more,  I  durst  trust  you, 
Were  this  our  wedding  day,  you  yet  u  virgin, 
To  be  his  bedfellow  ;  for  well  1  know 
Old  Priatr's  impotence,  or  Nestor's  hernia,  is 


Herculean  activeness,  if  but  compared 
To  his  debility  •   put  him  to  his  oath, 
He'll  swear  he  can  do  nothing. 

Nov.   Do  !  O  no,  sir  ; 
I  am  past  the  thought  of  it. 

Din.  But  how  do  you  like 
The  method  I  prescribe  ? 

AW.  Beyond  expression  ; 
Upon  the  mere  report  1  do  conceive 
Hope  of  recovery. 

Cla.   A  re  you  mad? 

Din.  Peace,  fool. 

This  night  you  shall  take  a  cordial  to  strengthen 
Your  feeble  limbs;  'twill  cost  ten  crowns  a  draught. 

AW.  No  matter,  sir. 

Din.  To  morrow  you  shall  walk 
To  see  my  garden  ;  then  my  wife  shall  shew  you 
The  choice  rooms  of  my  house  ;  when  you  are  weary, 
Cast  yourself  on  her  couch. 

AW.  Oh,  divine  doctor! 

What  man  in  health  would  not  be  sick,  on  purpose 
To  be  your  patient  ? 

Din.  Come,  sir,  to  your  chamber  ; 
And  now  I  understand  where  your  disease  lies, 
(Nay,  lead  him  by  the  hand),  doubt  not  I'll  cure 
ou. 


SCENE  II.  —  An  open  part  of  the  Country  near  Pant. 
Enter  Ci.niEMONDand  MONTROSE. 


Cler.  This  is  the  place. 

Mont.  An  even  piece  of  ground, 
Without  advantage  ;  but  be  jocund,  friend  : 
The  honour  to  have  entered  first  the  field, 
However  we  come  off,  is  ours*. 

Cler.  I  need  not, 

So  well  I  am  acquainted  with  your  valour, 
To  dare,  in  a  good  cause,  as  much  as  man, 
Lend  you  encouragement;  and  should  1  add, 
Your  power  lo  do,  which  fortune,  howe'er  blind, 
Hath  ever  seconded,  I  cannot  doubt 
But  victory  still  sits  upon  your  sword, 
And  must  not  now  forsake  you. 

Mont.   You  shall  see  me 

Come  boldly  up  ;  nor  will  I  shame  your  cause, 
By  parting  with  an  inch  of  ground  not  bought 
With  blood  on  my  part. 

Cler.  *Tis  not  to  be  question'd  : 

That  which  1  would  entreat,  (and  pray  you  grant  it  ~) 
Is,  that  you  would  forget  your  usual  softness, 
Your  foe  being  at  your  mercy  ;  it  hath  been 
A  custom  in  you,  which  1  dare  not  praise, 
Having  disarm  'd  your  enemy  of  his  sword, 
To  tempt  your  fate,  by  yielding  it  again  ; 
Then  run  a  second  hazard. 

Mont.  When  we  encounter 
A  noble  foe,  we  cannot  be  too  noble.  [you, 

Cler.  That  I  confess  ;  but  he  that's  now  to  oppose 
I  know  for  an  arch  villain  ;  one  that  hath  lost 
All  feeling  of  humanity,  one  that  hates 
Goodness  in  others,  'cause  he's  ill  himself; 


•   The  honour  to  have  enter' dfirtt  the  field, 

However  we  come  off,  it  our*..  Thus  Fletcher  :      [side ; 
"  Cler.  I'm  tir.-i  in  the  Acid,  that  honour's  gaiu'd  of  our 
"  Pray  heaven,  1  may  get  oil  as  lionotir.ibly !" 

The  Little  French  Lawyer 

';  1;  observable,  that  several  of  llie  names  which  occur  .o 
The  Parliament  of  Love  are  found  also  in  Fletcher's  play  { 
though  their  ylots  have  nothing  in  common. 


SCF.S-K  III.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


163 


A  most  ungrateful  wretch,  (the  name's  too  gentle, 
All  attributes  of  wickedness  cannot  reach  him,) 
Of  whom  to  have  deserved,  beyond  example 
Or  precedent  of  friendship,  is  a  wrong 
Which  only  death  can  satisfy. 

Mont.  You  describe 
A  monster  to  me. 

Cler.  True,  Montrose,  he  is  so. 
Afric,  though  fertile  of  strange  prodigies, 
Never  produced  his  equal ;  be  wise,  therefore, 
And  if  he  fall  into  your  hands,  dispatch  him : 
Pity  to  him  is  cruelty.     The  sad  lather, 
That  sees  his  son  stung  by  a  snake  to  death, 
May,  with  more  justice,  stay  his  vengeful  hand, 
And  let  the  worm*  escape,  than  you  vouchsafe  him 
A  minute  to  repent :  for  'tis  a  slave 
So  sold  to  hell  and  mischief,  that  a  traitor 
To  his  most  lawful  prince,  a  church-robber, 
A  parricide,  who,  when  his  garners  are 
Cramm'd  with  the  purest  grain,  suffers  his  parents, 
Being  old  and  weak,  to  starve  for  want  of  bread  ; 
Compared  to  him,  are  innocent. 

Mont.  I  ne'er  heard 

Of  such  a  cursed  nature  ;  if  long-lived, 
He  would  infect  mankind  :   rest  you  assured, 
He  finds  from  me  small  courtesy. 

Cler.  And  expect 

As  little  from  him  ;  blood  is  that  he  thirsts  for, 
Not  honourable  wounds. 

Mont.  1  would  I  had  him 
Within  my  sword's  length! 

Cler.  Have  thy  wish:  Thou  hast! 

[Cleremond  draws  his  sword. 
Nay,  draw  thy  sword,  and  suddenly ;  1  am 
That  monster,  temple-robber,  parricide, 
Ingrateful  wretch  ;  friend-hater,  or  what  else 
Makes  up  the  perfect  figure  of  the  devil, 
Should  he  appear  like  man.     Banish  amazement, 
And  tall  thy  ablest  spirits  up  to  guard  thee 
From  him  that's  turn'd  a  fury.     1  am  made 
Her  minister,  whose  cruelty  but  named, 
Would  withmrre  horror  strike  the  pale-cheek'd  stars, 
Than  all  (hose  dreadful  words  which  conjurors  use, 
To  fright  their  damn'd  familiars.     Look  not  on  me 
As  I  am  Cleremond;  I  have  parted  with 
The  essence  that  was  his,  and  eutertain'd 
The  soul  of  some  fierce  tigress,  or  a  wolf's, 
New-hang'd  for  human  slaughter,  and  'tis  fit : 
1  could  not  else  be  an  apt  instrument 
To  blooxh  Leonora. 

Mont.  To  mv  knowledge 
I  never  wrong'd  her. 

Cler.  Yes,  in  being  a  friend 
To  me  :  she  hated  my  best  friend,  her  malice 
Would  look  no  lower: — and  for  being  such, 
By  her  comnv.mds,  Montrose,  I  am  to  kill  thee. 
Oh,  that  thou  hadst,  like  others,  been  all  words, 
And  no  performance  !  or  that  thou  hadst  made 
Some  little  stop  in  thy  career  of  kindness ! 
Why  wouldst  thou,  to  confirm  the  name  of  friend, 
Despise  the  favours  of  fair  Bellisant, 
And  all  those  certain  joys  that  waited  for  thee  ? 
Snatch  at  (his  fatal  otter  of  a  second, 
\\  hich  others  fled  from  ? — '1  is  in  vain  to  mourn  now, 

•  And  let  the  worm  etci.pe,]  i.  e.  Ilie  make  menti»ne  I  in 
the  preceding  tine  H  arm,  which  is  pure  Savon,  was  once 
the  general  term  for  all  iv  tiles  of  the  « i pent  kind  ;  indent, 
it  is  M ill  10,  in  many  parts  of  KngUnd  Tlie  word  occurs 
to  frequently  in  this  seiiM-,  among  the  w  filers  ut'  Ma.-siiigf's 
time  that  it  appears  unnecessary  tu  produce  instances  of  it. 


When  there's  no  help;  and  therefore,  good  Montrose, 
Rouse  thy  most  manly  parts,  and  think  thou  stand's! 
A  champion  for  more  than  king  or  country:       [now 
Since,  in  thy  fall,  goodness  itself  must  suffer. 
Remember  too,  the  baseness  of  the  wrong 
-     -     -     friendship  ;  let  it  edge  thy  sword, 
And  kill  compassion  in  thee;  and  torget.no>. 
I  will  take  all  advantages  :  and  so, 
Without  reply,  have  at  thee! 

[They  fight.  Cleremond  fails 

Mont.  See,  how  weak 
An  ill  cause  is  !  you  are  already  fallen : 
What  can  you  look  for  now? 

Cler.  Fool,  use  thy  fortune  : 
And  so  he  counsels  thee,  that,  if  we  had 
Changed  places,  instantly  would  have  cut  thv  throat 
Or  digg'd  thy  heart  out. 

Mont.  In  requital  of 
That  savage  purpose,  I  must  pity  you  ; 
Witness  these  tears,  not  tears  of  joy  for  conquest, 
But  of  true  sorrow  for  your  misery. 
Live,  O  live,  Cleremond,  and,  like  a  man, 
Make  use  of  reason,  as  an  exorcist 
To  cast  this  devil  out,  that  does  abuse  you  ; 
This  fiend  of  false  affection. 

CU, .  Will  you  not  kill  me  ? 
You  are  then  more  tyrannous  than  Leonora. 
An  easy  thrust  will  do  it :  you  had  ever 
A  charitable  hand  ;  do  not  deny  me, 
For  our  old  friendship's  sake:  no!  will't  not  be? 
There  are  a  thousand  doors  tu  let  out  life ; 
You  keep  not  guard  of  all :  and  I  shall  find, 
By  falling  headlong  from  some  rocky  cliff, 
Poison,  or  fire,  that  long  rest  which  your  sword 
Discourteously  denies  me.  [Exit. 

Mont.   1  will  follow  ; 

And  something  I  must  fancy,  to  dissuade  him 
From  doing  sudden  violence  on  himself: 
That's  now  my  only  aim ;  and  that  to  me, 
Succeeding  well,  is  a  true  victory. 


SCENE  III. — Paris.    An  outer  Room  in  CHAMOVT'» 

Houte. 
Enter  CIIAMONT  disguised,  and  DINANT. 

Din.  Your  lady  tempted  too  ! 

Cham.  And  tempted  home; 
Summon'd  to  parley,  the  tort  almost  yielded, 
Had  not  I  stepp'd  in  to  remove  the  siege : 
But  I  have  countermined  his  works,  and  if 
You  second  me,  will  blow  the  letcher  up, 
And  laugh  to  see  him  caper. 

Din.  Any  thing : 

Command  me  as  your  servant,  to  join  with  you ; 
All  ways  are  honest  we  take,  to  revenge  us 
On  these  lascivious  monkeys  of  the  court, 
That  make  it  their  profession  to  dishonour 
Grave  citizens'  wives  ;  nay,  those  of  higher  rank, 
As  'tis,  in  your's,  apparent.     My  young  rambler 
'\  hat  thought  to  cheat  me  with  a  leign'ii  disease, 
I  have  in  the  toil  already  ;  1  have  given  him, 
Under  pretence  to  make  him  high  and  active, 
A  cooler  : — 1  dare  warrant  it  will  yield 
Rare  sport  to  see  it  work  :  1  would  your  lordship 
Could  be  a  spectator. 

Cham.   It  is  that  I  aim  at: 
And  might  1  but  persuade  you  to  dispense 
A  little  with  your  candour*,  and  consent 


•  Viz.  honour.    See  the  Guardian,  Act  iii.  Sc.  1. 


164 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[Acr  IV 


To  make  your  house  the  stasje,  on  which  we'll  act 
A  comic  scene  ;  in  the  pride  of  all  their  hopes, 
We'll  show  these  shallow  fools  sunk-eyed  despair, 
And  triumph  in  their  punishment. 

Din.  My  house, 

Or  whatsoever  else  is  mine,  shall  serve 
As  properties  to  grace  it. 

Cham.  In  this  shape*,  then, 
Leave  me  to  work  the  rest. 

Din.  Douht  not,  my  lord, 
You  shall  find  all  things  ready.  [Eiif. 

Enter  PERIGOT. 

Cham.  This  sorts  well 

With  my  other  purposes.     Perigot !  to  my  wish. 
Aid  me,  invention ! 

Peri.  Is  the  quean  fallen  off? 
I  hear  not  from  her : — 'tis  the  hour  and  place, 
That  she  appointed. 

What  have  we  here?     This   fellow  has  a  pimp's 
face, 

And  looks  as  if  he  were  her  call,  her  fetch • 

With  me? 

Cham.  Sir,  from  the  party, 
The  lady  you  should  track  with,  the  lord's  wife 
Your  worship  is  to  dub,  or  to  make  free 
Of  the  company  of  the  homers. 

Pert.  Fair  Lamira  ? 

Cham.  The  same,  sir. 

Peri.  And  how,  my  honest  squire  o'damesf  ?  I  see 
Thou  art  of  her  privy  council. 

Chum.   Her  grant  holds,  sir. 

Peri.  O  rare!   But  when? 

Cham.  Marry,  instantly. 

Peri.  But  where  ? 

Ch:im.  Slie  hath  outgone  the  cunning  of  a  woman, 
In  ordering  it  both  privately  and  securely : 
You  know  Jjinant  the  doctor? 

Peri.  Good. 

Cham.  His  house 

And  him  she  has  mnde  at  her  devotion,  sir. 
Nay,  wonder  not ;  most  of  these  empirics 
Thrive  better  by  connivance  in  such  cases, 
Than  their  lame  practice :  framing  some  distemper, 
The  fool,  her  lord 

Peri.  Lords  may  be  what  they  please ; 
I  question  not  their  patent. 

Cham.   Hath  consented, 

That  this  night,  privately,  she  shall  take  a  clyster  ; 
Which  he  believes  the  doctor  ministers, 
And  never  thinks  of  you. 

Peri.  A  good  wench  still. 

Cham.  And  there,  without  suspicion • 

Pen'.  Excellent ! 
I  make  this  lord  my  cuckold. 

Cham.  True,  and  write 

The  reverend  drudging  doctor,  my  copartner 
And  fellow  bawd  :  next  year  we  will  have  him  war- 
Of  our  society.  [den 

Peri.  There  !  there  !  I  shall  burst, 
I  am  so  swollen  with  pleasure  ;  no  more  talking, 
Dear  keeper  of  the  vaulting  doorj  ;  lead  on. 


•  Cham.  In  this  shape,  then,]  i.  c.  tlie  disguise  which  he 
had  assumed. 

+  And  how, my  honeit  squire  o' dames?}  See  The  Emperor 
of  the  East. 

1  Dear  keeper  of  the  vaulting  door  ;]  To  keep  the  door, 
was  one  of  the  thousand  synonymcs  of  a  bawd  or  pander. 
To  this  ihe  distracted  Othello  alludes  in  his  passionate  speech 
to  Emilia: 


Cham.  Charge  you  as  boldly, 

Peri.  Do  not  fear  ;  I  have 
A  staff  to  taint,  and  bravely*. 

Cham.  Save  the  splinters, 
If  it  break  in  the  encounter. 

Peri.  Witty  rascal ! 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  BEI.LISANT'S  House. 
Enter  CLARINDORE,  BELLISANT,  and  BEAUPRE. 

Clarin.  Boast  of  your  favours,  madam  ! 

Bell.  Pardon,  sir, 

My  fears,  since  it  is  grown  a  general  custom, 
In  our  hot  youth  to  keep  a  catalogue 
Of  conquests  this  way  got  ;  nor  do  they  think 
Their  victory  complete,  unless  they  publish, 
To  their  disgrace,  that  are  made  captives  to  them, 
How  far  they  have  prevail'd. 

Clarin.  \  would  have  such  rascals 
First  gelded,  and  then  hang'd. 

Bell.  Remember  too,  sir, 

To  what  extremities  your  love  had  brought  you  ; 
And  since  I  saved  your  life,  I  may,  with  justice, 
By  silence  charge  you  to  preserve  mine  honour; 
Which,  howsoever  to  my  conscious  self 
I  am  tainted,  foully  tainted,  to  the  world 
1  am  free  from  all  suspicion. 

Clarin.  Can  you  think 
I'll  do  myself  that  wrong?  although  I  had 
A  lawyer's  mercenary  tongue,  still  moving, 

-  -     -     -le  this  precious  carcanet,  these  jewels, 

-  -     of  your  magnificence,  would  keep  me 
A  Pythagorean,  and  ever  silent. 

No,  rest  secure,  sweet  lady  ;  and  excuse 
Mv  sudden  and  abrupt  departure  from  you  : 
And  if  the  fault  makes  forfeit  of  your  grace, 
A  quick  return  shall  ransom  and  redeem  it. 

Bell.  Be  mindful  of  your  oaths. 

[WaOft  aside  with  Bea-up^f. 

Clarin.  I  am  got  off, 

And  leave  the  memory  of  them  behind  me. 
Now,  if  I  can  find  out  my  scoffing  gulls, 
Novall  and  Perigot,  besides  my  wager, 
Which  is  already  sure,  I  shall  return 
Their  bitter  jests,  and  wound  them  with  my  tongue, 
Much  deeper  than  my  sword.     Oh  !  but  the  oaths 
I  have  made  to  the  contrary,  and  her  credit, 
Of  which  1  should  be  tender : — tush  !  both  hold 
With  me  an  equal  value.     The  wise  say, 


you,  mistress, 


That  have  the  ofiice  opposite  to  Saint  Peter, 
And  keep  the  yaie  •>(  hell !" 

•  Peri.  Do  not  fear ;  1  have 

A  staff  to  taint,  and  bravely.]  This  is  a  very  uncommon 
word  in  its  present  application;  nor  can  I  be  certain  that  1 
comprehend  its  precise  meaning.  To  break  a  start'  or  spear, 
in  the  tilts  »nd  tournaments  of  our  ancestors,  was  an  honour- 
able achievement ;  but  then  (as  appears  from  "  the  Ordinances 
made  by  the  Earl  of  Worcester, constable  of  Enyl.md  in  14oG, 
and  renewed  in  1 562")  it  was  to  b<:  done  in  a  particular  msBBtl1, 
and  "as  it  ought  to  bee  broken."  How  a  spear  ought  to  tie 
broken,  is  not  said  ;  nor  was  the  information  perhaps  neces- 
sary at  the  time.  It  seems,  however,  that  it  should  be  as 
near  the  middle  as  possible  ;  for,  if  it  wire  within  a  foot  of 
the  coronel  or  extremity,  it  was  then  "  to  be  adjudged  as  no 
speare  broken,  but  a  fay  re  attaynt."  Nuya;  Antiqute,  Vol. 
I.  p.  4.  I  meet  with  the  word  in  Every  Man  Out  of  hit 
Hitmtnir,  the  only  place,  with  the  exception  of  the  work  I 
have  just  quoted,  where  I  ever  recollect  to  have  seen  it: 
and  there,  too,  it  is  used  in  a  derogatory  sense,  "  He  has  a 
good  riding  face,  and  he  can  sit  a  horse  well;  he  will  taint 
a  statf  well  at  tilt." 


SCENE  V.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


165 


Tbat  the  whole  fabric  of  a  woman's  lighter 
Than  wind  or  feathers  :   what  is  then  her  fame? 
A  kind  of  nothing  ; — not  to  be  preserved          [trine, 
With  the  loss  of  so  much  money: — 'tis  sound  doc- 
And  I  will  follow  it.  [Eiit. 

Bell.  Prithee,  be  not  doubtful ; 
Let  the  wild  colt  run  his  course. 

Menu.  1  must  confess 

T  cannot  sound  the  depth  of  what  you  purpose, 
But  I  much  fear 

Beit.  That  he  will  blab  ;  I  know  it, 
And  that  a  secret  scalds  him  :   that  he  suffers 
Till  he  hath  vented  what  1  seem  to  wish 
He  should  conceal ; — but  let  him,  1  am  arm'd  for't. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — A  Room  in  DINANT'S  House. 

Enter  CHAMONT,  DINAXT,  LAMIBA,  CLARINDA,  and 
Servants. 

Cliam.  For  Perigot,  he's  in  the  toil,  ne'er  doubt  it. 
O,  bad  you  seen  how  his  veins  swell'd  with  lust, 
When    I    brought    him  to   the   chamber!    how    he 

gloried, 

And  stretch'd  his  limbs,  preparing  them  for  action  ; 
Ana  taking  me  to  be  a  pander,  told  me 
'Twas  more  delight  to  have  a  lord  his  cuckold, 
Than  to  enjoy  mv  lady  ! — there  I  left  him 
In  contemplation,  greedily  expecting 
Lamira's  presence;  but,  instead  of  her, 

I  have  prepared  him  other  visitants. 

You  know  what  you  have  to  do'! 

1  Serv.  Fear  not,  my  lord, 

He  shall  curvet,  1  warrant  him,  in  a  blanket. 

2  Ser.  We'll  discipline  him  with  dog  whips,  and 
take  off 

His  rampant  edge. 

Cham.  His  life  ;  save  that — remember 
You  cannot  be  too  cruel. 

Din.  For  his  pupil, 
My  wife's  inamorato,  if  cold  weeds, 
Removed  but  one  degree  from  deadly  poison, 
Have  not  forgot  their  cert-.iin  operation, 
You  shall  see  his  courage  cool'd ;  and  in  that  temper, 
Till  he  have  howl'd  himself  into  my  pardon, 
I  vow  to  keep  him. 

Nov.  [u'it)nn.~\  Ho,  doctor  !  master  doctor! 

Din.  The  game's  afoot,  we  will  let  slip  :  conceal 
Yourselves  a  little.  [They  retire. 

Enter  NOVALL. 

Nov.  Oh  !  a  thousand  agu'es 

Play  at  barley-break  in  my  bones  ;  my  blood's  a  pool 
On  the  sudden  frozen,  and  the  icicles 
Cut  every  vein  :  'tis  here,  there,  every  where ; 
Oh  dear,  dear,  master  doctor  ! 

Din.  I  must  seem 

Not  to  understand  him  ;  'twill  increase  his  torture. 
How  do  you,  sir?  has  the  potion  wrought?  do  you 
An  alteration  ?  have  your  swellings  left  you  ?     [feel 
Is  your  blood  still  rebellious  ? 

Nov.  Oh,  good  doctor, 
I  am  a  ghost,  I  have  nor  flesh,  nor  blood, 
Nor  heat,  nor  warmth,  about  me. 

Din.  Do  not  dissemble  ; 
I  know  you  are  high  and  jovial. 

Nov.  Jovial,  doctor ! 
No,  I  am  all  amort,  as  if  I  had  lain 
Three  days  in  my  grave  already. 


Din.  I  will  raise  you  : 
For,  look  you,  sir,  you  are  a  liberal  patient, 
Nor  must  I,  while  you  can  be  such,  part  with  you ; 
T  is  against  the  laws  of  our  college.      Pray  you, 

mark  me ; 

I  have  with  curiosity  consider'd 
Your  constitution  to  be  hot  and  moist, 
And  that  at  your  nativity  Jupiter 
And  Venus  were  in  conjunction,  whence  it  follows, 
By  neces-ary  consequence,  you  musi  be 
A  most  insatiate  lecher. 

Nov.  Oh  !  I  have  been, 
I  have  been,  I  confess  :  but  now  I  cannot 
Think  of  a  woman. 

Dm.  For  your  health  you  must,  sir, 
Both  think,  and  see,  and  touch ;  you're  but  a  dead 
man  else. 

Nov.  That  way  I  am  already. 

Di~i.  You  must  take, 
And  suddenly,  ('tis  a  conceal'd  receipt,) 
A  buxom  juicy  wench. 

Nov.  Oh  !  'twill  n<.t  down,  sir ; 
1  have  no  swallow  for't. 

Din.  Now,  since  I  would 
Have  the  disease  as  private  as  the  cure,' 
(  For  'lis  a  secret,)  I  have  wrought  my  wife 
To  be  both  physic  and  physician, 
To  give  you  ease  : — will  you  walk  to  her? 

Nov.  Oh !  doctor, 

I  cannot  stand  ;  in  every  sense  about  me 
I  have  the  palsy,  but  my  tongue. 

Din.   Nay  then, 

You  are  obstinate,  and  refuse  my  gentle  offer  : 
Or  else  'tis  foolish  modesty : — Come  hither, 
Come,  my  Clarinda, 

Re-enter  CLARINDA. 

'tis  not  common  courtesy ; 
Comfort  the  gentleman. 

Nov.  This  is  ten  times  worse. 

Cham.  [within.']  He  does  torment  him  rarelj. 

Din.  She  is  not  coy,  sir. 
What  think  you,  is  not  this  a  pretty  foot, 
And  a  clean  instep  ?  I  will  leave  the  calf 
For  you  to  find  and  judge  of  :  here's  a  hand  too  ; 
Try  it ;  the  palm  is  moist ;  the  youthful  blood 
Runs  strong  in  every  azure  vein  :  the  face  too 
Ne'er  knew  the  help  of  art ;  and,  all  together, 
May  serve  the  turn,  after  a  long  sea-voyage, 
For  the  captain's  self. 

Nov.  I  am  a  swabber,  doctor, 
A  bloodless  swabber;  have  not  strength  enough 
To  cleanse  her  poop. 

Din.  Fie,  you  shame  yourself, 
And  the  profession  of  your  rutting  gallants, 
That  hold  their  doctors'  wives  as  free  for  them, 
As  some  of  us  do  our  apothecaries' ! 

Nov.  Good  sir,  no  more. 

Din.  Take  her  aside  ;  cornute  me  ; 
I  give  you  leave  :  what  should  a  quacksalver, 
A  fellow  that  does  deal  with  drugs,  as  I  do, 
That  has  not  means  to  give  her  choice  of  gowns, 
Jewels,  and  rich  embroidered  petticoats, 
Do  with  so  fair  a  bedfellow?  she  being  fashion'd 
To  purge  a  rich  heir's  reins,  to  be  the  mistress 
Of  a  court  gallant?  Did  you  not  tell  her  so  ? 

Nov.  1  have  betray 'd  myself!  1  did,  I  did. 

Din.  And  that  rich    merchants,  advocates,    aW 

doctors, 
Howe'er  deserving  from  the  commonwealth. 


166 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[Acr  IV 


On  forfeit  of  the  city's  charter,  were 
Predestined  cuckolds  ? 

A'oi*.  Oh,  some  pity,  doctor  ! 
[  was  an  heretic,  hut  now  converted, 
Some  little,  little  respite  ! 

Din.  No,  you  town-bull ; 
-     -     -     -venge  all  good  men's  wrongs, 
And  now  will  pl;iy  the  tyrant.     To  dissect  thee, 
Eat  thy  fle.-h  off'  with  burning  corrosives, 
Or  write  with  aquafortis  in  thy  forehead, 
Thy  last  intent  to  wrong  my  bed,  were  justice ; 
And  to  do  less  were  foolish  pity  in  me  ; 
I  speak  it,  ribald  ! 

Nov.  Perigot !  Perigot ! 
Woe  to  thy  cursed  counsel. 

Re-enter  CHAMONT  and  LAMIHA. 
Cham.  Perigot ! 

/"id  he  advise  you  to  this  course? 
.Vow.  He  did. 

Cham.  And  he  has  his  reward  for't. 
Pen.  [ujit/iin.]   Will  you  murder  me  ? 
Serv.  [within.']  Once  more,  aloft  with  him. 
Peri,  [within.]  Murder!  murder!  murder! 

Enter  Servants  with  PERIGOT  in  a  blanket. 

Cham.  What  conceal'd  bake-meats  hare  you  there? 
*»  it  goat's  flesh  ?  It  smells  rank.  [a  present  ? 

1  Ser.  We  have  had 
Sweet  work  of  it,  my  lord. 

!i  Ser.  I  warrant  you  'tis  tender, 
II  wants  no  cooking;  yet,  if  you  think  fit, 
We'll  bruise  it  again. 

Peri.  As  you  are  Christians,  spare  me  ! 
1^  am  jelly  within  already,  and  without 
Embroidered  all  o'er  with  statute  lace. 
What  would  you  more  ? 

Nov.  My  tutor  in  the  gin  too  ! 
This  is  some  comfort :  he  is  as  good  as  drench'd ; 
And  now  we'll  both  be  chaste. 
^  Cham,  What,  is't  a  cat  [so  ? 

You  have  encounter'd,  monsieur,  you  are  scratched 
My  lady,  sure,  forgot  to  pare  her  nails, 
Before  your  soft  embraces. 

Din.  He  has  ta'en  great  pains  : 
What  a  sweat  he's  in! 

Cham.  O  !  he's  a  master-dancer, 
Knows  how  to  caper  into  a  lady's  favour  : 
One  lofty  trick  more,  dear  monsieur. 

Aou.  That  I  had  ra  ^Q0. 

But  strength  enough  to  laugh  at  him !  blanketted  like 
And  hke  a  cut-purse  whipt!  I  am  sure  that  now 
He  cannot  jeer  me. 

Peri.  May  not  a  man  have  leave 
To  hang  himself? 

Chan.  No  ;  that  were  too  much  mercy. 
Live  to  be  wretched ;  live  to  be  the  talk 
Of  the  conduit,  and  the  bakehouse*.     I  will  have  thee 
I  ictured  as  thou  art  now,  and  thy  whole  story 
Sung  to  some  villanous  tune  in  a  lewd  ballad ; 
And  make  thee  so  notorious  to  the  world, 
That  boys  in  the  streets  shall  hoot  at  thee :  come, 

Lamira, 

And  triumph  o'er  him.     Dost  thou  see  this  lady, 
My  wife,  whose  honour  foolishly  thou  thought's*! 


•  Of  the  conduit,  and  the  bakehouse.]  These,  in  (he  age  of 
Massiugcr,  were  the  general  rendezvous  of  gossips  of  both 
•cue*:  they  ire  still  so,  m  most  country  towns. 


To  undermine  and  make  a  servant  to 
Thy  brutish  lusts,  laughing  at  thy  affliction? 
And,  as  a  sign  she  scorns  thee,  set  her  foot 
Upon  thy  head?  Do  so  : — 'Sdeath  !  but  resist, 
Once  more  you  caper. 

Peri.  I  am  at  the  stake, 
And  must  endure  it. 

Cham.  Spurn  him,  too. 

Lam.  Troth,  sir, 
I  do  him  too  much  grace. 

Cham.  Now,  as  a  schoolboy 
Does  kiss  the  rod  that  gave  him  chastisement, 
To  prove  thou  art  a  slave,  meet  with  thy  lips 
This  instrument  that  corrects  thee. 

Peri.  Have  you  done  yet?  [look  now  ! 

Dm.  How   like  a  pair  of  crest-fallen  jades  t'le" 

Cla.  They  are  not  worth  our  scorn. 

Peri.  O  pupil,  pupil !  ("ther 

Nov.  Tutor,  I  am  drench'd  :  let  us  condole  toge 

Cham.  And  where's  the  tickling  itch  now,  my  dear 

monsieur. 

To  say,  This  lord's  my  cuckold  !  I  am  tired : 
That  we  had  fresh  dogs  to  hunt  them  ! 


Enter  CI.ARINDORE. 


Clarin. 


-     -     -     -  I  am  acquainted  with  the  story ; 
The  doctor's  man  has  told  me  all. 

Din.  Upon  them.  [this 

Peri.  Clarindore  !  worst  of  all :  for  him  to  know 
Is  a  second  blanketting  to  me. 

Nov.  I  again 
Am  drench'd  to  look  upon  him. 

Clarin.  How  is't  ?   nay,  bear  up  ; 
You  that  commend  adultery.  I  am  glad 
To  see  it  thrive  so  well.     Fie,  Perigot ! 
Dejected  ?  Haply  thou  wouldst  have  us  think, 
This  is  the  first  time  that  thou  di'lst.  curvet. 
And  come  aloft  in  a  blanket.     By  St.  Dennis! 
Here  are  shrewd  scratches  too ;  but  nothing  to 
A  man  of  resolution,  whose  shoulders 
Are  of  themselves  armour  of  proof,  against 
A  bastinado,  and  will  tire  ten  beadles. 

Peri.  Mock  on  ;  know  no  mercy. 

Clarin.  Thrifty  young  men  ! 

What  a  charge  is  saved  in  wenching  !  and  'tis  timely — 
A  certain  wager  of  three  thousand  crowns 
Is  lost,  and  must  be  paid,  my  pair  of  puppies ; 
The  coy  dame  Bellisant  hath  stoop'd  !  bear  witness 
This  chain  and  jewels  you  have  seen  her  wear. 
The  fellow,  that  her  grooms  kick'd  down  the  stairs, 
Hath  crept  into  her  bed  ;  and,  to  assure  you 
1  here's  no  deceit,  she  shall  confess  so  much  : 
I  have  enjoy'd  her. 

Cham.  Are  you  sericus  ? 

Clarin.  Yes,  and  glory  in  it. 

Cham.  Nay  then,  give  over  fooling. 

Thou  liest,  and  art  a  villain,  a  base  villain, 
To  slander  her. 

Clarin.  You  are  a  lord,  and  that 
Bids  me  forbear  you  ;  but  I  will  make  good 
Whatever  I  have  said. 

Cham.  I'll  not  lose  time 

To  change  words  with  thee.    The  king  hath  ordain'd 
A  Parliament  of  Love  to  right  her  wrongs, 
To  which  I  summon  thee.  [Eiit, 

Clarin.    Your   worst:    I    care    not.     Farewell, 
babions!  [JTxic. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


ter 


Din.  Here  was  a  sudden  change  ! 
Nay,  you  must  quit  my  house :  shog  on,  kind  patient, 
And,  as  you  like  my  physic,  when  you  are 
Rampant  again,  you  know  1  have  that  can  cool  you. 
Nay,  monsieur  Perigot,  help  your  pupil  off  too, 
Your  counsel  brought  him  on.     Ha  !  no  reply  ? 


Are  you  struck  dumb  ?  If  you  are  wrong'd,  complain. 

Peri.   We  shall  find  friends  to  right  us. 

Dm.  And  I  justice, 

The  cause  being  heard ;  I  ask  no  more.     Hence ! 
vanish !  [£*eu;it. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — A  Court  of  Justice. 
Enter  CHAMONT,  PHILAMOUR,  and  LAFORT. 

Phil.  Montrose  slain  !  and  by  Cleremond  ! 

Cham.  'Tis  too  true. 

Laf.  But  wondrous  strange  that  any  difference, 
Especially  of  such  a  deadly  nature. 
Should  e'er  divide  so  eminent  a  friendship. 

Phil.  The  miracle  is  greater,  that  a  lady, 
His  most  devoted  mistress,  Leonora, 
Against  the  usual  softness  of  her  sex, 
Should  with  such  violence  and  heat  pursue 
Her  amorous  servant;  since  I  am  inform 'd 
That  he  was  apprehended  by  her  practice*, 
And,  when  he  comes  to  trial  for  his  life, 
She'll  rise  up  his  accuser. 

Cham.  So  'tis  rumour'd  : 

And  that's  the  motive  that  young  Cleremond 
Makes  it  his  humble  suit,  to  have  his  cause 
Decided  in  the  Parliament  of  Love  ; 
For  he  pretends  the  bloody  quarrel  grew 
From  grounds  that  claim  a  reference  to  that  place  : 
Nor  fears  he,  if  you  grant  him  equal  hearing, 
But,  with  unanswerable  proof,  to  render 
The  cruel  Leonora  tainted  with 
A  guilt  beyond  his. 

Lnf.  The  king  is  acquainted 
Already  with  the  accident ;  besides, 
lie  hath  vouchsafed  to  read  divers  petitions 
Preferr'd  on  several  causes  ;  one  against 
Monsieur  Dinant,  his  doctor,  by  Novall ; 
A  second,  in  which  madam  Bellisant 
Complains  'gainst  Clarindore;  there  is  a  bill  too 
Brought  in  by  Perigot,  r.gainst  your  lordship  ; 
All  which,  in  person,  he  resolves  to  hear, 
Then,  as  a  judge,  to  censure.         [A  Flourish  within. 

Phil.  See  the  form  ! 
Choice  music  ushers  him. 

Cham.  Let  us  meet  the  troop, 
And  mix  with  them. 

f  hil.  'Twill  poise  your  expectation.          [Ex«wnt. 

Loud  music.  Enter  CHAUI  ES,  followed  fey  ORLEANS, 
NEMOURS,  CHAMONT,  LAFOHT,  and  PHILAMOUII  : 
A  Priest  with  the  image  of  CUPID:  then  enter 
CI.EUEMOND,  CLARISDOIIE,  PEIUCOT,  NOVAI.I., 
BEI.LISANT,  LEONORA,  BEAUPHE,  LAMIRA,  CLA- 
itiNDA,  and  Officers.  MONTROSE  is  brought  Jorwurd 
on  a  bier,  and  placed  bejoi  e  the  bar. 

Char.  Let  it  not  seem  a  wonder,  nor  beget 


•  That  he  teat  apprehended  by  her  practice,]  i.  e.  by  hei 
ariitiec.  This  word  i»  ireqtieiuly  round  in  Massinger  and 
lii*  contemporaries,  in  the  smse  ul  an  inridiuus  irirk,  or 
Mrataj;t'iH.  'Hit  incident  of  Leonora  instigating  her  lover  t<> 
murder  his  f:knil,  an  I  then  MII  rendering  him  to  jnMice,  is 
derived  with  some  variations  lr.un  Alantou'j  Dutch  Ltaar- 


An  ill  opinion  in  this  fair  assembly 

That  here  I  place  this  statue  ;  'tis  not  done, 

Upon  the  forfeit  of  our  grace,  that  you 

Should,  with  a  superstitious  reverence, 

Fall  down  and  worship  it :  nor  can  it  be 

Presumed,  we  hope,  young  Charles,  that  justly  holds 

The  honour'd  title  of  most  Christina  king, 

Would  ever  nourish  such  idolatrous  thoughts. 

'Tis  rather  to  instruct  deceived  mankind, 

How  much  pure  love,  that  has  his  birth  in  heaven, 

And  scorns  to  be  received  a  guest,  but  in 

A  noble  heart  prepared  to  entertain  him, 

Is,  by  the  gross  misprision  of  weak  men, 

Abused  and  injured.     That  celestial  fire, 

Which  hieroglyphically  is  described 

In  this  his  bow,  his  quiver,  and  his  torch, 

Kirst  warm'd  their  bloods,  and  after  gave  a  name 

To  the  old  heroic  spirits :  such  as  Orpheus, 

That  drew  men,  differing  little  then  from  beasts, 

To  civil  government. ;  or  famed  Alcides, 

The  tyrant-queller,  that  refu.-ed  the  plain 

And  easy  path,  leading  to  vicious  pleasures, 

And  ending  in  a  precipice  deep  as  hell, 

To  scale  the  ragged  cliff,  on  whose  linn  top 

Virtue  and  honour,  crown'd  with  wre.ths  of  stars. 

Did  sit  triumphant.     But  it  will  be  answer'd, 

(The  world  decaying  in  her  strength,)  that  now 

We  are  not  equal  to  those  ancient  times, 

And  therefore  'twere  impertinent  and  tedious 

To  cite  more  precedents  of  that  reverend  age, 

But  rather  to  endeavour,  as  we  purpose, 

To  give  encouragement,  by  reward,  to  such 

As  with  their  best  nerves  imitnte  that  old  goodness  ; 

And  with  severe  correction,  to  reform 

The  modern  vices. — Begin  ;  read  the  bills. 

Peri.  Let  mine  be  first,  my  lord,  'twas  first  pre-. 
ferr'd. 

Bell,  but  till  my  cause  be  heard,  our  whole  sex 
suffers. 

Off.  Back  !  keep  back,  there  ! 

A'ou.  Prithee,  gentle  officer, 
Handle  me  gingerly,  or  1  fall  to  pieces, 
Before  I  can  plead  mine. 

Peri.  1  am  bruised     ... 

Omnes.  Justice!  justice! 

Char.   Forbear  these  clamours,  you  shall  all  be 
And,  to  coiifirm  1  am  no  partial  judge,  heard: 

By  lottery  decide  it*;  here's  no  favour. 

Whose  bill  is  first,  Lafort?       [The  namet  are  drawn. 

Laf.  'Tis  Cleremond's. 

Char.  The  sednd  ? 

/  af.  Perigot's  ;  the  third,  Novall's. 

A  OD.  Our  cases  are  both  lamentable,  tutor. 

•  By  loiter)  decidfit;'  By  drawing  lots.   SoSliakspeart: 
"  Let  hiuh-sited  tyranny  range  on. 
Till  each  nun  druu  by  tottery."    Juliut  Canat. 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[AcrV 


Peri.  And  I  am  glad  they  shall  be  hear J  together ; 
We  cannot  stand  asunder. 

Chiir.   What's  the  last  ? 

Lnf.  The  injur'd  lady  Bellisant's. 

Char.  To  the  first,  then ;  and  so  proceed  in  order. 

Phil.  Stand  to  the  bar.  [Cler.  comet  forward. 

Leon.  Speak,  Cleremond,  thy  grief,  as  I  will  mine. 

Peri.  A  confident  little  pleader !  were  I  in  case, 
I  would  give  her  a  double  fee. 

Nor.  So  would  I,  tutor. 

Off.  Silence!  silence! 

Cler.  Should  I  rise  up  to  plead  my  innocence, 
Though,  with  the  favour  of  the  court,  I  stood 
Acquitted  to  the  world,  yea,  though  the  wounds 
Of  my  dead  friend,  ("which,  like  so  many  mouths 
With  bloody  tongues,  cry  out  aloud  against  me,) 
By  your  authority,  were  closed  ;  yet  here, 
A  not  to  be  corrupted  judge,  my  conscience, 
Would  not  alone  condemn  me,  but  inflict 
Such  lingering  tortures  on  me,  as  the  hangman, 
Though  witty  in  his  malice,  could  not  equal. 
I  therefore  do  confess  a  guilty  cause, 
Touching  the  fact,  and,  uncompell'd,  acknowledge 
Myself  the  instrument  of  a  crime  the  sun, 
Hiding  his  face  in  a  thick  mask  of  clouds, 
As  frighted  with  the  horror,  durst  not  look  on. 
But  if  your  laws  with  greater  rigour  punish 
Such  as  invent  a  mischief,  than  the  organs 
By  whom  'tis  put  in  act,  (they  truly  being 
The  first  great  wheels  by  which  the  lesser  move,) 
Then  stand  forth  Leonora ;  and  I'll  prove 
The  white  robe  of  my  innocence  tainted  with 
But  one  black  spot  of  guilt,  and  even  that  one 
By  thy  hand  cast  on  me ;  but  thine,  died  o'er, 
Ten  times  in-grain  in  hell's  most  ugly  colours. 

Leon.  The  fellow  is  distracted  :  see  how  he  raves  ! 
Now  as  1  live,  if  detestation  of 
His  baseness  woule  but  give  me  leave,  I  should 
Begin  to  pity  him. 

Cler.  Profitless  impudence, 
And  not  to  be  replied  to  !  Sfr,  to  you, 
And  these  subordinate  ministers  of  yourself, 
I  turn  my  speech  :  to  her  I  do  repent 
I  e'er  vouchsafed  a  syllable.     My  birth* 
Was  noble  as  'tis  ancient,  nor  let  it  relish 
Of  arrogance,  to  say  my  father's  care, 
With  curiousness  and  cost,  did  train  me  up 
In  all  those  liberal  qualities  that  commend 
A  gentleman  :  and  when  the  tender  dowli 
Upon  my  chin  told  me  I  was  a  man, 
I  came  to  court ;  there  youth,  ease,  and  example, 


*  .  My  birth 

«  «  i"°  °9  "'*  ancienl>  &c-]  Sir  H.  Herbert  (for 
Mr.  Maloiie  supposes  H,is  to  be  the  presentation  copy,  and 
to  have  remained  in  his  hands),  has  taken  several  liberties 
Wttfc  this  play.  In  some  places,  win-re  the  expressions 
appeared  too  free,  he  has  drawn  his  pen  tl> rough  them  • 
in  oihtri,  he  ban  struck  out  line.,  under  .he  Wei,  perhaps! 
01  compress,,,!;  .he  ,,;„„>,  kindly  sMpulyi.,,,  »  ronnec.ing 
word  or  two  from  his  own  stores;  and  in  others  h 
been  content  with  including  ,he  objectionable  passages 
between  bracked.  In  the  l.,tier  there  is  not  much  harm, 
but  the  former  is  a  sor,  evil:  for  as  I  do  not  deem  very 
highly  of  Sir  Henry's  taste,  nor  indeed  of  his  judgment  the 
endeavours  to  recover  the  genuine  trxt  from  the  blot  spread 
over  it,  has  been  attended  wilh  a  very  con.-ideiable  decree 
Of  trouble;  it  has  however,  been  gent-rally  successful. 

If  I  thought  that  innovations,  hazarded  without  knowledge 
to  direct  them,  could  be  objects  of  curiosity,  I  would  tive 
the  reader  this  speech  as  it  stands  in  ihe  new  Vfrsion :— but 
it  if  not  wonb  his  care.  1803.  Subsequent  i-ivcstigation 
enabled  Mr.  Gilford,  by  comparing  the  MS.  wi'h  the  reco- 
vered corrected  copy  of  the  Duke  of  Milan,  to  ascertain  that 
tbe  band-writing  of  this  ulay  was  Ma»singer*s. 


First  made  me  feel  the  pleasing  pains  of  love: 
And  there  I  saw  this  woman  ;  saw,  and  loved  her 
With  more  than  common  ardour;  for  that  deity, 
(Such  our  affection  makes  him,)  whose  dread  power 

-  the  choicest  arrow,  headed  with 
Not  loose  but  loyal  flames,  which  aim'd  at  me 
Who  came  with  greedy  haste  to  meet  the  shaft, 

-  -     -     -ng,  that  my  captive  heart  was  made 
--------     Love's  divine  artillery, 

-  -     -     -     preserved     -     -     -     no  relation. 
But  the  shot  made  at  her  was  not,  like  mine, 
Of  gold,  norof  pale  lead  that  breeds  disdain; 
Cupid  himself  disclaims  it:   I  think  rather, 
As  by  the  sequel  'twill  appear,  some  fury 

From  burning  Atheron  snatch'd  a  sulphur  brand, 
'1  hat  smoak'd  with  hate,  the  parent  of  red  murder, 
And  threw  it  in  her  bosom.     Pardon  me, 
Though  I  dwell  long  upon  the  cause  that  did 
Produce  such  dire  effects  ;  and,  to  omit, 
•  For  your  much  patience*  sake,  the  cunning  trap 
In  which  she  caught  me,  and,  with  horrid  oaths, 
Embark 'd  me  in  a  sea  of  human  blood, 
I  come  to  the  last  scene 

Leon.  Tis  time  ;  for  this 
Grows  stale  and  tedious. 

Cler.  When,  I  say,  she  had, 
To  satisfy  her  fell  rage,  as  a  penance, 
Forced  me  to  this  black  deed,  her  vow,  too,  given. 
That  I  should  marry  her,  and  she  conceal  me ; 
When  to  her  view  I  brought  the  slaughter'd  body 
Of  my  dear  friend,  and  labour'd  with  my  tears 
To  stir  compunction  in  her.  aided  too 
By  the  sad  object,  which  might  witness  for  me, 
At  what  an  over-rate  I  had  made  purchase 
Of  her  long-wish'd  embraces  ;  then,  great  sir,— 
But  that  I  had  a  mother,  and  there  may  be 
Some  two  or  three  of  her  -     -     -  sex  less  faulty, 
I  should  affirm  she  was  the  perfect  ima-ge 
Of  the  devil,  her  tutor,  that  had  left  hell  empty 
To  dwell  in  wicked  woman. 

Lf.on.  Do  ;  rail  on. 

Cler.  For  not  alone  she  gloried  in  my  sufferings, 
Forswore  what  she  had  vow'd,  refused  to  touch  me. 
Much  less  to  comfort  me,  or  give  me  harbour ; 
But,  instantly,  ere  I  could  recollect 
My  scatter'd  sense,  betray 'd  me  to  your  justice, 
Which  I  submit  to  ;  hoping,  in  your  wisdom, 
That  as,  in  me,  you  lop  a  limb  of  murder, 
You  will,  in  her,  grub  up  the  root.  I  have  said,  sir. 

Leon.  Much,  I  confess,  but  much  to  little  purpose. 
And  though,  with  your  rhetorical  flourishes, 
You  strive  to  gild  a  rotten  cause,  the  touch 
Of  reason,  fortified  by  truth,  deliver'd 
From  my  unletter'd  tongue,  shall  shew  it  dust ; 
And  so  to  be  contemn'd  ;  you  have  trimm'd  up 
All  your  deservings,  should  1  grant  them  such, 
With  more  care  than  a  maiden  of  threescore 
Does  hide  her  wrinkles,  which,  if  she  encounter 
The  rain,  the  wind,  or  sun,  the  paint  wash'd  oft', 
Are  to  dim  eyes  discovered.     1  forbear 
The  application,  and  in  a  plain  style 
Come  roundly  to  the  matter.     'Tis  confess'd. 
I  his  pretty,  handsome,  gentleman,  (for  thieves 
Led  to  the  gallows  are  held  proper  men, 
And  so  I  now  will  call  him,)  would  needs  make  me 
The  mistress  of  his  thoughts  ;  nor  did  1  scorn, 
lor  truth  is  truth,  to  grace  him  as  a  servant. 
Nay,  he  took  pretty  ways  to  win  me  too, 
For  a  court  novice  ;  every  year  I  was 


SCENE  L] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


169 


His  Valentine,  and  in  an  anagram, 
My  name  worn  in  his  hat ;  he  made  me  banquets, 
As  if  lie  thought  that  ladies,  like  to  flies, 
Were  to  be  caught  with  sweetmeats;  quarrell'd  with 
My  tailor,  if  my  gown  were  not  the  first 
Of  that  edition  ;  beat  my  shoemaker, 
If  the  least  wrinkle  on  my  fool  appear'd, 
As  wronging  the  proportion;  and,  in  time, 
Grew  bolder,  usher'd  me  to  masks,  and  -     -     - 
Or  else  paid  him  that  wrote  them  ;  -     -     - 
With  such  a  deal  of  p- 

And  of  good  rank,  are  taken  with  such  gambols; 
In  a  word,  I  was  so ;  and  a  solemn  contract 
Did  pass  betwixt  us  ;  and  the  day  appointed, 
That  should  make  our  embraces  warrantable. 
And  lawful  to  the  world  :  all  things  so  carried, 
As  he  meant  nought  but  honourable  love. 
Char.  A  pretty  method. 

Phil.  Quaintly,  too,  deliver'd.  [gave  proof 

Leon.  But,  when  he   thought  me    sure,    he    then 
That  foul  lust  lurk'd  in  the  fair  shape  of  love; 
For  valuing  neither  laws  divine  nor  human, 
His  credit,  nor  my  fame,  with  violence  born 
On  black-sail'd  wings  of  loose  and  base  desires, 
As  if  his  natural  parts  had  quite  forsook  him, 
And  that  the  pleasures  of  the  marriage  bod 
Were  to  be  reap'd  with  no  more  ceremony 
Than  brute  beasts  couple, — I  yet  blush  to  speak  it, 
He  tempted  me  to  yield  my  honour  up 
To  his  libidinous  twines  ;  and,  like  an  atheist, 
Scoft''d  at  the  form  and  orders  of  the  church  ; 
Nor  ended  so,  but,  being  by  me  reproved, 
He  offer'd  violence,  but  was  prevented. 
Char.  Note,  a  sudden  change. 
Laf   'Twas  foul  in  Cleremond. 
Lean.  I,  burning  then  with  a  most  virtuous  anger, 
Razed  from  my  heart  the  memory  of  his  name, 
Reviled,  and  spit  at  him  ;  and  knew,  'twas  justice 
That  I  should  take  those  deities  he  scorn 'd, 
Hymen  and  Cupid,  into  my  protection, 
And  be  the  instrument  of  their  revenge  : 
And  so  I  cast  him  off,  scorn'd  his  submission, 
His  poor  and  childish  winnings,  will'd  my  servants 
To  shut  my  gates  against  him  :  but,  when  neither 
Disdain,  hate,  nor  contempt,  could  free  me  from 
His  loathsome  importunities,  (and  fired  too 
To  wreak  mine  injured  honour,)  1  took  gladly 
Advantage  of  his  execrable  oaths 
To  undergo  what  penance  I  enjoin'd  him ; 
Then,  to  the  terror  of  all  future  ribalds, 
That  make  no  difference  between  love  and  lust, 
Imposed  this  task  upon  him.     1  have  said,  too  : 
Now,  when  vou  please,  a  censure. 

Char.  She  has  put 

The  judges  to  their  whisper.  [tutor? 

A*»'i'.  What  do  you  think  of  these  proceedings, 
Peri.  The  truth  is, 
I  like  not  the  severity  of  the  court ; 
Would  I  were  quit,  and  in  an  hospital, 
I  could  let  fall  my  suit ! 

NOD.  'Tis  still  your  counsel. 
Char.  We  are  resolved,  and  with  an  equal  hand 
Will  hold  the  scale  of  justice  ;  pity  shall  not 
Rob  us  of  strength  and  will  to  draw  her  sword, 
Nor  passion  transport  us  :  let  a  priest 
And  headsman  be  in  readiness  ;— do  you  start 
To  hear  them  named  ?  Some  little  pause  we   grant 

you, 

1  e  tako  examination  of  yourselves, 
What  either  of  you  have  deserved,  and  why 


These  instruments  of  our  power  are  now  thought 
useful  : 

You  shall  hear  more,  anon. 

Or.  I  like  not  this. 
Leon.  A  dreadful  preparation  !  I  confess 
It  shakes  mv  confidence. 

Clarin.  I  presumed  this  court 
Had  been  in  sport  erected ;  but  now  find, 
With  sorrow  to  the  strongest  hopes  I  built  on, 
That  'tis  not  safe  to  be  the  subject  of 
The      -     -     -     of  kings, 

(AW1  Speaker)  To  the  second  cause. 
laf.  -     -     -     Perigot's. 
AW.  Nay,  take  me  along  too  ; 
And,  since  that  our  complaints  differ  not  much, 
Dispatch  us  both  together.     I  accuse 
1  his  devilish  doctor. 

Peri.   1  this  wicked  lord. 
AToi>.  'Tis  known  I  was  an  able,  lusty  man, 
Fit  to  get  soldiers  to  serve  my  king 
And  country  in  the  wars  ;  and  howsoever 
'Tis  said  I  am  not  valiant  of  myself, 
I  was  a  striker,  one  thai  could  strike  home  too; 
And  never  did  beget  a  girl,  though  drunk. 
To  make  this  good,  I  could  produce  brave  boys, 
That  others  father,  twigs  of  mine  own  grafting, 
That  loved  a  drum  at  four,  and  ere  full  ten, 
Fought  battles  for  the  parish  they  were  born  in : 
And  such  by-blows,  old  stories  say,  still  proved 
Fortunate  captains  :  now  whereas  in  justice, 
I  should  have  hud  a  pension  from  the  state 
For  my  good  service,  this  ungrateful  doctor, 
Having  no  child,  and  never  like  to  have  one, 
Because  in  pity  to  his  barrenness, 
I  plotted  how  to  help  him  to  an  heir, 
Has,  with  a  drench,  so  far  disabled  me, 
That  the  great  Turk  may  trust  me  with  his  virgiiis, 
And  never  use  a  surgeon.     Now  consider, 
If  this  be  not  hard  measure,  and  a  wrong  to 
Little  Dan  Cupid,  if  he  be  the  god 
Of  coupling,  as  'tis  said  ;  and  will  undo, 
If  you  give  way  to  this,  all  younger  brothers 
That  carry  their  revenue  in  their  breeches. 
Have  I  not  nick'd  it,  tutor? 

Peri.  To  a  hair,  boy  : 

Our  bills  shall  pass,  ne'er  fear  it.     For  my  case, 
It  is  the  same,  sir  ;  my  intent  as  noble 
As  was  my  pupil's. 

Cham.  Plead  it  not  again,  then  : 
It  takes  much  from  the  dignity  of  the  court 
But  to  give  audience  to  such  things  as  these, 
That  do  in  their  defence,  condemn  themselves. 
And  need  not  an  accuser.     To  be  short,  sir, 
And  in  a  language  as  far  from  obsceneness, 
As  the  foul  cause  will  give  me  leave,  be  pleased 
To  know  thus  much  :  This  hungry  pair  of  flesh-flies 
And  most  inseparable  pair  of  coxcombs. 
Though  born  of  divers  mothers,  twins  in  baseness, 
Were  frequent  at  my  table,  had  free  welcome, 
And  entertainment  fit  for  better  men  ; 
In  the  return  of  which,  this  thankful  monsieur 
Tempted  my  wife,  seduced  her,  at;  the  least 
To  him  it  did  appear  so  ;  which  discover'd, 
And  with  what  treacheries  he  did  abuse 
My  bounties,  treading  underneath  his  feet 
All  due  respect  of  hospitable  rights, 
Or  the  honour  of  my  family  ;  though  the  intent 
Deserved  a  stab,  and  at  the  holy  altar, 
I  borrow'd  so  much  of  your  power  to  right  me, 
As  to  make  him  caper. 


170 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


[Acr.  V 


Din    For  this  gallant,  sir, 

I  do  confess  I  cool'd  him,  spoil'd  his  rambling; 
Would  all  such  as  delight  in  it,  were  served  M>  ! 
And  .-ince  you  are  acquainted  with  the  motives 
That  did  induce  me  to  it,  I  forbear 
A  needless  repetition. 

Chum.  'Tis  not  worth  it. 
The  criminal  judge  is  fitter  to  take     -     -     - 
Of  pleas  of  this  base  nature.     Be     -     -     -     - 
An  injured  lady,  for  whose  wrong     -     -     -     - 
I  see  the  statue  of  the  god  of  love 
Drop  down  tears  of  compassion,  his  sad  mother, 
And  fair-cheek'd  Graces,  that  attend  on  her, 
Weeping  for  company,  as  if  that  all 
The  ornaments  upon  the  Paphian  shrine 
Were,  with  one  gripe,  hy  sicrilegious  hands, 
Torn  from  the  holy  altar :   'tis  a  cause,  sir, 
That  justly  mav  exact  your  best  attention  ; 
Which  if  you  truly  understand  and  censure, 
You  not  alone  shall  right  the  present  times, 
But  bind  posterity  to  be  your  debtor. 
Stand  forth,  dear  madam  : — 

[BelHsant  comes  forward. 
Look  upon  this  face, 
Examine  every  feature  and  proportion, 
And  you  with  rne  must  grant,  this  rare  piece  finish'd, 
Nature,  despairing  e'er  to  make  the  like, 
Brake  suddenly  the  mould  in  which  'twas  fashion  il. 
Yet,  to  increase  your  pity,  and  call  on 
Your  justice  with  severity,  this  fair  outside 
Was  but  the  cover  of  a  fairer  mind. 
Think,  then,  what  punishment  he  must  deserve, 
And  justly  suffer,  that  could  arm  his  heart 
With  such  impenetrable  flinty  hardness, 
To  injure  so  much  sweetness. 

Ctarin.  I  must  stand 
The  fury  of  this  tempest,  which  already 
Sings  in  my  ears. 

Bell.  Great  sir,  the  too  much  praise 
This  lord,  my  guardian  once,  has  shower'd  upon  me, 
Could  not  but  spring  up  blushes  in  my  cheeks, 
If  grief  had  left  me  blood  enough  to  speak 
My  humble  modesty  :  and  so  far  1  am 
From  being  litigious,  that  though  I  were  robb'd 
Of  my  whole  estate,  provided  my  fair  name 
Had  been  unwounded,  I  had  now  been  silent. 
But  since  the  wrongs  I  undergo,  if  smother'd, 
Would  injure  our  whole  sex,  1  must  lay  by 
My  native  bashfulness,  and  put  on  boldness, 
Fit  to  encounter  with  the  impudence 
Of  this  bad  man,  that  from  his  birth  hath  been 
So  far  from  nourishing  an  honest  thought, 
That  the  abuse  of  virgins  was  his  study, 
And  daily  practice.     His  forsaking  of 
His  wife,  distressed  Beaupre  ;  his  lewd  wager 
With  these,  companions  like  himself,  to  abuse  me  ; 
His  desperate  resolution,  in  my  presence, 
To  be  his  own  assassin  ;  to  prevent  which, 
Foolish  compassion  forced  me  to  surrender 
The  life  of  life,  my  honour,  I  pass  over  : 
I'll  only  touch  his'  foul  ingratitude, 
To  scourge  which  monster,  if  your  laws  provide  not 
A  punishment  with  rigour,  they  are  useless  : 
Or  if  the  sword,  the  gallows,  or  the  wheel, 
Be  due  to  such  as  spoil  us  of  our  goods  ; 
Perillus'  brazen  bull,  the  English  rack, 
The  German  pincers,  or  the  Scotch  oilM  boots, 
Though  join'd  together,  yet  come  short  of  torture, 
To  their  full  merit,  those  accursed  wretches. 
That  steal  our  reputations  and  good  names, 


As  this  base  villain  has  done  mine: — Forgive  me, 
If  rage  provoke,  me  to  uncivil  language  ; 
The  cause  requires  it.     Was  it  not  enough 
That,  to  preserve  thy  life,  I  lost  my  honour, 
....     in  recompense  of  such  a  gift 

-     -     -     -     -     publish  it  to  my  disgrace  ? 

------     whose  means,  unfortunate  I, 

Whom,  but  of  late,  the  city,  nay  all  France, 
Durst  bring  in  opposition  for  chaste  life, 
With  any  woman  in  the  Christian  world, 
Am  now  become  a  by-word  and  a  scorn, 
In  mine  own  country. 

Char.  As  I  live,  she  moves  me. 
Is  this  true,  Clarindore  ? 

Nov.  Oh  !  'tis  very  true,  sir ; 
He  bragg'd  of  it  to  me. 

Peri.  And  me: 

Nay,  since  we  must  be  censured,  we'll  give  evidence 
'Tis  comfort  to  have  fellows  in  affliction  : 
You  shall  not  'scape,  fine  monsieur. 

Clarin.   Peace,  you  dog-bolts  ! 
Sir,  I  address  myself  to  you,  and  hope 
You  have  preserved  one  ear  for  my  defence, 
The  other  freely  given  to  my  accuser : 
This  ladv,  that  complains  of  injury, 
If  she  have  any,  was  herself  the  cause 
That  brought  it  to  her  ;  for  being  young,  and  rich, 
And  fair  too,  as  you  see,  and  from  that  proud, 
She  boasted  of  her  strength,  as  if  it  were  not 
In  the  power  of  love  to  undermine  the  fort 
On  which  her  chastity  was  strongly  raised : 
I,  that  was  bred  a  courtier,  and  served 
Almost  my  whole  life  under  Cupid's  ensigns. 
Could  not,  in  justice,  but  interpret  this 
As  an  affront  to  the  great  god  of  love, 
And  all  his  followers,  if  she  were  not  brought 
To  due  obedience  :  these  strong  reasons,  sir, 
Made  me  to  undertake  her.     How  1  woo'd 
Or  what  I  swore,  it  skills*  not ;  (since  'tis  said, 
And  truly,  Jupiter  and  Venus  smile 
At  lovers'  perjuries ;)  to  be  brief,  she  yielded. 
And  I  enjoy 'd  her:   if  this  be  a  crime, 
And  all  such  as  offend  this  pleasant  way 
Are  to  be  punish 'd,  I  am  sure  you  would  have 
Few  followers  in  the  court :  you  are  young  yourself 

sir. 
And  what  would  you  in  such  a  cause  ? 

/.«/.  Forbear. 

Phil.  You  are  rude  and  insolent. 

Clarin.  Good  words,  gentle  judges. 
I  have  no  oil'd  tongue  ;  and  I  hope  my  bluntness 
Will  not  offend. 

Char.   But  did  you  boast  your  conquest 
Got  on  this  lady  ? 

Clari'i.  After  victory  ; 
A  little  glory  in  a  soldier's  mouth 
Is  not  uncomely  ;  love  being  a  kind  of  war  too  : 
And  what  I  did  achieve,  was  full  of  labour 
As  his  that  wins  strong  towns,  and  merits  triumphs 
I  thought  it  could  not  but  take  from  my  honour, 
(Besides  the  wager  of  three  thousand  crowns 
Made  sure  by  her  confession  of  my  service,) 
If  it  had  been  conceul'd. 

Char.  Who  would  have  thought 
That  such  Hn  impudence  could  e'er  have  harbour 
In  the  heart  of  any  gentleman?  In  this, 
Thou  dost  degrade  thyself  of  all  the  honours 
Thy  ancestors  left  thee,  and,  in  thy  base  nature, 

•    It  skills  not;]  It  tiynijies  not. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE. 


171 


'Tis  too  apparent  that  thou  art  a  peasant. 

Boast  of  a  lady's  favours  !  this  confirms 

Thou  art  the  captain  of  that     .... 

That  glory  in  their  sins,  ai.d     -     -     -     - 

With  name  of  courtship  ;  such  as  dare  bely 

Great  women's  bounties,  and.  repulsed  and  scorn'd, 

Commit  adultery  with  their  good  names, 

And  never  touch  their  persons.     I  ara  sorry, 

For  your  sake,  madam,  that  I  cannot  make 

Such  reparation  for  you  in  your  honour 

As  I  desire  ;  for,  if  I  should  compel  him 

To  marry  you,  it  were  to  him  a  blessing, 

To  you  a  punishment ;  he  being  so  unworthy  : 

I  therefore  do  resign  my  place  to  you  ; 

Be  your  own  judge  ;  whate'er  you  shall  determine, 

By  my  crown,  I'll  see  perform'd. 

C In  rin.  I  am  in  a  fine  case, 
To  stand  at  a  woman's  mercy. 

Bell.  Then  thus,  sir  : 
I  am  not  bloody,  nor  bent  to  revenge ; 
And  study  his  amendment,  not  his  ruin  : 
Yet,  since  you  have  given  up  your  power  to  me, 
For  punishment,  I  do  enjoin  him  to 
Marry  this  Moor. 

Clarin.  A  devil !  hang  me  rather. 

Char.  It  is  not  to  be  alter'd. 

Clarin.  This  is  cruelty 
Beyond  expression     -     -     -     -     I  have  a  wife. 

Cham.  Ay,  too  good  for  thee.  View  her  well, 
And  then,  this  varnish  from  her  face  wash'd  off, 
Thou  shall  find  Beaupre. 

Clarin.  Beaupre  ! 

Bell.  Yes,  his  wife,  sir, 
But  long  by  him  with  violence  cast  off: 
And  in  this  shape  she  served  me  ;  all  my  studies 
Aiming  to  make  a  fair  atonement  for  her. 
To  which  your  majesty  may  now  constrain  him. 

Clarin.  It  needs  not  j  1  receive  her,  and  ask  pardon 
Of  her  and  you. 

Bell.  On  both  our  parts  'tis  granted. 
This  was  your  bedfellow,  and  till'd  your  arms. 
\V  lieu  you  thought  you  embraced  me ;  I  am  yet 
A  virgin  ;  nor  had  ever  given  consent, 
1  n  my  chaste  house,  to  such  a  wanton  passage, 
But  that  I  knew  that  her  desires  were  lawful. 
But  now  no  more  of  personated  passion  : 
This  is  the  man   I  loved,  [pointing  to  the  bier.']  that 

I  loved  truly, 

However  I  dissembled  ;  and  with  him 
Dies  all  affection  in  me.     So,  great  sir, 
Resume  your  seat. 

Char.  An  unexpected  issue, 
\Vhich  I  rejoice  in  ;  would  'twere  in  our  power 


To  give  a  period  to  the  rest,  like  this, 
And  spare  our  heavy  censure  !  but  the  death 
Of  good  Montrose  forbids  it.     Cleremond, 
Thou  instantly  shall  marry  Leonora; 
Which  done,  as  suddenly  thy  head  cut  off, 
And  corpse  interr'd,  upon  thy  grave  I'll  build 
A  room  of  eight  feet  square,  in  which  this  lady, 
For  punishment  of  her  cruelty,  shall  die 
An  anchoress. 

Leon.  I  do  repent,  and  rather 
Will  marry  him,  and  forgive  him. 

Clarin.  Bind  her  to 

Her  word,  great  sir ;  Montrose  lives ;  this  a  plot 
To  catch  this  obstinate  lady. 

Leon.  I  am  glad 
To  be  so  cheated. 

Mont,  [rises from  the  bier.']     -     -     -  lady, 
-------     deceived ;  do  not  repent 

Your  good  opinion  of  me  when  thought  dead. 
Nor  let  not  my  neglect  to  wait  upon  you, 
Considering  what  a  business  of  import 
Diverted  me,  be  thought  unpardonable. 

Bell.  For  my  part  'tis  forgiven  ;  and  thus  I  seal 

Char.  Nor  are  we  averse 
To  your  desires  ;  may  you  live  long  and  happy  | 

Nan.  Mercy  to  us,  great  sir. 

Peri.  We  will  become 
Chnste  and  reformed  men. 

Cham,  and  Din.  We  both  are  suitors, 
On  this  submission,  for  your  pardon,  sir. 

Char.  Which  we  in  part  will  grant;  but,  to  deter 
Others,  by  their  example,  from  pursuing 
Unlawful  lusts,  that  think  adultery 
A  sport  to  be  oft  practised  ;  fix  on  them 
Two  satyrs'  heads  ;  and  so,  in  capital  letters 
Their  foul  intents  writ  on  their  breasts,  we'll  have 

them 

Led  thrice  through  Paris  ;  then,  at  the  court  gate 
To  stand  three  hours,  where  Clarindore  shall  make 
His  recantation  for  the  injury 
Done  to  the  Lady  Bellisant ;  and  read 
A  sharp  invective,  ending  with  a  curse 
Against  all  such  as  boast  of  ladies'  favours : 
Which  done,  both  truly  penitent,  my  doctor 
Shall  use  his  best  art  to  restore  your  strength, 
And  render  Perigot  a  perfect  man. 
So  break  we  up  Love's  Parliament,  which,  we  hope, 
Being  for  mirth  intended,  shall  not  meet  with 
An  ill  construction  ;  and  if  then,  fair  ladies*, 
You  please  to  approve  it,  we  hope  you'll  invite 
Your  friends  to  see  it  often  with  delight. 

[JEflMMtf* 


•  fair  ladies.}  After  this  the 

manuscript  a<l«ls,  "  and  gracious  spectators,"  which,  as  a 
fool^h  interpolation,  I  have  dropped. 

t  This  is  a  beautiful  fragment,  and  is  every  where  strongly 
marked  with  Miissiuger's  manner;  the  same  natural  flow  of 
poi-iry,  the  same  unforced  structure  of  his  lines,  and  easy 
f.il:  or  pcriixl  ;  the  same  fond  use  of  mythology  ;  and,  what 
is  more  convincing  than  all  the  rest,  the  same  intimate  and 
li.tlniii.il  reference  to  his  own  thoughts  and  expressions  else- 
wlicie.  I  wish  it  could  be  added  that  there  are  m>  marks  of 
licentiousness :  the  only  consolation  for  the  uneasiness  occa- 
sioned bv  it  is,  that  proper  punishments  are  at  last  inflicted 
on  the  offenders ;  and  we  hail  the  moral,  which  aims  at  the 
suppression  of  "  unlawful  lusts." 

As  to  the  history  connected  with  it,  it  is  very  slender : 
Charles  talks  of  his  conquests  in  Italy  ;  but  his  chief  business 
it  to  decree  "  the  Parliament  of  Love."  After  this  he  disap 


pears,  and  various  gallantries  take  place,  which  are  only 
ir.tant  to  create  employment  for  the  court,  and  arc  adjudged 
by  him  in  the  last  act. 

The  principal  point  of  cnriosjty  is  the  chivalrous  institution 
of  courts,  where  "disdained  lovers"  and  "  wronged  ladies" 
might  seek  redress  of  amorous  grievances.  And  this  U 
already  enquired  into  by  the  Editor. 

The  characters  are  lively  and  amusing:  but  in  Montrone 
it  seems  to  have  been  Massinger's  intention  to  describe  the 
united  force  of  love  and  friendship.  He  is  both  lofty  and 
tender,  and  possesses  a  sort  of  unconscious  greatness,  which 
shews  itself  in  disinterested  and  magnanimous  actions  rather 
than  in  words.  We  tremble  for  him  in  the  conversation 
preceding  the  combat  with  Cleremond,  and  are  at  length 
made  happy  with  the  success  of  the  device  which  induce* 
the  reluctant  Bellisant  to  confeu  her  love.  DR. 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR.]  This  Tragedy  was  licensed  by  Sir  H.  Herbert,  October  lltL,  1626,  and  given  tc 
the  press  in  Io29. 

The  plot  is  founded  on  the  life  of  Domitian,  as  recorded  by  Suetonius,  Dio,  and  others.  Coxeter  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  say  that  the  poet  has  been  verv  true  to  history  ;  but  they  say  it,  as  usual,  without  know- 
ledge:  he  has,  as  in  The  Duke  of  Milan,  adopted  a  few  leading  circumstances,  and  had  recourse  to  his  in. 
veation  for  the  rest. 

This  Play  was  successful  in  the  representation  ;  and  appears  to  have  been  well  received  by  the  critics  of 
those  times,  since  it  is  preceded  by  commendatory  copies  of  verses  from  Ford,  Harvey,  May,  Taylor,  and 
others.  Taylor,  an  admirable  actor,  who  played  the  part  of  Paris,  calls  it  "  the  best  of  many  good-,"  and 
Massinger  himself  declares  that  "  he  ever  held  it  as  the  most  perfect  birtli  of  his  Minerva*."  The  judgment 
of  an  author  is  not  always  to  be  taken  upon  his  own  works.  He  lias  his  partialities  and  his  prejudices,  and, 
like  other  parents,  sees  beauties  which  are  not  immediately  apparent  to  an  indifferent  spectator.  The  Koman 
Actty,  though  a  very  excellent  piece,  will  scarcely  be  ranked  at  this  day  above  The  Unnatural  Combat,  The 
Duke  of  Milan,  or  The  Bondman. 

This  Tragedy  was  revived  by  Betterton,  who  took  for  himself  the  part  of  Paris,  in  which  he  was  highly 
celebrated.  It  was  again  brought  on  the  stage,  with  a  few  trifling  alterations,  in  17M,  but  I  know  not 
with,  what  success.  The  old  title  page  says,  that  it  had  been  "  divers  times  acted,  with  good  allowance,  at 
the  private  Play-house  in  the  Black  Friars,  by  the  King's  Majesty's  servants." 


TO    MY    MUCH    HOXOrHED   AND   MOST   TRUE    FRIENDS, 

SIR  PHILIP  KNYVET,  KNT,  &  BART, 

AND   TO 

SIR  THOMAS  JEAY,  KNT, 

AND 

THOMAS   BELLINGHAM,    ESQ. 

OF  NEWJTMBER,  IN  SUSSEX. 

How  much  I  acknowledge  myself  bound  for  your  so  many,  and  extraordinary  favours  conferred  upon  me, 
as  far  as  it  is  in  my  power,  posterity  shall  take  notice  ;  I  were  most  unworthy  of  such  noble  friend-,  if  I 
should  not,  with  all  thankfulness,  profess  and  own  them.  In  the  composition  of  this  Tragedy  you  were  my 
only  supporters,  and  it  being  now  by  your  principal  encouragement  to  be  turned  into  the  world,  it  cannot 
walk  safer  than  under  your  protection.  It  hath  been  happy  in  the  suffrage  of  some  learned  and  judicious 
gentlemen  when  it  was  presented,  nor  shall  they  find  cause,  I  hope,  in  the  perusal,  to  repent  them  of  their 
g-ood  opinion  of  it.  If  the  gravity  and  height  of  ihe  subject  distaste  such  as  are  only  affected  with  jigs  and 
ribaldry,  (as  I  presume  it  will,)  their  condemnation  of  me  and  my  poem  can  no  way  offend  me :  my  reason 
teaching  me,  such  malicious  and  ignorant  detractors  deserve  rather  contempt  than  satisfaction.  -1  ever  held 
it  the  most  perfect  birth  of  my  Minerva  ;  and  theicfore  in  justice  offer  it  to  those  that  have  best  deserved  of 
me ;  who,  1  hope,  in  their  courteous  acceptance  will  render  it  worth  their  receiving,  and  ever,  in  their 
gentle  construction  of  my  imperfections,  believe  they  may  at  their  pleasure  dispose  of  him,  that  is  wholly 
and  sincerely 

Devoted  to  their  service, 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

•  Too  mncb  »tre»s  has  been  laid  on  this  expression  t  it  ii  proper,  in  adverting  to  it,  to  consider  how  few  dramatic  piecw 
Masjiiijjer  bad  produced,  when  it  was  used 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


173 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


DOMITIANUS  C«SAR, 

PARIS,  the  ROMAN  ACTOB, 
JEuus  LAMIA,         ~\ 

JUNIUS  RUSTICUS,    („.„, 
•n  c,  .  senators, 

PALPHURIUS  SURA,  I 

FUI.CINIUS, 

PARTHENIUS,  C.CSAR'S  freed  'man, 
ARETINUS,  CESAR'S  spy, 
SrEPHANOSf,  DoMiTiLLA' 


™'  I  player, 
INUS,  }  r    ' 

ASCLETARIO,  an  astrologer. 


Actors'  \amei. 
J.  Lowin*. 
J.  Taylor. 
T.  Pollard. 
Rob.  Benfield. 
W.  Patricke. 

R.  Sharpe. 
E.  Swanstone. 

R.  Robinson. 
C.  Greville. 


Actor*'  JVome*. 
Piiii.Anr.irs,  a  rich  miser;  father  to 

PARTHEXIUS,  A.  SMITH. 

SEJEIUS,      «  G.  Vernoni. 

ENTELLUS,  1  «»»P'™"".  J.  Hornej. 

DOMITIA,  wife  of  JEni's  LAMIA,         J.  Tompson. 
DoMnii.i:ti,cousin-gertnnn  to  CTSAR.  J.  Hunnieman. 
JULIA,  daughter  of  TITUS,  W.  Trigge. 

C.cxis,  VESPASIAN'S  concubine,  A.  Gough. 

A  Lati>i. 

Tribunes,  Lictors,  Centurions,  Soldiers,   Hangmen, 
Servants,  Captives. 


SCENE,  Rome. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— The  TJieatre.      Enter  PARIS,  LATINUS, 
and  ./Esopus. 

j£sop.  What  do  we  act  to-day  ? 

Lot.  Agave's  Frenzy. 
With  Pentht-us'  Bloody  End. 

Par.  It  skills  not  what$  ; 
The  times  are  dull,  and  all  that  we  receive 
Will  hardly  satisfy  the  day's  expense. 
Fhe  Greeks,  to  whom  we  owe  the  first  invention 
Both  of  the  buskin'd  scene,  and  humble  sock, 
That  reign  in  every  noble  family. 
Declaim  against  us  :  and  our  theatre]). 
Great  Pompey's  work,  that  hath  given  full  delight 
Both  to  the  eye  and  ear  of  fifty  thousand 
Spectators  in  one  day,  as  if  it  were 
Some  unknown  desert,  or  great  Rome  unpeopled, 
Is  quite  forsaken. 

•  John  Lowin,  &c.]  All  that  is  known  of  this  excellent 
actor  (as  well  as  most  of  those  who  follow)  is  collected  with 
great  care  by  Mr.  Malonr,  and  inserted  in  lib  Historical 
View  of  the  Enyliah  .\taye:  to  which  I  refer  the  reader. 

t  fitephanot.]  So  Massinger  spells  his  name ;  it  should, 
however,  be  Stephanas. 

t  George  Vcrnon  and  James  Home  have  no  characters 
assigned  them  in  the  list  of  persons  presented  ;  probably 
they  played  Sejehis  and  Enli-llns,  whose  names  have  not 
hitherto  been  given  amnn^  the  dramatis  persona: ;  though 
they  appear  in  the  second  scene  of  the  last  act. 

j  Par.  //  skills  not.]  i.  e.  matter*  not.  So  in  The  Custom 
of  the  Country  : 

" Some  purMie 

The  murderer;  yet  if  he  'scape,  it  skills  not ; 
Were  I  a  prince,  I  would  reward  him  t'or't." 

and  our  theatre, 

Great  Pompfy't  work,  &c.  The  old  copy  reads  amphi- 
theatre, for  which  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  substitute 
theatre.  Matsinger  could  not  be  ignorant  that  the  former 
was  not  "  the  work  of  I'ompey  ;"  nor  th.it  a  building  ap- 
propriated solely  to  combats  of  gladiators,  wild  beasts,  &c., 
was  not  properly  adapted  to  the  scenic*!  exhibitions  of 
Paris  and  his  associates.  Not  to  insist  that  the  work  for 
•which  Pornpey  was  fo  celebrated,  was  a  theatre,  (as  we 
learn  from  Tacitus  and  others,)  I  wonlil  just  observe,  that 
the  redundancy  of  Ihe  old  reading  fmnishes  no  slight  proof 
that  the  confusion  of  terms  did  not  arise  from  the  poet,  but 
bis  transcriber. 

What     Massinger    says  of  the    theatre,    is    applied   by 
AddiaotJ,  in  his  Letter  from  Rome,  to  the  Coliseo : — 

" which  unpeopled  Rome, 

And  held  uncrowded  nations  in  its  womb." 


Lot.  Pleasures  of  worse  natures 
Are  gladly  entertain'd;  and  they  that  shun  us, 
Practise,  in  private,  sports  the  stews  would  blush  at, 
A  litter  borne  by  eight  Liburnian  slaves, 
To  buy  diseases  from  a  glorious  strumpet, 
The  most  censorious  of  our  Roman  gentry, 
Nay,  of  the  guarded  robe*,  the  senators 
Esteem  an  easy  purchase. 

Par.  Vet  grudge  usf, 

That  with  delight  join  profit,  and  endeavour 
To  build  their  minds  up  fair,  and  on  the  stage 
Decipher  to  the  liie  what  honours  wait 
On  good  and  glorious  actions,  and  the  shame 
That  treads  upon  the  heels  of  vice,  the  salary 
Of  six  sestertii. 

jf.sop.  For  the  profit,  Paris. 

And  mercenary  gain,  they  are  thing*  beneath  us  ; 
Since,  while  you  hold  your  grace  and  power  with 

Csesar, 

We,  from  your  bounty,  find  a  large  supply, 
Nor  can  one  thought  of  want  ever  approach  us. 

Par.  Our  aim  is  glory,  and  to  leave  our  names 
To  afierttme. 

Lat.  And,  would  they  give  us  leave, 
There  ends  all  our  ambition. 

sEsoit.  We  have  enemies, 

And  great  ones  too,  I  fear.     'Tis  given  out  lately, 
The  consul  Aretinus,  Caesar's  spy, 
Said  at  his  table,  ere  a  month  expired, 
For  being  gall'd  in  our  last  comedy, 
He'd  silence  us  for  ever. 

Par.  I  expect 
No  favour  from  him  ;  my  strong  Aventine  isf, 


*   \'ay,  of  the  guarded  robe,]   i.  e.  the  laced  or  bordered 
robe. — The  Latirlavus.     M.  MASON. 
t         Paris     )  ft  gnidyf  us. 

'I'hat  with  deliyhl  join  profit,  <fcc.]  Paris  here  applies, 
pleasantly  enough,  to  himself,  what  was  said  of  a  very 
dittcrent  character: 

Hot  intpr  sumptus,  fsffrtia  Quintiliano 
Vt  mu/tum,  duo  sufficient. 

On  the  whole,  it   is  amusing  to  hear  him  talk  in  the  high 
nioril  Miain  of  Seneca  anil  Juvenal. 

J my  strong  Aventine.]  I  scarcely 

know  what  is   meant  by  this  uncouth  expression.     On  thii 
hill  the    auguries   were    usually    taken,    it   may  therefore 


174 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


[Arr  I. 


That  great  Domitian,  whom  we  oft  have  cheer'd 
In  his  most  sullen  moods,  will  once  return, 
Who  can  repair,  with  ease,  the  consul's  ruins. 

Lat.  'Tis  frequent  in  the  city*,  he  hath  subdued 
The  Catti  and  the  Daci,  and,  ere  long, 
The  second  time  will  enter  Rome  in  triumph. 

Enter  two  Lictors. 

Par.  Jove  hasten  it!    With  us?  — I  now  believe 
The  consul's  threats,  /L'sopus. 

1  Lict.  You  are  summoii'd 
To  appear  to-day  in  senate. 

%  Lict.  And  there  to  answer 
Whnt  shall  be  urged  against  you. 

Pur.  We  obey  you. 

Nay,  droop  not,  fellows  ;  innocence  should  be  bold. 
We,  that  have  personated  in  the  scene 
The  ancient  heroes,  and  the  falls  of  princes, 
With  loud  applause;  being  to  act  ourselves, 
Must  do  it  with  undaunled  confidence. 
\\  hate'er  our  sentence  be,  think  'tis  in  sport : 
And,  though  condemn'd,  let's  hear  it  without  sorrow, 
As  if  we  were  to  live  again  to-u;orrowf. 

1  Lief.  Tis  spoken  like  yourself. 

Enter  JEi.ivs  LAMIA,  JUNIUS  Rusncus,  and 
PALMiumrs  SURA. 

Lam.  Whither  goes  Paris? 

1  Lict.  He's  cited  to  the  senate. 

Lot.  I  am  glad  the  state  is 

So  free  from  matters  of  more  weight  and  trouble, 
That  it  has  vacant  time  to  look  on  us.  [kings 

P«r.  That  reverend  place,  in  which  the  affairs  of 
And  provinces  were  determined,  to  descend 
To  the  censure  of  a  bitter  word,  or  jest, 
Dropp'd  from  a  poet's  pen !  Peace  to  your  lordships  ! 
We  are  glad  that  you  are  safe. 

[Emmf  Lictors,  Paris,  Latinus,  and  JEsopus. 

Lam.  What  times  are  these  ! 
To  what  is  Rome  fallen  !  may  we,  being  alone 
Speak  our  thoughts  freely  of  the  prince  and  state, 
And  not  fear  the  informer  ? 

ltu»t.  Noble  Lamia, 

So  dangerous  the  age  is,  and  such  bad  acts 
Are  practised  every  where,  we  hardly  sleep, 
Nay,  cannot  dream,  with  safety.     All  our  actions 
Are  call'd  in  question  :  to  be  nobly  born 
Is  now  a  crime  ;  and  to  deserve  too  well, 
Held  capital  treason.     Sons  accuse  their  fathers, 
Fathers  their  sons  ;  and,  but  to  win  a  smile 
From  one  in  grace  at  court,  our  chastest  matrons 
Make  shipwreck  of  their  honours.     To  be  virtuous 
Is  to  be  guilty.     They  are  only  safe 
That  know  to  soothe  the  prince's  appetite, 
And  serve  his  lusts. 

Sura.  Tis  true  ;  and  'tis  my  wonder, 
That  two  sons  of  so  different  a  nature  [Titus, 

Should    spring   from    good  Vespasian.     We  had  a 
Styled,  justly,  the  delight  of  all  mankind, 


Signify,  my  strong  forebodings,  or  expectations.  Or  it  may 
mean  (as  the  Aveiitiue  was  a  post  of  strength)  my  security, 
my  defence. 

•  Lat.  "7 'i*  frrquent  in  the  city,]  A  Latinism;  'tis  com- 
mon, currently  reported,  &c. 

t  At  if  wf  were  to  live  again  to  morrow.]  This  line  is 
wholly  omitted  by  Mr.  M.  Mason!  To  a  culpable  negli- 
gence, this  "  most  accurate  of  editors"  joins  a  pross  igno- 
••ance  of  history.  He  reads  jit*!  below,  t'.ntt-r  ^Eliux,  l.a- 
iiiia,  Juniux  Kusticus,  Paiphuriut,  and  Aura.'  He  has  not 
even  the  excuse  of  being  milled  by  Coxeter  here,  fpr  the 
copulative  between  Palphurius  and  Sura  is  his  own  in- 
feniuus  addition  I 


Who  did  esteem  that  day  lost  in  his  life, 

In  which  seme  one  or  other  tasted  not 

Of  his  magnificent  bounties  ; — one  that  had 

A  ready  tear,  when  he  was  forced  to  sign 

The  death  of  an  offender :  and  so  far 

From  pride,  that  he  disdam'd  not  the  converse 

Even  of  the  poorest  Roman. 

Lam.  Yet  his  brother, 

Domitian,  that  now  sways  the  power  of  thing's*, 
Is  so  inclined  to  blood,  that  no  day  passes 
In  which  some  are  not  fastened  to  the  hook, 
Orthrowndown  from  the  (jemoniesf.    His  freedmen 
Scorn  the  nobility,  and  he  himself, 
As  if  he  were  not  made  of  flesh  and  blood, 
Forgets  he  is  a  man. 

Uust.  In  his  young  years,  [ness  : 

He  show'd  what  he  would  be  when  grown  to  ripe- 
His  greatest  pleasure  was,  being  a  child, 
With  a  sharp-pointed  bodkin  to  kill  flies, 
Whose  rooms  now  men  supply.     For  his  escape 
In  the  Yitellinn  war,  he  raised  a  temple 
To  Jupiter,  and  proudlv  placed  his  figure 
In  the  bosom  of  the  god  :  and  in  his  edicts 
He  does  not  blush,  or  start,  to  style  himself 
(As  if  the  name  of  emperor  were  base) 
Great  Lord  and  God  IJomitian. 

Sura.  I  have  letters 

He's  on  his  way  to  Rome,  and  purposes 
To  enter  with  all  glory.     The  nattering  senate 
Decrees  him  divine  honours  ;  and  to  cross  it, 
Were  death  with  studied  torments:  —  for  my  part*, 
I  will  obey  the  time  ;  it  is  in  vain 
To  strive  against  the  torrent. 

liust.  Let's  to  the  curia, 
And,  though  unwillingly,  give  our  suffrages, 
Before  we  are  compell'd. 

Lam.  And  since  we  cannot 
With  safety  use  the  active,  let's  make  use  of 
The  passive  fortitude,  with  this  assurance, 
That  the  state,  sick  in  him,  the  gods  to  friend^, 
Though  at  the  worst  will  now  begin  to  mend.  [Exeunt. 


*  Domitian,  that  now  sway*  the  power  of  things,]  A 
Latinism  for— that  now  sways  the  world,  reruin  poteatat. 

i  Or  thrown  down  from  the  Geinonies.] 

For  this  pure  and  classical  expression,  the  modern  editors 
have  foolishly  substituted, 

Or  thrown  from  the  7'arpeian  rock  ! 

I  say  foolishly,  because,  from  their  impertinent  alteration, 
they  appear  to  take  the  fastening  to  the  hook,  and  the  tin  ow- 
ing from  the  Geinonies  to  be  modes  of  excecntion  :  whereas 
they  were  expressions  of  indignity  to  ihe  surtercro/Ver  death. 
The  Gemonies  (Xcalie  Gfmonitr)  was  an  abrupt  and  rugued 
precipice  on  the  Aveiitiue  where  the  bodies  of  sta!e  cri- 
minals were  flung,  and  from  whence,  after  they  had  been 
exposed  to  the  insults  of  the  rabble,  they  were  dr.iggcd  to 
the  Tiber,  which  flowed  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

1  have  already  observed,  that  Massinger  is  only  known  to 
those  who  n-ad  him  in  the  old  editions,  and  every  pasjc  and 
every  line  I  examine  of  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason, 
strengthens  and  contirms  the  observation. 

j for  my  part 

1  will  obey  the  iime ;  it  is  in  vain 

To  strive   ayainst   the    torrent.]     Massinger    lias    con- 
founded tl.e  character  of  Sura  vtitii  that  of  Crispus.     It  is 
needless,   however,  to  dwell  on    such    inaccuracies,    since 
none  will  consult  the  dramatic  poet  for  the  true  characters 
of  tho«e  eventful  times.     In  ihe  preceding  speech,  he  repie 
!    ients  Domiiian  as  delighting  "  to  kills  flies  in  his  cl.-il^hood.'" 
j    This    is  diiecily    in   tiie    face    of   history.     Suetonius  sayr 
that  he  beyanhis  reiyn  with   killing  Hies.     His   childhoof 
was  suflicienily  innocent. 

j thf  gods   to  friend,]  i.e.  aw  5toi£,  with 

the  protection  of  heaven — a  very  common  expression  in  our 
old  poets.  Thus  Spenser: 

"  So  forward  on  his  way,  with  God  to  friend, 
He  passed  forth" 


,  II.] 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


SCENE  II.— A  Uoorn  in  Lamia's  House. 
Enter  DOMITIA  and  PARTHEXIUS. 

Dora.  To  me  this  reverence  ! 

Parth.  I  pay  it,  lady, 

As  a  debt  due  to  her  that's  ('Cesar's  mistress: 
For  understand  with  joy,  lie  that  commands 
All  that  the  sun  gives  warmth  to,  is  your  servant; 
lie  not  amazed,  but  fit  you  to  your  fortunes. 
Think  upon  state  and  greatness*,  and  the  honours 
That  wait  upon  Augusta,  for  that  name, 
Ere  long,  comes  to  you  : — still  von  doubt  your  vassal ; 
But,  when  you've  read  this  letter,  writ  and  si.,u'd 
With  his  imperial  hand,  you  will  be  freed 
From  fear  and  jealiusy  ;  and,  1  beseech  you, 
When  all  the  beauties  of  the  earth  bow  to  you, 
And  senators  shall  take  it  for  an  honour, 
As  I  do  now,  to  kiss  these  happy  feet  ; 
When  every  smile  you  give  is  a  preferment. 
And  you  dispose  of  provinces  to  your  creatures, 
Think  on  Parthenius. 

Dam.  Hise.     1  am  transported, 
And  hardly  dare  believe  what  is  assured  here. 
The  means,  my  good  Parthenius,  that  wrought  Cassar, 
Our  god  on  earth,  to  cast  an  eye  of  favour 
Upon  his  humble  handmaid  ? 

Parth.   What,  but  your  beauty  ? 
When  nature  framed  you  for  her  masterpiece. 
As  the  pure  abstract  of  all  rare  in  woman, 
She  had  no  other  ends  but  to  design  you 
To  the  most  eminent  place.     I  will  not  say 
(For  it  would  smell  of  arrogance  to  insinuate 
The  service  I  have  done  you)  with  what  zeal 
I  oft  have  made  relation  of  your  virtues, 
Or  how  I've  sung  your  goodness,  or  how  Cassar 
Was  fired  with  the  relation  of  your  story  : 
I  am  rewarded  in  the  act,  and  happy 
In  that  my  project  prosper'd. 

Dom.  You  are  modest : 

And  were  it  in  my  power,  I  would  be  thankful. 
If  that,  when  I  was  mistress  of  myself, 
And,  in  my  way  of  youth,  pure  md  untaintedf, 
The  emperor  had  vouchsafed  to  seek  mv  favours, 
I  had  with  joy  given  up  my  virgin  fort, 
At  the  first  summons,  to  his  soft  embraces  : 
But  I  am  now  another's,  not  mine  own. 
You  know  1  have  a  husband  : — for  my  honour, 
I  would  not  be  his  strumpet,  and  how  law 
Can  be  dispensed  with  to  become  his  wife, 
To  me's  a  riddle. 

Parth.  I  can  soon  resolve  it  : 

When  power  puts  in  his  plea  the  laws  are  silenced. 
The  world  confesses  one  Rome,  and  one  Ca:sar, 
And  as  his  rule  is  infinite,  his  pleasures 
Are  unconfined  ;  this  syllable,  his  will, 
Stands  for  a  thousand  reasons. 

Dom.  But  with  safety, 

Suppose  I  should  consent,  how  can  I  do  it? 
My  husband  is  a  senator,  of  a  temper 
Not  to  be  jested  with. 

Enter  LAMM. 

Parth.  As  if  he  durst 

Be  Caesar's  rival ! — here  he  comes  :  with  ease 
I  will  remove  this  scruple. 

•  Think  upon  state  and  greatneu  .']  Mr.  M.  Mason  foi.-ts 
in  the  article  before  ttate,  which  weakens  the  exf  rrs.-ion, 
•nd  destroys  the  int-tre. 

+  And,  in  my  way  of  youth,  pure  and  untainted,]  See  a 
Very  Woman. 


Lum.  How!  so  private  \ 

Mvown  house  made  a  brothel*   Sir,  how  durst  vu, 
Though    guarded   with   your  power   m  court    a;ui 

greatness, 

Hold  conference  with  my  wife?  As  for  you,  minion, 
I  shall  hereafter  treat 

Pin-tit.   You  urn  rude  and  saucy, 
Nor  know  to  whom  you  speak. 

J.tim.  This  i.s  tine,  i'faith! 
Is  she  not  my  wife  ? 

Parlh.   Your  wife !    But  touch  her,  that  respect 

forgDtten 

That's  due  to  her  whom  mightiest  Ciesar  favours, 
Ami  think  what  'tis  to  die.     Not  to  lose  time, 
Sim's  Csesar's  choice  :  it  is  sufficient  honour 
You  were  his  taster  in  this  heavenly  nectar; 
But  now  must  <|iiit  ihe  office. 

Lum.  This  is  rare  ! 
Cannot  a  man  be  master  of  his  wife 
Because  she's  young  and  fair,  without  a  patent? 
I  in  my  own  house  am  an  emperor,               [knaves? 
And    will    defend    what's   mine.       Where   are    my 
1C  such  an  in-olence  escape  unpunishM 

P  r  h.   In  yourself.  Lamia, — Csesar  hath  forgot 
To  use  his  power,  and  1,  his  instrument. 
In  whom,  though  absent,  his  authority  speaks, 
Have  lost  ray  faculties!  [Stampt. 

Enter  a  Centurion  with  Soldiers. 

Lam.  The  tiuard!   why,  am  I 
Design *d  for  death  ! 

Dom.  As  \ou  desire  my  favour, 
Take  not  so  rough  a  course. 

Punh.  All  your  desires 

Are  absolute  commands.     Yet  give  me  leave 
To  put  the  will  of  Cwsar  into  act. 
Here's  a  bill  of  divorce  between  your  lordship 
And  this  great  lady  :  if  you  refuse  to  sign  it. 
And  s>o  as  if  you  did  it  uncumpell'd. 
Won  to't  by  reasons  that  concern  yourself, 
Her  honour  too  untainted,  here  are  clerks, 
Shall  in  your  best  blood  write  it  new,  till  torture 
Compel  you  to  perform  it. 

Lam.  Is  this  legal*  ? 

Parth.  Monarch*  that  dare  not  do  unlawful  things, 
Yet  bear  them  out,  are  constables,  not  kings. 
Will  you  dispute? 

Lam.  I  know  not  what  to  urge 
Against  myself,  but  too  much  dotage  on  her, 
Love,  and  observance. 

Parth.  Set  it  under  your  hand, 
That  you  are  impotent,  and  cannot  pay 
The  duties  of  a  husband  ;  or,  that  you  are  mad  ; 
Rather  than  want  just  cause,  we'll  make  you  so. 
Dispatch,  you  know  the  danger  else ; — deliver  it, 

«  Lam.  ft  this  leyal  ? 

Parih.  Monarch*,  that  dare  not  do  unlawful  thing*,}  In 
Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Alarm's  editions  these  Hues  are  thus 
primed : 

Lam.  I*  thit  legal? 
New  works  that  dare  not,  J>c. 

On  which  the  l.iltrr  s.iys  :    "  1  considered  this  passage  for 

some  lime   as   irretrievable,  for  there  is  a  mistake  mil  only 

in   Ihe   words,   but    in    the    person    also   to  whom   they  are 

!    a  Irihuicd  ;"    and  he   proceeds  with    great   earnestness   and 

gravity    to    rectify    the  mistake.     All  this  "  consideration" 

|    initiht  have  been  saved  by  a  glance  at  the  old  copies,  which, 

!    read  preci-vly  as  I  have  given  ir.     True  it  i»,  that  Coxeter 

found  the  nonsense  they  have  printed,  in  the  quarto;    but 

the    error    seems    to    have    been    quickly   discovered     and 

removed,  since  it  occurs  but  in  one  of  the  numerous  copies 

which  I  have  had  occasion  to  consult. 


•76 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


Nay,  on  your  knee.     Madam,  you  now  are  free, 
And  mistress  of  yourself. 

I. am.  Can  you,  Domitia, 
Consent  to  tnis  > 

Dom.  '  Twould  ar^iie  a  base  mind 
To  live  a  servant,  when  I  may  command. 
I  now  am  Cxsar's :  and  vet,  in  respect 

1  once  was  yours,  when  you  come  to  the  palace, 
Provided  you  deserve  it  in  your  service, 

Vou  shall  find  me  your  good  mistress*.     Wait  me, 
And  now  farewell,  poor  Lamia.  [Parthenius. 

[  Exeunt  all  but  Lamia. 
Lam.  To  the  gods 

2  bena  my  knees,  (for  tyrannv  hath  banish 'd 
Justice  from  men.)  and  as  they  would  deserve 
Their  altars,  and  our  vows,  humbly  invoke  them, 
That  this  my  ravish 'd  wife  may  prove  as  fatal 
To  proud  Domitian,  and  her  embraces 

Afford  him,  in  the  end,  as  little  joy 

As  wanton  Helen  brought  to  him  of  Troy  !       [Ea  Jr. 


SCENE  III.— The  Senate-house. 

Enter  Liotors,   ARETINUS,  FUI.CINIUS,  RUSTICU* 
SURA,  PARIS,  LAJisvs,and  ^Dsopus. 

Aret.  Fathers  conscriptf,  may  this  our  meeting  be 
Happy  to  Cajsar  and  the  commonwealth  ! 

Lief.  Silence! 

Aret.  The  purpose  of  this  frequent  senate 
Is  first,  to  give  thanks  to  the  gods  of  Rome, 
That,  for  the  propagation  of  the  empire, 
Vouchsafe  us  one  to  govern  it,  like  themselves. 
In  height  of  courage,  depth  of  understanding, 
And  all  ihose  virtues,  and  remarkable  graces, 
Which  make  a  prince  most  eminent,  our  Domitian 
Transcends  the  ancient  Romans  :   1  can  never 
Bring  his  praise  to  a  period.     What  good  man, 
That  is  a  friend  to  truth,  dares  make  it  doubtful, 
That  he  hath  Fabius'  staidness,  and  the  courage 
Of  bold  Marcellus,  to  whom  Hannibal  gave 
The  style  of  Target,  and  the  Sword  of  Rome? 
But  he  has  more,  and  every  touch  more  Roman ; 
As  Pompey's  dignity,  Augustus"  state, 
Antony's  bounty,  and  great  Julius'  fortune, 
With  Cato's  resolution.     1  am  lost 
In  the  ocean  of  his  virtues :  in  a  word, 
All  excellencies  of  good  men  meet  in  him 
But  no  part  of  their  vices. 

Rust.  This  is  no  flattery  ! 

Sura.  Take  heed,  you'll  be  observed. 

Aret.  Tis  then  most  fit 
That  we,  (as  to  the  father  of  our  country}, 
Like  thankful  sons,  stand  bound  to  pay  true  service 
For  all  those  blessings  that  he  showers  upon  us.) 
Should  not  connive,  and  see  his  government 
Depraved  and  scandalized  by  meaner  men, 
That  to  his  favour  and  indulgence  owe 
Themselves  and  being. 


•  You  shall  find  me  your  good  mistress.]  That  is,  yoor 
pationeu.  This  wa.-  the  language  01  ihe  times,  and  is 
frequently  found  in  our  old  writers:  it  occurs  again  in  the 
(inlii  Htitm  to  'I  he  Km^-eror  of  the  East. 

t  A i ft.  Father*  conscript,  &C.J  Tliis  was  the  customary 
form  of  0,'t-niiig  the  dtbale  :  it  occurs  in  Juii-on's  Catiline. 
/'rc./utnf  senate,  which  is  found  in  the  next  speech,  is  a 
LrttiniMii  lor  a  lull  hoii.-e. 

j  That  we,  (as  to  the  father,  &c.]    We  should  certainly 

If.irl   tdlO   InMe.ld   nf  «».— M.    MASON. 

TLt ic  i»  an  tllipMs  of  who:  l>ut  the  U-xt  it  ri-jht. 


Par.  Now  he  points  at  us. 

Aret.  Cite  Paris,  the  tragedian. 

Par.  Here. 

Aret.  Stand  forth. 

In  thee,  as  being  the  chief  of  thy  profession, 
I  do  accuse  the  quality  of  treason", 
As  libellers  against  the  state  and  Caesar. 

Pur.  Mere  accusations  are  not  proofs,  my  lord; 
In  what  are  we  delinquents] 

Aret.  You  are  they 

That  search  into  the  secrets  of  the  time, 
And,  under  feign'd  names,  on  the  stage,  present 
Actions  not  to  be  touch'd  at  ;  and  traduce 
Persons  of  nink  and  quality  of  both  sexes, 
And  with  satirical  and  bitter  jests 
Make  even  the  senators  ridiculous 
To  the  plebeians. 

Pur.  If  I  free  not  myself, 
And,  in  myself,  the  rest  of  my  profession, 
From  these  false  imputations,  and  prove 
That  they  make  that  a  libel  which  the  poet 
Writ  for  a  comedy,  so  acted  loo  ; 
It  is  but  justice  that  we  undergo 
The  heaviest  censure. 

Aret.  Are  you  on  the  stage, 
You  talk  so  boldly  ? 

Par.  The  whole  world  being  one. 
This  place  is  not  exempted  ;  and  1  am 
So  confident  in  the  justice  of  our  cause, 
That  I  could  wish  Caesar,  in  whose  great  name 
All  kings  are  comprehended,  sat  as  judge, 
To  hear  our  plea,  and  then  determine  of  us. 
If,  to  express  a  man  sold  to  his  lusts, 
Wasting  the  treasure  of  his  time  and  fortunes 
In  wanton  dalliance,  and  to  what  sad  end 
A  wretch  that's  so  given  over  does  arrive  at ; 
Deterring  careless  youth,  by  his  example, 
From  such  licentious  courses;  laying  open 
The  snares  of  bawds,  and  the  consuming  arts 
Of  prodigal  strumpets,  can  deserve  reproof; 
Why  are  not  all  your  golden  principles, 
Writ  down  by  grave  philosophers  to  instruct  us 
To  choose  fair  virtue  for  our  guide,  not  plea&ure, 
Condemn'd  unto  the  fire? 

Sura.  There's  spirit  in  this. 

Par.  Or  if  desire  of  honour  was  the  base         , 
On  which  the  building  of  the  Roman  empire 
Was  raised  up  to  this  height ;  if,  to  inflame 
The  noble  youth  with  an  ambitious  heat 
T'  endure  the  frosts  of  danger,  nav,  of  death, 
To  be  thought  worthy  the  triumphal  wreath 
By  glorious  undertakings,  may  deserve 
Reward  or  favour  from  the  commonwealth ; 
Actors  may  put  in  for  as  large  a  share 
As  all  the  sects  of  the  philosophers . 
They  with  cold  preceptsf  (perhaps  seldom  read) 
Deliver,  what  an  honourable  thing 
The  active  virtue  is ;  but  does  that  fire 
The  blood,  or  swell  the  veins  with  emulation,, 
To  be  both  good  and  great,  equal  to  that 
Which  is  presented  on  our  theatres  ? 

•  In  thee,  at  frying  the  chief  of  thy  profession, 
I  do  accuse  the  qiulity  of  treason.]   Quality,  though  nsed 
in  a  general  senst  for  any  occupation,  calling,  or  comlitioi 
of  life,  jet  seems  more  peculiarly  Mpprnprialfd,  by  our  old 
writers,  to  that  of  a  player.     See  the  Picture. 

t  They  with  cold  precepts,  &c.j  This   is  judiciously   ex 
panded  from  Horace: 

Xegnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aurem, 
Quam  qua;  sunt  oculix  subjecta  Itdelibus,  et  qua 
Ifse  sibi  trudit  spectator. 


Sctxt  I  V.I 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


177 


Let  a  good  actor,  in  a  lofty  scene, 
Shew  great  Alcides  honour'd  in  the  sweat 
Of  his  twelve  labours  ;  or  a  bold  Camillus, 
Forbidding  Rome  to  be  redeem'd  with  gold 
From  the  insulting  Gauls  ;  or  Scipio, 
After  his  victories,  imposing  tribute 
On  conquer'd  Carthage  :  if  done  to  the  life, 
As  if  they  saw  their  dangers,  and  their  glories, 
And  did  partake  with  them  in  their  rewards, 
All  that  have  any  spark  of  Roman  in  them, 
The  slothful  arts  laid  by,  contend  to  be 
Like  those  they  see  presented. 

K list.  He  has  put 
The  consuls  to  their  whisper*. 

Par.  But,  'tis  urged 

That  we  corrupt  youth,  and  traduce  superiors. 
When  do  we  bring  a  vice  upon  the  stage, 
That  does  go  off  unpunish'd?  Do  we  teach, 
By  the  success  of  wicked  undertakings, 
Others  to  tread  in  their  forbidden  steps  ? 
We  show  no  arts  of  Lydian  panderism, 
Corinthian  poisons,  Persian  flatteries, 
But  mulcted  so  in  the  conclusion,  that 
Even  those  spectators  that  were  so  inclined, 
Go  home  changed  men.     And,  for  traducing  such 
That  are  above  us,  publishing  to  the  world 
Their  secret  crimes,  we  are  as  innocent 
As  such  as  are  born  dumb.     \Vhen  we  present 
An  heir  that  does  conspire  against  the  life 
Of  his  dear  parent,  numbering  every  hour 
He  lives,  as  tedious  to  him  ;  if  there  be 
Among  the  auditors,  one  whose  conscience  tells  him 
lie  is  of  the  same  mould, — WE  CANNOT  HELP  IT. 
Or,  bringing  on  the  s?a?e  a  loose  adulteress, 
That  does  maintain  the  riotous  expense 
Of  him  that  feeds  her  greedy  lust,  yet  suffers 
The  lawful  pledges  of  a  former  bed 
To  starve  the  while  for  hunger:  if  a  matron, 
However  great  in  fortune,  birth,  or  titles, 
Guilty  of  such  a  foul  unnatural  sin, 
Cry  out,  'Tis  writ  for  me, — WE  CANNOT  HEI.P  IT. 
Or,  when  a  covetous  man's  express'd,  whose  weal: i 
Arithmetic  cannot  number,  and  whose  lordships 
A  falcon  in  one  day  cannot  fly  over ; 
Yet  he  so  sordid  in  his  mind,  so  griping, 
As  not  to  afford  himself  the  necessaries 
To  maintain  life  ;  if  a  patrician, 
(Though  honour'd  with  a  consulship,)  find  himself 
Teuch'd  to  the  quick  in  this, —  WE  CANNOT  HELP  IT  : 
Or,  when  we  show  a  judge  that  is  corrupt, 
And  will  give  up  his  sentence,  as  he  favours 
The  person,  not  the  cause  ;  saving  the  guilty, 
If  of  his  faction,  and  as  oft  condemning 
fhe  innocent,  out  of  particular  spleen  ; 
If  any  in  this  reverend  assembly, 
Nay,  even  yourself,  my  lord,  that  are  the  image 
Of  absent  L'sesar,  feel  something  in  your  bosom 
That  puts  you  in  remembrance  of  things  past, 
Or  things  intended, — 'TIS  NOT  IN  us  TO  HELP  IT. 


*  Rust.  He  hat  put  &c.1  Massinger  never  scruples  to 
repeat  himself.  We  have  just  had  this  expression  in  The 
Parliament  of  Love  : 

" she  has  put 

The  judges  to  their  whisper." 

The  learned  reader  will  discover  several  classical  allusions 
in  the  ensuing  speech,  and,  indeed,  in  every  part  of  this 
drama:  these  I  rave  not  always  pointed  out:  though  I 
would  observe,  in  justice  to  Massingcr,  that  they  are  com- 
monly made  with  skill  and  effect,  and  without  that  affecta- 
tion of  literature  elsewhere  so  noticeable. 


I  have  said,  my  lord  ;  and  now,  as  you  find  cause, 
Or  censure  us,  or  free  us  with  applause. 

Lot.  Well  pleaded   on  my  life!  I  never  saw  him 
Act  an  orator's  part  before. 

JEsop.  We  might  have  given 
Ten  double  fees  to  Regulus,  and  yet 
Our  cause  deliver'd  worse.  [A  shout  withit- 

Enter  PARTHEXIUS. 

Aret.  What  shout  is  that? 

Parth.  Caesar,  our  lord,  married  to  conquest,  is 
Return'd  in  triumph. 

Ful.  Let's  all  haste  to  meet  him. 

Aret.  Break  up  the  court ;  we  will  reserve  to  him 
The  censure  of  this  cause. 

All.  Long  life  to  Ca?sar  !  [Exeunt 


SCE]S7E  IV.— The  Approach  to  the  Capitol. 

Enter  JULIA,  CXNIS,  DO.MITILLA,  and  DOMITIA. 

Cffnis.  Stand  back — the  place  is  mine. 

Jnl.  Yours  !   Ami  not 

Great  Titus'  daughter,  and  Domitian's  niece  ? 
Dares  any  claim  precedence  ? 

Cow's.  I  was  more  : 

The  mistress  of  your  father,  and,  in  his  right. 
Claim  duty  from  you. 

Jul.  1  confess,  you  were  useful 
To  please  his  appetite. 

Dom.  To  end  the  controversy, 
For  I'll  have  no  contending,  I'll  be  bold 
To  lead  the  way  myself. 

Donritil.  You,  minion  ! 

Di»n.  Yes  ; 
And  all,  ere  lonir,  shall  kneel  to  catch  my  favours. 

Jul.   Whence  springs  this  flood  of  greatness  ? 

Dom.   You  shall  know 
Too  soon  for  your  vexation,  and  perhaps 
Repent  too  late,  and  pine  with  envy,  when 
You  see  whom  Ca;sar  favours. 

Jul.  Observe  the  sequel. 
f,^.er  Captains  icith  laurels,  DOMITIAN   in  liis  t"iitm- 

phant  chariot,   PABTHENIUS,  PARIS,    L*TINUS,   und 

JiLsoPVS,  met  fti/  ARFTINUS,  SURA.   LAMIA,   Rom* 

cvs,  FUI.CINIUS,  Soldiers,  and  Captives. 

Cies.  As  we  now  touch  the  height  of  human  glory, 
Riding  in  triumph  to  the  capitol, 
Let  these,  whom  this  victorious  arm  hath  made 
The  scorn  of  fortune,  and  the  slaves  of  Rome, 
Taste  the  extremes  of  misery.     Bear  them  off 
To  the  common  prisons,  and  there  let  them  prove 
How  sharp  our  axes  are. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers  with  Captives. 

Rust.  A  bloody  entrance  !  f  Aside. 

C<f».  To  tell  you  you  are  happy  in  your  prince, 
Were  to  distrust  your  love,  or  my  desert ; 
And  either  were  distasteful :  or  to  boast 
How  much,  not  by  my  deputies,  but  myself, 
I  have  enlarged  the  empire  ;  or  what  horrors 
The  soldier,  in  our  conduct,  hath  broke  through, 
Would  better  suit  the  mouth  of  Plautus'  braggart, 
Than  the  adored  monarch  of  the  world. 

Sura.  This  is  no  boast !  [Aside. 

Cas.  When  I  but  name  the  Daci, 
And  grey-eyed  Germans,  whom  I  have  subdued. 
The  ghost  of  Julius  will  look  pale  with  envy, 
And  great  Vespasian's  and  Titus'  triumph, 
(Truth  must  take  place  of  father  and  of  brother.) 
Will  be  no  more  remember'd.     I  am  abor« 


178 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


[Acr  II. 


All  honours  you  can  give  me :  a.'id  the  style 

Of  Lord  and  God,  which  thankful  subjects  give  me, 

Not  my  anihition.  is  deserved. 

Aret.  At  nil  prts 
Celestial  sacrifice  is  fit  for  Ctesar, 
In  our  acknowledgment. 

Ctft.  Thanks,  Aretinus  ; 

Still  hold  our  favour.     Now,  the  god  of  war, 
And  famine,  blood,  and  death,  Hellona's  pages, 
Banisli'd  from  Rome  to  Thrace,  in  ourgoou  fortune, 
With  justice  he  may  taste  the  fruits  of  peace, 
Whose  sword  hath  plough 'd  the  ground,  and  reap'd 

the  harvest 

Of  your  prosperity.     Nor  can  I  think- 
That  there  is  one  among  you  so  ungrateful, 
Or  such  an  enemy  to  thriving  virtue, 
That  can  esteem  the  jewel  he  holds  dearest 
Too  good  for  Ciesar's  use. 

Sura.  All  we  possess — 

Lam.  Our  liberties — 

Ful.  Our  children — 

Par.  Wealth — 

Aret.    And  throats. 
Fall  willingly  beneath  his  feet. 

Tlust.  Base  flattery ! 
What  Roman  can  endure  this  !  [Aside. 

Cat-  This  calls*  on 

My  love  to  all,  which  spreads  itself  among  you. 
The  beauties  of  the  time  !  receive  the  honour 
To  kiss  the  hand  which,  rear'd  upthus,  holds  thunder  ; 
To  you,  'tis  an  assurance  of  a  calm. 
Julia,  my  niece,  and  Ca-nis,  the  delight 
Of  old  Vespasian  :  Domitillu,  loo, 
A  princess  of  our  blood. 


Rust.  'Tis  strange  his  pride 
Affords  no  greater  courtesy  to  ladies 
Of  such  high  birth  and  rank. 

&UI-H.   Your  wife's  forgotten. 

Lam.  No,  she  will  be  remembered,  fear  it  not, 
She  will  be    graced,  and  greased. 

Ctet    Hut.  when  I  look  on 
Divine  Domitia,  methinks  we  should  meet 
(The  lesser  gods  applauding  the  encounter) 
As  Jupiter,  the  Ciiiints  lying  dead 
On  the  Plilegrwan  plain,  embraced  his  Juno. 
Lamia,  it  is  your  honour  that  she's  mine. 

Lam.   You  are  too  great  to  be  gainsaid. 

CVri.   Let  nil 

That  fear  our  frown,  or  do  affect  our  favour, 
Without  examining  the  reason  why, 
Salute  her  (by  this  kiss  I  make  it  good) 
With  the  title  of  Augusta. 

Dom.  Still  your  servant. 

All.  Long  live  Augusta,  great  Domitian's  empres«! 

Ctft.   Paris,  my  hand. 

Pur.  The  gods  still  honour  Csesar ! 

CVt.  The  wars  are  ended,  and,  our  arms  laid  by. 
We  are  for  soft  delights.     Command  the  poets 
To  use  their  choicest  and  most  rare  invention, 
To  entertain  the  time,  and  be  you  careful 
To  give  it  action  :  we'll  provide  the  people 
Pleasures  of  all  kinds.     My  Domitia,  think  not 
I  flatter,  though  thus  fond.     On  to  the  capitol: 
'Tis  death  to  him  that  wears  a  sullen  brow. 
This  'tis  to  be  a  monarch,  when  alone 
He  can  command  all,  but  is  awed  by  none. 

[Emtnt 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Hall  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  PIIILARGI'S  in  rags,  and  PAHTHENIUS. 

Phil.  My  son  to  tutor  me  !  Know  your  obedience, 
And  (|uestiuii  not  my  will. 

Pact/i.  Sir,  were  1  one, 

Whom  want  compell'd  to  wish  a  full  possession 
Of  what  is  yours  ;  or  had  I  ever  number'df 
Your  years,    or  thought  you   lived  too  long,  with 
\  ou  then  might  nourish  ill  opinions  of  me :   [reason 
Or  did  the  suit  that  I  prefer  to  you 
Concern  myself,  and  aim'd  not  at  your  good, 
You  might  deny,  and  1  sit  down  with  patience, 
And  after  never  press  you. 

Phil.  In  the  name  of  Pluto, 
What  would'st  thou  have  me  dot 


•  Thit  fall*,  &c.    Tlii.«  passage  is  so  strangrly  pointed  in 
tfie    modern    editions,  that  ii  clearly  appe.oa  lu  have  bten 
misunderstood.     They  read, 
'J'hii  call*  en 

Afy  low  to  all,  vh'ch  spreads  ittf  If  among  you, 
The  beautir*  of  the  lime.     Keceive  AC. 

or  had  I  ever  num/cr'd 

Your  year*.\  Thin  w:i>  accounted  a  high  <iegrre  of  nnna- 
turalmfs  and  impiety  aiionu  all  nations:  patriot  inqvirre 
!»  anna*  it  reckoned  by  Ovid  mm.ng  the  pro-,  ii.tnl  t-.uit.ea 
which  jnoviAed  Jupiter  to  destroy  the  old  world  ty  a  delude. 


Parth.  Right  to  yourself; 
Or  suffer  me  to  do  it.     Can  you  imagine 
This  nasty  hat,  this  tatter'd  cloak,  rent  shoe, 
This  sordid  linen,  can  become  che  master 
Of  your  fair  fortunes?  whose  superfluous  means, 
Though  1  were  burthensome,  could  clothe  you  in 
The  costliest  Persian  silks,  studded  with  jewels, 
The  spoils  of  provinces,  and  every  day 
Fresh  change  of  Tyrian  purple. 

Phil.  Out  upon  thee  ! 

My  monies  in  my  coffers  melt  to  hear  thee. 
Purple  !  hence,  prodigal !  Shall  1  make  my  mercer 
Or  tailor  heir,  or  see  my  jeweller  purchase  1 
No,  1  hate  pride. 

Ptirth.  \  et  decency  would  do  well. 
Though,  for  your  outside,  you  will  not  be  alter'd, 
Let  me  prevail  so  far  yet,  as  to  win  you 
Not  to  deny  your  bflly  nourishment ; 
Neither  to  think  you've  feasted    when  'tis  cramm'd 
With  mouldy  barley-bread,  onions,  and  leeks, 
And  the  drink  of  bondmen,  water. 

I'hil.    Wouldst  thou  have  me 
Be  an  Apicius,  or  a  Lucullus, 
And  riot  out  my  state  in  curious  sauces? 
Wise  nature  with  a  little  is  contented  ; 
And,  following  her,  my  guide,  1  cannot  err. 


IV.] 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


179 


Parth.  But  you  destroy  her  in  your  want  of  care 
(I  blush  to  see,  and  speak  it)  to  maintain  her 
In  perfect  health  and  vigour,  when  you  suffer, 
Frighted  with  the  charge  of  physic,  rheums,  catarrhs, 
The  scurf,  ache  in  your  bones,  to  grow  upon  you, 
And  hasten  on  your  fate  with  too  much  sparing  ; 
When  a  cheap  purge,  a  vomit,  and  good  diet, 
May  lengthen  it.     Give  me  but  leave  to  send 
The  emperor's  doctor  to  you. 

Phil.  I'll  be  borne  first, 

Half  rotten,  to  the  fire  that  must  consume  me ! 
His  pills,  his  cordials,  his  electuaries, 
His  syrups,  julaps,  bezoar  stone,  nor  his 
Imagined  unicorn's  horn,  comes  in  my  belly  ; 
i\ly  mouth  shall  be  a  draught  first,  'tis  resolved. 
No ;   I'll  not  lessen  my  dear  golden  heap, 
Which,  every  hour  increasing,  does  renew 
My  youth  and  vigour  ;  but,  if  lessen'd,  then, 
Then  my  poor  heart-strings  crack.     Let  me  enjoy  it, 
And  brood  o'er't,  while  I  live,  it  being  my  life, 
My  soul,  my  al! :  but  when  I  turn  to  dust, 
And  part  from  what  is  more  esteem'd,  by  me, 
Than  all  the  gods  Rome's  thousand  altars  smoke  to, 
Inherit  thou  my  adoration  of  it, 
And,  like  me,  serve  my  idol.  [Exit. 

Parth.   \Vhatastrangetorture 
Is  avarice  to  itself!   what  man,  that  looks  on 
Such  a  penurious  spectacle,  but  must 
Know  what  the  fable  meant  of  Tantalus, 
Or  the  ass  whose  back  is  crack'd  with  curious  viands, 
Yet  feeds  on  thistles.     Some  course  I  must  take, 
To  make  my  father  know  what  cruelty 
He  uses  on  himself. 

Enter  PARIS. 

% 

Par.  Sir,  with  your  pardon, 
I  make  bold  to  enquire  the  emperor's  pleasure; 
For,  being  br  him  commanded  to  attend, 
Your  favour  may  instruct  us  what's  his  will 
Shall  be  this  night  presented. 

Parth.  My  loved  Paris, 
Without  my  intercession,  you  well  know, 
You  may  make  your  own  approaches,  since  his  ear 
To  you  is  ever  open. 

P.ir.  I  acknowledge 

His  clemency  to  my  weakness,  and,  if  ever 
I  do  abuse  it,  lightning  strike  me  dead! 
The  grace  !.c  pleases  to  confer  upon  me 
(  \\  ithout  boust  1  may  say  so  much)  was  never 
J-'.mploy'd  to  wrong  the  innocent,  or  to  incense 
His  fury. 

Purth.  'Tis  confess'd  :  many  men  owe  you 
For  provinces  they  ne'er  hoped  for  ;  and  their  lives, 
Forfeited  to  his  anger: — you  being  absent, 
I  could  sav  more. 

Pur.   You  still  are  my  good  patron; 
And,  lav  it  in  my  fortune  to  deserve  it, 
You  should  perceive  the  poorest  of  your  clients 
To  his  Ivst.  abilities  thankful. 

Parth.   I  believe  so. 
Met  you  my  father? 

Pur.   Y»js,  sir,  with  much  prief, 
To  s?e  him  as  he  is.     Can  nothing  work  him 
To  be  himself? 

Piirth.  O,  Paris,  'tis  a  weight 
gits  heavy  here  ;  and  could  this  right  hand's  loss 
Remove  it,  it  should  off;  but  he  is  deaf 
To  all  persuasion. 

Par.  sir,  with  your  pardon, 


I'll  offer  my  advice  :   I  once  observed, 

In  a  tragedy  of  ours*,  in  which  a  murder 

Was  acted  to  the  life,  a  guilty  hearer, 

Forced  by  the  terror  of  a  wounded  conscience, 

To  make  discovery  of  that  which  torture 

Could  not  wring  from  him.     Nor  can  it  appear 

Like  an  impossibility,  but  that 

Your  father,  looking  on  a  covetous  man 

Presented  on  the  stage,  as  in  a  mirror. 

May  see  his  own  deformity,  and  loath  it. 

Now,  could  you  but  persuade  the  emperor 

To  see  a  comedy  we  have,  that's  styled 

The  Curf  of  Avarice,  and  to  command 

Your  father  to  be  a  spectator  of  it, 

He  shall  be  so  anatomized  in  the  scene, 

And  see  himself  so  personated,  the  baseness 

Of  a  self-torturing  miserable  wretch 

Truly  described,  that  I  much  hope  the  object 

Will  work  compunction  in  him. 

Parth.  There's  your  fee  ; 

I  ne'er  bought  better  counsel.    Be  you  in  readiness, 
I  will  effect  the  rest. 

P«r.  Sir,  when  you  please  ; 
We'll  he  prepared  to  enter. — Sir,  the  emperor. 

[Eiil. 
f  Enter  C«SAR,  ARETINUS,  and  Guard. 

Cas.  Repine  at  us  ! 

Aret.  'Tis  more,  or  my  informers, 
That  keep  strict  watch  upon  him,  are  deceived 
In  their  intelligence :  there  is  a  list 
Of  malcontents,  as  Junius  Rusticus, 
Palphurius  Sura,  and  this  .^lius  Lamia, 
That  murmur  at  your  triumphs,  as  mere  pageants  ; 
And,  at  their  midnight  meetings,  tax  your  justice, 
(For  so  I  style  what  they  call  tyranny,) 
For  Pa;tus  Thrasea's  death,  as  if  in  him 
Virtue  herself  \vere  murder'd  :  nor  forget  they 
Agricola,  who,  for  his  service  done 
In  the  reducing  Britain  to  obedience, 
They  dare  affirm  to  be  removed  with  poison; 
And  he  compell'd  to  write  you  a  coheir 
With  his  daughter,  that  his  testantent  might  stand, 
Which,  else,  you  had  made  void.     'J  hen  your  much 
To  Julia  your  niece,  censured  as  incest,  [love 

And  done  in  scorn  of  Titus,  your  dead  brother : 
But  the  divorce  Lamia  was  forced  to  sign 
To  her  you  honour  with  Augusta's  title, 
Being  only  named,  they  do  conclude  there  was 
A  Lucrece  once,  a  Collatioe,  and  a  Brutus  ; 
But  nothing  Roman  left  now  but,  in  you, 
The  lust  of  Tarquin. 

Ces.   Yes,  his  fire,  and  scorn 
Of  such  as  think  that  cur  unlimited  power 
Can  be  confined.     Dares  Lamia  pretend 


In  a  tragedy  of  our*,  &c. 


/  once  observed 


I  have  In  ard, 


That  guilty  creatures,  sitting  al  a  play, 
Have  by  the  very  running  of  the  scene. 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  thnt  pre-elitly 
They  have  proclaim'd  their  malefaclioiis ; 
For  murder,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will  speak 
With  most  miraculous  or^an."  ffamltt. 

t  Enter  C.*SAR,  &<:.  Coxeter  seldom  attempts  to  sot-cify 
the  pl.ice  ol  action  without  tailing  into  error;  anil  Mr.  W. 
Ma-on,  who,  in  despite  of  his  accuracy,  labour*,  like  Pal- 
statt.  under  "the  m.ilady  of  not  marking."  constantly  and 
closely  follows  him.  They  call  Ihis  "  S<-ene  the  second," 
and  change  the  ground  '  from  a  chamber  to  a  palace  ;" 
withstanding  the  emperor  enters  while  P«ri»  uyvtsueukiug, 
and  I'artheiiiui  continues  on  the  stage. 
Xt 


180 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


[Acrll, 


An  interest  to  that  which  I  call  mine  ; 

Or  but  remember  she  was  ever  his, 

That's  now  in  our  possession?  Fetch  him  hither. 

[Exit  Guard. 

I'll  give  him  cause  to  wish  he  rather  had 
Forgot  his  own  name,  than  e'er  mention'd  her's. 
Shall  we  be  circumscribed  ?  Let  such  as  cannot 
By  force  make  good  their  actions,  though  wicked, 
Conceal,  excuse,  or  qualify  their  crimes  ! 
What  our  desires  grant  leave  and  privilege  to, 
Though  contradicting  all  divine  decrees, 
Or  laws  confirm 'd  by  Romulus  and  Numa, 
Shall  be  held  sacred. 

Aret.  You  should,  else,  take  from 
The  dignity  of  Caesar. 

Get.  Am  I  master 
Of  two  and  thirty  legions,  that  awe 
All  nations  of  the  triumphed  world, 
Yet  tremble  at  our  frown,  to  yield  account 
Of  what's  our  pleasure,  to  a  private  man ! 
Rome  perish  first,  and  Atlas'  shoulders  shrink, 
Heaven's  fabric  fall,  (the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars, 
Losing  their  light  and  comfortable  heat,) 
Ere  I  confess  that  any  fault  of  mine 
May  be  disputed  ! 

Aret.  So  vou  preserve  your  power, 
As  you  should,  equal  and  omnipotent  here 
With  Jupiter's  above. 

[Partheniiis  kneeling,  whispers  Ciesar. 

Ctrs.  Thy  suit  is  granted, 
Whate'er  it  be,  Parthenius,  for  thy  service 

Done  to  Augusta Only  so  ?  a  t'ifle  : 

Command  him  hither.     If  the  comedy  fail 
To'cure  him,  1  will  minister  something  to  him 
That  shall  instruct  him  to  forget  his  gold, 
And  think  upon  himself 

Parth.  May  it  succeed  well, 
Since  my  intents  are  pious  !  [Exit. 

Ctt$.  We  are  resolved 

What  course  to  take  ;  and,  therefore,  Aretinus, 
Enquire  no  further.     Go  you  to  my  empress, 
And  say  I  do  entreat  (for  she  rules  him 
Whom  all  men  else  obey)  she  would  vouchsafe 
The  music  of  her  voice  at  yonder  window, 
When  I  advance  my  hand,  thus.     I  will  blend 

[Exit  Aretinut. 

My  cruelty  with  some  scorn,  or  else  'tis  lost. 
Revenge,  when  it  is  unexpected,  falling 
With  greater  violence  ;  and  hate  clothed  in  smiles. 
Strikes,   and    with   horror,  dead,   the   wretch  that 
Prepared  to  meet  it.  [comes  not 

Re-fnler  Guard  with  LAMIA. 

Our  good  Lamia,  welcome. 
So  much  we  owe  you  for  a  benefit, 
With  willingness  on  your  part  conferr'd  upon  us, 
That  'tis  our  study,  we  that  would  not  live 
Engaged  to  any  for  a  courtesy, 
How  to  return  it. 

Lam.  'Tis  beneath  your  fate 
To  be  obliged,  that  in  your  own  hand  grasp 
The  means  to  be  magnificent. 

Cat.  Well  put  off; 

But  yet  it  must  not  do :  the  empire,  Lamia, 
Divided  equally,  can  hold  no  weight, 

If  balanced  with  your  gift  in  fair  Domitia 

You,  that  could  part  with  all  delights  at  once, 
The  magazine  of  rich  pleasures  being  contain'd 
In  her  perfections, — uncompell'd,  deliver'd 
As  a  present  fit  for  Ca;sar.     In  your  eyes, 


With  tears  of  joy,  not  sorrow,  'tis  confirm 'd 
You  glory  in  your  act. 

Lam.  Derided  too ! 
Sir,  this  is  more 

Ca-s.  More  than  I  can  requite ; 
It  is  acknowledged,  Lamia.     There's  no  drop 
Of  melting  nectar  I  taste  from  her  lip, 
But  yields  a  touch  of  immortality 
To  the  blest  receiver ;  every  grace  and  feature, 
Prized  to  the  worth,  bought  at  an  easy  rate, 
If  purchased  for  a  consulship.     Her  discourse 
So  ravishing,  and  her  action  so  attractive, 
That  I  would  part  with  all  my  other  senses, 
Provided  I  might  ever  see  and  hear  her. 
The  pleasures  of  her  bed  I  dare  not  trust 
The  winds  or  air  with ;  for  that  would  draw  down, 
In  envy  of  my  happiness,  a  war 
From  all  the  gods,  upon  me. 

Lam.  Your  compassion 
To  me,  in  your  forbearing  to  insult 
On  my  calamity,  which  you  make  your  sport, 
Would  more  appease  those  gods  you  have  provoked, 
Than  all  the  blasphemous  comparisons 
You  sing  unto  her  praise. 

Cits.  I  sing  her  praise  !          [Domitia  appears  at  the 
'  \  is  far  from  my  ambition  to  hope  it ;  [window. 

It  being  a  debt  she  only  can  lay  down, 
And  no  tongue  else  discharge. 

[lie raises  hishand.     Musicabove. 
Hark  !  I  think,  prompted 

With  my  consent  that  you  once  more  should   hear 
She  does  begin.     An  universal  silence  [her, 

Dwell  on   this  place !    'Tis  death,   with    lingering 

torments, 
To  all  that  dare  disturb  her. — 

[A  Song,  hit  Domitia 
—  Who  can  hear  this 

And  fall  not  down  and  worship?  Jn  my  fancy, 
Apollo  being  judge,  on  Latinos'  hill 
Fair-hair'd  Calliope,  on  her  ivory  lute, 
(Hut  something  short  of  this,)  sung  Ceres'  pmses, 
And  grisly  Pluto's  rape  on  Proserpine. 
The  motions  of  the  spheres  are  out  of  time*, 
Her  musical  notes  but  heard.     Say,  Lamia,  :»ay, 
Is  not  her  voice  angelical? 

Lam.  To  your  ear  : 
But  I,  alas  !  am  silent. 

Ctfs.  Be  so  ever. 

That  without  admiration  canst  hear  'ier  ! 
Malice  to  my  felicity  strikes  thee  /  unib, 
And,  in  thy  hope,  or  wish,  to  repossess 
What  I  love  more  than  empire,  J  pronounce  thee 
Guilty  of  treason.    Off  with  his  1  ead  !  do  you  stare? 
By  her  that  is  my  patroness,  Minerva, 
Whose  statue  I  adore  of  all  the  gods, 
If  he  but  live  to  make  reply,  thy  life 
Shall  answer  it ! 

[The  Guard  leads  off  Lania,  stopping  his  mouth. 
My  fears  of  him  are  freed  now  f 
And  he  that  lived  to  upbraid  me  with  my  wrong, 


•  The  motions  of  the  spheres  are  out  of  time,]  For  time 
Mr.  M.  Mason  chooses  to  read,  tune  In  this  rapricioui 
alteration  lie  is  countenanced  by  some  of  the  commentator* 
on  Sh.ik?peaie,  who,  as  well  as  himself,  might  have  spared 
their  pains;  >incc  it  appears  irmn  numberless  examph-s  thai 
the  two  words  were  once  jynon\  nimi>.  Time,  however,  \\ai 
the  more  ancient  and  common  term  :  nor  was  it  till  Ion* 
after  the  age  of  Malinger,  that  the  use  of  it  in  the  scu»e  o? 
harmony,  was  entirely  ijperseded  by  that  of  tuna. 


SCEKK  IV.] 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


181 


For  an  offence  he  never  could  imagine, 

In  wantonness  removed.     Descend,  my  dearest; 

Plurality  of  husbands  shall  no  more 

Breed  doubts  or  jealousies  in  you  :  'tis  dispatch'd, 

And  with  as  little  trouble  here,  as  if 

I  had  kill'il  a  fly. 

Enter  DOMITIA,  ushered  in   by  ARETINUS,  her   train 
home  up  by  JULIA,  C-cxis,  and  DOMITILLA. 

Now  you  appear,  and  in 

That  glory  you  deserve !  and  these,  that  stoop 
To  do  you  service,  in  the  act  much  honour 'd  ! 
Julia,  forget  that  Titus  was  thy  father ; 
Caenis,  and  Domitilla,  ne'er  remember 
Sabinus  or  Vespasian.     To  be  slaves 
To  her  is  more  true  liberty,  than  to  live 
Parthian  or  Asian  queens.     As  lesser  stars 
That  wait  on  Phrcbe  in  her  full  of  brightness, 
Compared  to  her,  you  are.     Thus,  thus  I  seat  you 
By  Cctsar's  side,  commanding  these,  that  once 
Were  the  adored  glories  of  the  time, 
To  witness  to  the  world  they  are  your  vassals, 
At  your  feet  to  attend  you. 
Dom.  ''1  is  your  pleasure. 

And  not  my  pride.     And  yet,  when  I  consider 
That  I  am  yours,  all  duties  they  can  pay 
I  do  receive  as  circumstances  due 
To  her  you  please  to  honour. 

Re-enter  PABTHXMIUI  with  PHILARGUS. 

Forth.  Caesar's  will 
Commands  you  hither,  nor  must  you  gainsay  it. 

Phil.  Lose  time  to  see  an  interlude  ?  must  I   pay 
For  my  vexation  ?  [too 

Parth.  Not  in  the  court; 
It  is  the  emperor's  charge. 

Phil.  I  shall  endure 
My  torment  then  the  better. 

Ctfs.  Can  it.  be 

This  sordid  thing,  Parthenius,  is  thy  father? 
No  actor  can  express  him  •  I  had  held 
The  fiction  for  impossible  in  the  scene, 
Had  I  not  seen  the  substance.     Sirrah,  sit  still, 
And  give  attention  ;  if  you  but  nod, 
You  sleep  for  ever.     Let  them  spare  the  prologue, 
And  all  the  ceremonies  proper  to  ourself, 
And  come  to  the  last  act — there,  where  the  cure 
By  the  doctor  is  made  perfect.     The  swift  minutes 
Seem  years  to  me,  Domitia,  thst  divorce  thee 
From  my  embraces:  my  desires  increasing 
As  they  are  satisfied,  all  pleasures  else 
Are  tedious  as  dull  sorrows.     Kiss  me  again  : 
If  I  now  wanted  heat  of  youth,  these  fires, 
In  Priam's  veins  would  thaw  his  frozen  blood, 
Enabling  him  to  get  a  second  Hector 
For  the  defence  of  Troy. 

Dom.   You  are  wanton  ! 
Pray  you,  forbear.     Let  me  see  the  play. 

Cits.  Begin  there. 

Enter  PARIS  like  a  doctor  of  physic,  and  ^Esopus  : 
LATINUS  is  brought  forth  asleep  in  a  chair,  a  key  in 
his  jnouth. 

JEsop.  O  master  doctor,  he  is  past  recovery; 
A  lethargy  hath  seized  him  :  and,  however 
His  sleep  resemble  death,  his  watchful  care 
To  guard  that  treasure  he  dares  make  no  use  of, 
Works  strongly  in  his  soul. 

'Par.  \V  hat's  that  he  holds 
So  fast  between  his  teeth  \ 
15 


JEsop.  The  key  that  opens 
His  iron  chests,  cramm'd  with  accursed  gold, 
Rusty  with  long  imprisonment.     There's  no  duty 
In  me,  his  son,  nor  confidence  in  friends, 
That  can  persuade  him  to  deliver  up 
That  to  the  trust  of  any. 

Phil.  He  is  the  wiser:  • 

We  were  fashion 'd  in  one  mould. 

jEsop.  He  eats  with  it ; 
And  when  devotion  calls  him  to  the  temple 
Of  Mammon*,  whom,  of  all  the  gods,  he  kneels  to, 
THAT  held  thus  still,  his  orisons  are  paid  : 
Nor   will  he,   though    the   wealth   of  Rome  were 
For  the  restoring  oft,  for  one  short  hour      [pawn'd 
Be  won  to  part  with  it. 

Phil.  Still,  still  myself! 
And  if  like  me  he  love  his  gold,  no  pawn 
Is  good  security. 

Par.  I'll  try  if  I  can  force  it • 

It  will  not  be.     His  avaricious  mind, 

Like  men  in  rivers  drown'd,  makes  him  gripe  fast, 

To  his  last  gasp,  what  he  in  life  held  dearest ; 

And,  if  that  it  were  possible  in  nature, 

Would  carry  it  with  him  to  the  other  world. 

Phil.  As  I  would  do  to  hell,  rather  than  leave  it. 
jEsnp.  Is  he  not  dead? 
Par.  Long  since  to  all  good  actions, 
Or  to  himself,  or  others,  for  which  wise  men 
Desire  to  live.     You  may  with  safety  pinch  him, 
Or  under  his  nails  stick  needles,  yet  he  stirs  notj 
Anxious  fear  to  lose  what  his  soul  doats  on, 
Renders  his  flesh  insensible.     We  mu.it  use 
Some  means  to  rouse  the  sleeping  faculties 
Of  his  mind  ;  there  lies  the  lethargy.  Takea  trumpetf. 
And  blow  it  into  his  ears  ;  'tis  to  no  purpose; 
The  roaring  noise  of  thunder  cannot  wake  him  : 
And  yet  despair  not ;  I  have  one  trick  left  yet. 
JEsop.  What  is  it  ? 
Par.  I  will  cause  a  fearful  dream 
To  steal  into  his  fancy,  and  disturb  it 
With  the  horror  it  brings  with  it,  and  so  free 
His  body's  organs. 

.Dom.  Tis  a  cunning  fellow  ; 
If  he  were  indeed  a  doctor,  as  the  play  saysj, 
He  should  be  sworn  my  servant ;  govern  my  slum- 
And  minister  to  me  waking.  [bers, 

Par.  If  this  fail,  [A  Chest  is  brought  in. 

I'll  give  him  o'er.     So;  with  all  violence 
Rend  ope  this  iron  chest,  for  here  his  life  lies 
Bound  up  in  fetters,  and  in  the  defence 
Of  what  he  values  higher,  'twill  return, 
And  fill  each  vein  and  artery. — Louder  yet ! 
— '1'is  open,  and  already  he  begins 


*  Of  Mammon,  &c.]  There  seems  a  want  of  judgment  in 
:he  introduction  of  Mammon,  (a  deity  unknown  to  the 
Romans,)  when  Plutus  would  have  served  the  lurn  as  well-, 

+ Take  a  trumpet 

And  blow  rt  in  his  ears  ;  'tis  to  no  purpose  ;]  So  Juvenal : 
Qui  vix  curnicines  rxaudiet  atque  tubarum 
Conccntus.  SAT.  x. 

And  Jonson  : 

"  Sir,  speak  out ; 

You  may  be  louder  yet ;  a  culverin 

Discharged  into  his  ear,  would  hardly  bore  it."    The  Fox. 

}  If  he  tccre  indeed  a,  doctor,  as  the  play  says,]  Indeed, 
whicli  completes  the  verse,  is  omitted  by  both  tbe  modern 
editors;  as  ar  many  otlicr  words  in  this  little  interlude, 
which  I  have  silently  brought  back.  Domitia  adds,  "  He 
should  be  sworn  my  servant."  This  was  less  a  Roman  than 
an  En<Ji«h  custom.  In  Massinger's  time  the  attendants  of 
the  great,  who  were  maintained  in  considerable  numbers,  took 
an  path  of  fidelity  on  their  entrance  into  office. 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


[Act  II 


To  stir,  mark  with  what  trouble. 

[Latinus  ttretches  himself. 

Phil.  A<<  you  are  Ciesar, 

Defend  this  honest,  thrifty  man  !  they  are  thieves, 
And  come  to  rob  him. 

Part/i.  Peace  !  the  emperor  frowns. 

Par.  So  ;  now  pour  out  the  bags  upon  the  table, 
Remove  his  jewels,  and  his  bonds. — Again, 
Ring  a  second  golden  peal.     His  eyes  are  open  ; 
He  stares  as  he  had  seen  Medusa's  head, 
And  were  turn'd  marble.  — Once  more. 

Lot.  Murder  !  Murder  ! 

They  come  to  murder  me.     My  son  in  the  plot? 
Thou  worse  than  parricide  !  if  it  be  death 
To  strike  thy  father's  body,  can  all  tortures 
The  furies  in  hell  practise,  be  sufficient 
For  thee  that  dost  assassinate  my  soul? 
My  gold  !  my  bonds  !  my  jewels  !  dost  thou  envy 
My  glad  possession  of  them  for  a  day  ; 
Extinguishing  the  taper  of  my  life 
Consumed  unto  the  snuff? 
Par.  Seem  not  to  mind  him. 

L«f.  Have  I,  to  leave  thee  rich,  denied  myself 
The  jovs  of  human  being  ;  scraped  and  hoarded 
A  mass  of  treasure,  which  had  Solon  seen, 
The  Lydian  Croesus  had  appear'd  to  him 
Poor  as  the  beggar  Irus  ?  And  yet  I, 
Solicitous  to  increase  it,  when  my  entrails 
Were  clemm'd*,  with  keeping  a  perpetual  fast 
Was  deaf  to  their  loud  windy  cries,  as  fearing, 
Should  1  disburse  one  penny  to  their  use, 
My  heir  might  curse  me.     And  to  save  expense 
In  outward  ornaments,  I  did  expose 
My  naked  body  to  the  winter's  cold, 
And  summer's  scorching  heat :  nay,  when  diseases 
Grew  thick  upon  me,  and  a  little  cost 
Had  purchased  my  recovery,  I  chose  raiu^r 
To  have  my  ashes  closed  up  in  my  urn, 
By  hasting  on  my  fate,  than  to  diminish 
The  gold  my  prodigal  son,  while  I  am  living, 
Carelessly  scatters. 

JEtop.  Would  you'd  dispatch  and  die  oncet ' 
Your  ghost  should  feel  in  hell,  THAT  is  my  slave 
Which  was  your  master. 

Phil.  Out  upon  thee,  varlet ! 

Par.  And  what  then  follows  all  your  carke  and 

caring, 

And  self-affliction  ?  When  your  starved  trunk  is 
Turn'd  to  forgotten  dust,  this  hopeful  youth 
Urines  upon  \our  monument,  ne'er  remembering 
How  much  for  him  you  suffer'd  ;  and  then  tells 
To  the  companions  of  his  lusts  and  riots, 
The  hell  you  did  endure  on  earth,  to  leave  him 
Large  means  to  be  an  epicure,  and  to  feast 
His  senses  all  at  once,  a  happiness 


•  Were  clenim'd  with  keeping  a  perpetual  fast,]  To  be 
elfmm'd  not  clamm'd,  (as  Steevens  quotes  it  from  the  miser- 
nbletext  of  Coxeterand  M.  Mason,)  is  to  be  shrunk  up  with 
hunger,  so  as  to  cling  together:  thus  Marston  ; 

"  Now  lions  half-clemm'd  entrailt  roar  for  food." 

Antonio  and  Mellida. 

Metaphorically,  to  be  starved.  Thus  Jonson :  "  Hard  is 
(heir  fate,  when  the  valiant  must  either  beg  or  clem."  Again, 
"  I  cannot  rat  stones  and  turf:  What!  will  he  clem  me 
•nd  my  followers'?  ask  him,  an  he  will  dent  me."  Poetas- 
ter. 

t  /Eiop.   Would  you'd  dispatch  and  die  once  /]    This  line 
fa  Incorrectly  given  in  both  the  modern  editions.     Coxeter 
dropt  a  word,  an<l  M.  Mason  inserted  one  at  random,  which 
luoiled  at  once  the  measure  and  the  tense  !  He  reads, 
tf  uutil  vou  <ii«v<ifcA  and  die  at  tnct 


You  never  grunted  to  yourself.     Your  gold,  then, 
Got  with  vexation,  and  preserved  with  trouble, 
Maintains  tiie  public  stews,  panders,  and  riilians 
'I  hat  quaff  damnations  to  your  memory*, 
For  living  so  long  here. 

L.itt.  It  will  be  so  ;   1  see  it. 
O,  that  J  could  redeem  the  time  that's  past ! 
I  would  live  and  die  like  myself;  and  make  true  us* 
Of  what  my  industry  purchased. 

Pur.  Covetous  men, 

Having  one  foot  in  ttie  grave,  lament  so  ever; 
Hut  grant  that  1  by  arc  could  yet  recover 
Your  desperate  sickness,  lengthen  out  your  life 
A  dozen  of  years;  as  1  restore  your  body 
To  perfect  health,  will  you  with  care  endeavour 
To  rectify  your  mind  ? 

Lut.  1  should  so  live  then, 

As  neither  my  heir  should  have  just  cause  to  think 
I  lived  too  long,  for  being  close-handed  to  him, 
Or  cruel  to  myself. 

Pur.  Have  your  desires. 
Phtubu  •  assisting  me,  I  will  repair 
The  ruin'rl  building  of  your  health  ;  and  think  not 
You  have  a  son  that  hates  you  ;  the  truth  is, 
This  means,  with  his  consent,  1  practised  on  you 
To  this  good  end  :  it  being  a  device, 
in  you  to  -hew  the  Cure  of  Avarice. 

[Exeunt  Puns,  Latinus,  and  /T'snpus. 

Phil.  An  old  fool,  to  be  gull  d  thus  !  had  he  died 
As  1  resolve  to  do,  not  to  be  alter'd. 
It  had  gone  off  twanging. 

Goes.  How  approve  you,  sweetest, 
Of  the  matter  and  the  actors  ? 

Dom.  For  the  subjectf, 
[  like  it  not!  it  was  filch'd  out  of  Horace. 
—  Nov,  I  have  read  the  poets  : — but  the  fellow 
That  play'd  the  doctor,  did  it  well,  by  Venus  ; 
He  had  a  tuneable  tongue,  and  neat  delivery  : 
Ami  vet,  in  my  opinion,  he  would  perform 
A  iv.  »er's  part  much  better.     Prithee.  Cajsar, 
For  I  grow  weary,  let  us  see  to-morrow 
Iphis  ami  Anararete. 

CtfS.   Any  thing 

For  thy  delight,  Domitia  ;  to  your  rest, 
Till  1  come  to  disquiet  you  :  wait  upon  her. 
There  is  a  business  that  I  iii«st  dispatch, 
And  1  will  straight  be  with  you. 

[Exeunt  Aret.  Dom.,  Julia,  deuis,  and  Domitil* 

Parth.  Now,  my  dread  sir, 
Endeavour  to  prevail. 

C<rs.  One  way  or  other 

We'll  cure  him,  never  uoubt  it.     Now,  Philargus, 
Thou  wretched  thing,  hast  thou  seen   thy  sordid 

baseness, 

And  but  observed  what  a  contemptible  creature 
A  covetous  miser  is?  Dost  thou  in  thyself 
Feel  true  compunction,  with  a  resolution 
To  be  a  new  man  ? 


•  That  quaff  damnation*  to  your  memory,  &c.]  Thai 
Pope  : 

"  At  best,  it  fills  to  some  ungracious  son, 

Who  cries,  my  father's  d d,  aiftl  all's  my  own  !" 

t  Dom.  I''or  the  ntbjfct, 

I  like  it  not  ;  it  uiaifilch'd  out  of  fforarf.]  I  differ  from 
Domitia.  There  is  uncommon  spirit  and  beauty  in  Ihis  little 
interlude.  The  outline  indeed,  as  the  lady  observes,  it  from 
HorasH;  but  is  filled  up  with  a  masterly  pencil. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


189 


Phil.  This  crazed  body's  Ca-.sar's ; 
But  for  my  mind 

Ctrl.  Trifle  not  with  my  anger. 
Canst  thou  make  good  use  of  what  was  now  pre- 
sented ; 

And  imitate,   in  thy  sudden  change  of  life, 
The  miserable  rich  man,  that  express'd 
What  thou  art  to  the  lite  7 

Phil.  Pray  you  give  me  leave 
To  die  as  I  have  lived.     I  must  not  part  with 
My  gold  ;  it  is  my  life  ;  1  am  past  cure. 

Cits.  No  ;  by  Minerva,  thou  shall  never  more 
Feel  the  least  touch  of  avarice.     Take  him  hence, 


And  hang  him  instantly.     If  there  be  gold  in  hell, 
Enjoy  it : — thine  here,  and  thy  life  together, 
Is  forfeited. 

Phil.   Was  I  sent  for  to  this  purpose  ? 

Parth.   Mercy  for  all  my  service  ;  Caesar,  mercy! 

Cat    Should  Jove  plead  for  him,  'tis  resolved  he 

dies, 

And  he  that  speaks  one  syllable  to  dissuade  me; 
And  therefore  tempt  me  not.     It  is  but  justice: 
Since  such  as  wilfully  would  hourly  die, 
Must  tax  themselves,  and  not  my  cruelty. 

f  Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  JULIA,  DOMITILLA,  and  STEPHANOS. 

Jui  No,  Domitilla  ;  if  you  but  compare 
What  I  have  suffer'd  with  your  injuries, 
(Though  great  ones,  I  confess,)  they  will  appear 
Like  molehills  to  Olympus. 

Domitil.  You  are  tender 
Of  your  own  wounds,  which  makes  you  lose  the 

feeling 

And  sense  of  mine.     The  incest  he  committed 
With  you,  and  publicly  profe.*s'd,  in  scorn 
Of  what  the  world  durst  censure,  may  admit 
Some  weak  defence,  as  being  born  headlong  to  it, 
But  in  a  manly  way,  to  enjoy  your  beauties  : 
Besides,  won  by  his  perjuries,  that  he  would 
Salute  you  with  the  title  of  Augusta, 
Your  faint  denial  show'd  a  full  consent, 
And  grant  to  his  temptations.     But  poor  I, 
That  would  not  yield,  but  was  with  violence  forced 
To  serve  his  lusts,  and  in  a  kind  Tiberius 
At  Caprese  never  practised,  have  not  here 
One  conscious  touch  to  rise  up  my  accuser; 
I,  in  my  will  being  innocent. 

Steph.  Card  on  me, 

Great  princesses,  though  I  presume  to  tell  you, 
Wasting  your  time  in  childish  lamentations, 
You  do  degenerate  from  the  blood  you  spring  from  : 
For  there  is  something  more  in  Home  expected 
From  Titus'  daughter,  and  his  uncle's  heir, 
Than  womanish  complaints,  after  such  wrongs 
Which  mercy  cannot  pardon.     But,  you'll  say, 
Your  hands  are  weak,  and  should  you  but  attempt 
A  just  revenge  on  this  inhuman  monster, 
This  prodigy  of  mankind,  bloody  Domitian 
Hath  ready  swords  at  his  command,  as  well 
As  islands  to  confine  you.  to  remove 
His  doubts,  and  fears,  did  he  but  entertain 
1  he  least  suspicion  you  contrived  or  plotted 
Against  his  person. 

Jv.U  'Tis  true,  Stephanos ; 
The  legions  that  sack'd  Jerusalem, 
Under  my  father  Titus,  are  sworn  his, 
And  I  no  more  rfinember'd. 

Domitil.  And  to  lose 

Ourselves  by  building  on  impossible  hopes, 
Were  desperate  madness. 

Steph.   You  conclude  too  fast, 


One  single  arm,  whose  master  does  contemn 

His  own  life,  holds  a  full  command  o'er  his, 

Spite  of  his  guards*.     1  was  your  bondman,  lady 

And  you  my  gracious  patroness  ;  my  wealth 

And  liberty  your  gift :  and,  though  no  soldier, 

To  whom  or  custom  or  example  makes 

Grim  death  appear  less  terrible,  1  dare  die 

To  do  you  service  in  a  fair  revenge  : 

And  it  will  better  suit  your  births  and  honours 

To  fall  at  once,  than  to  live  ever  slaves 

To  his  proud  empress,  that  insults  upon 

Your  patient  sufferings.     Say  but  you,  Go  on, 

And  I  will  reach  his  heart,  or  perish  in 

The  noble  undertaking. 

Domitil.  Your  free  offer 

Confirms  your  thankfulness,  which  I  acknowledge 
A  satisfaction  fora  grea'er  debt 
Than  what  you  stand  engaged  for;  but  I  must  not. 
Upon  uncertain  grounds,  hazard  so  grateful 
And  good  a  servant.     The  immortal  Powers 
Protect  a  prince,  though  sold  to  impious  acts, 
And  seem  to  slumber  till  his  roaring  crimes 
Awake  their  justice  ;  but  then,  looking  down, 
And  with  impartial  eyes,  on  his  contempt 
Of  all  religion,  and  moral  goodness, 
They,  in  their  secret  judgments,  do  determine 
To  leave  him  to  liis  w  ickeduess,  which  sinks  him, 
When  he  is  most  securef. 

Jut.  II is  cruelty 
Increasing  daily,  of  necessity 
Must  render  him  as  odious  to  his  soldiers, 
Familiar  friends,  and  freedmen,  as  it  hath  done 
Already  to  the  senate  :  then  forsaken 
Of  his  supporters,  and  grown  terrible 
Even  to  himself,  and  her  he  now  so  doats  on, 
We  may  put  into  act  what  now  with  safety 
V\  e  cannot  whisper. 

Ste/ih.  1  am  still  prepared 


•  One  tinyle  arm,  whole  matter  flaei  contemn 
Hit  own  life  hold*  a  full  command  otr  kin, 
Xpite  of  hi*  yuards].  The   sain,    thought   is  expressed 
with  inure  ciiei")  in  I  he  fatal  Dowry; 

"  I  am  des|'fi'Hie  of  my  lilt:,  and  command  >onr's.' 
t  A  noble  -i-iitiim  nl,  hcHUUI'iiIly  expressed.  How  much  su- 
peric  r  arc  tlu.-f  manly  ,ni<l  r.itioiMl  obM-i  vatii.ns,  to  the 
flavi^h  maxims  inin.il  in  Hamlet,  The  Maid'*  lievrnye,  &c. 
It  is  true,  they  ure  <le.  iveil  irom  »  pnrir  emit  than  any 
with  which  Uomitilla  >va.i  acquainted  ;  bin  which. however, 
was  nut  more  open  to  Mastin^ur  than  to  hit  contemporaries 


184 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


[Acr  IH. 


To  execute,  when  you  please  to  command  me : 
Since  I  am  confident  he  deserves  much  more 
That  vindicates  his  country  from  a  tyrant*, 
Than  he  that  saves  a  citizen. 

Enxr  C.CMS. 

Jul.  O,  here's  Caenis. 

DomitiL  Whence  come  you? 

Ctrnis.  From  the  empress,  who  seems  moved 
In  that  you  wait  no  better.     Her  pride's  grown 
To  such  a  height,  that  she  disdains  the  service 
Of  her  own  women  ;  and  esteems  herself 
Neglected,  when  tie  princesses  of  the  blood, 
On  every  coarse  employment,  are  not  ready 
To  stoop  to  her  commands. 

DomitiL  Where  is  her  greatness  ?  [descend 

Cienis.  Where  you  would  little  think  she  could 
To  grace  the  room  or  persons. 

Jul.  Speak,  where  is  she?  [by, 

Ctenis.  Among  the  players  ;  where,  all  state  laid 
She  does  enquire  who  acts  this  part,  who  that, 
And  in  what  habits?  blames  the  tirewomen 
For  want  of  curious  dressings ; — and,  so  taken 
She  is  with  Paris  the  tragedian's  shapef, 
That  is  to  act  a  lover,  1  thought  once 
She  would  have  courted  him. 

Domitil.  In  the  mean  time 
How  spends  the  emperor  his  hours  ? 

Citnis.  As  ever 

He  hath  done  heretofore  ;  in  heing  cruel 
To  innocent  men,  whose  virtues  he  calls  crimes. 
And,  but  this  morning,  if 't  be  possible, 
He  hath  outgone  himself,  having  condemned 
At  Aretinus  his  informer's  suit, 
Palphurius  Sura,  and  good  Junius  Rusticus, 
Men  of  the  best  repute  in  Rome  for  their 
Integrity  of  life  :  no  fault  objected, 
But  that  they  did  lament  his  cruel  sentence 
On  Patus  Thrasea,  the  philosopher, 
Their  patron  and  instructor. 

Steph.  Can  Jove  see  this, 
And  hold  his  thunder  ! 

DomitiL  Nero  and  Caligula 
Only  commanded  mischiefs  j  but  our  Caesar 
Delights  to  see  them. 

Jut,  WLnt  we  cannot  help, 
Wj.  may  deplore  with  silence. 

Ctenia.  We  are  cull'd  for 
By  our  proud  mistress. 

DomitiL  We  awhile  must  suffer. 

Steph.  It  is  true  fortitude  to  stand  firm  against 
All  shocks  of  fate,  when  cowards  faint  and  die 
In  fear  to  suffer  more  calamity.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — Another  Room  in  the  lame. 
Enter  C.V.SAR  and  PARTIIENIUS, 

Ctes.  They  are  then  in  fetters? 

I'arth.   Yes,  sir,  but 

Ctrl.  But  what? 

I'll  have  thy  thoughts  ;  deliver  them. 
Parth.  1  shall,  sir  : 

from  a  tyrant.]    It  is  tirannie  in  the 

old  copies;  but  as  this  word  is  frequently  misprinted  for 
the  other,  I  have  not  removed  Coxelcr's  emendation  from 
the  text;  though  not  absolutely  necessary. 

t  and  to  taken 

She  it  with  Parit  the  tragedian'*  shape,]   i.  e.  dress. 


But  still  submitting  to  your  god-like  pleasure. 
Which  cannot  be  instructed. 

Ctft.  To  the  point. 

Parth.  Nor  let  your  sacred  majesty  believe 
Your  vassal,  that  with  dry  eyes  look'd  upon 
His  father  dragg'd  to  death  by  your  command, 
Can  pity  these,  that  durst  presume  to  censure 
What  you  decreed. 

C<cj.  Well ;  forward. 

Parth.  'Tis  my  zual 

Still  to  preserve  your  clemency  admired, 
Temper'd  with  justice,  that  emboldens  me 
To  offer  my  advice.     Alas!  I  know,  sir, 
These  bookmen,  Rusticus,  and  Palphurius  Supa, 
Deserve  all  tortures  :  yet,  in  my  opinion, 
They  being  popular  senators,  and  cried  up 
With  loud  applauses  of  the  multitude, 
For  foolish  honesty,  and  beggarly  virtue, 
'T would  relish  more  of  policy,  to  have  them 
Made  away  in  private,  with  what  exquisite  torments 
You  please, — it  skills  not, — than  to  have  themdrawa 
To  the  Degrees*  in  public  ;  for  'tis  doubted 
That  the  sad  object  may  beget  compassion 
In  the  giddy  rout,  and  cause  some  sudden  «i^roar 
That  may  disturb  you. 

Ca:$.  Hence,  pale-spirited  coward ! 
Can  we  descend  so  far  beneath  ours»lf, 
As  or  to  court  the  people's  love,  or  fear 
Their  worst  of  hate 7  Can  they,  that  are  as  dust 
Before  the  whirlwind  of  our  will  and  power, 
Add  any  moment  to  us  ?  Or  thou  think, 
If  there  are  gods  above,  or  goddesses, 
But  wise  Minerva,  that's  mine  own,  and  sure. 
That  they  have  vacant  hours  to  take  into 
Their  serious  protection,  or  care, 
This  many-headed  monster?  Mankind  lives 
In  few,  as  potent  monarchs,  and  their  peers  ; 
Aa>i  all  those  glorious  constellations 
Thai  uo  adorn  the  firmament,  appointed, 
Like  grooms,  with  their  bright  influence  to  attend 
The  actions  of  kings  and  emperors, 
They  being  the  greater  wheels  that  move  the  less, 
Bring    forth    those    condemn'd   wretches;—  [£iii 

Parthenius.]  —  let  me  see 
One  man  so  lost,  as  but  to  pity  them, 
And  though  there  lay  a  million  of  souls 
Imprison 'd  in  his  flesh,  my  hangmen's  hooks 
Should  rend  it  off,  and  gire  them  liberty. 
Caesar  hath  said  it. 

Re-enter  PARTHEMUS,  with  ARETINUS,  and  Guard; 
Hangmen  dragging  in  JUNIUS  RUSTICUS  and 
PALMIUIUUS  SUHA,  bound  back  to  back. 

Aret.  'Tis  great  Caesar's  pleasure, 
That  with  fix'd  eyes  you  carefully  observe 
The  people's  looks.     Charge  upon  any  man 
That  with  a  sigh  or  murmur  does  express 
A  seeming  sorrow  for  these  traitors'  deaths. 
You  know  his  will,  perform  it. 

Ctei.  A  good  bloodhound, 
And  fit  for  my  employments. 

Sura,  (jive  us  leave 
To  die,  fell  tyrant. 


•  To  the  Degrees,  &c.]    To  the  Scalce  Gemonice,  .urn 
tinned  be  Tore ;  (p.  174;)    Coxeter  printed  Decrees;  l>tit  tl». 
old  copy  rend*  as  above.    The  word  is  u.-ed  by  Joiison 
"  Their  bodies  thrown  into  the  Geinonifs, 
The  expulsed  Apicata  rinds  ilu-m  there  ; 
W'boin  when  the  »aw  lie  spread  on  the  Deyreei,"  &«. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


185 


Rust.  For,  beyond  our  bodies, 
Thou  hast  no  power. 

C«es.  Yes  ;  I'll  iifflict  your  souls, 
Aivl  force  them  groaning  to  the  Sfygi-.»n  lake, 
Prepared  for  such  to  howl  in,  that  blaspheme 
The  power  of  princes,  that  are  gods  on  earth. 
Tremble  to  think  how  terrible  the  dream  is 
After  this  sleep  of  death. 

It mt.  To  guilty  men 

It  may  brin^  terror ;  not  to  us,  that  know 
What  'tis  to  die.  well  taught  by  his  example 
For  whom  we  suffer.     In  my  thought  I  see 
The  substance  of  that  pure  untainted  soul 
Of  Thrasea,  our  master,  made  a  star, 
That  with  melodious  harmony  invites  us 
(leaving  this  dunghill  Rome,  made  hell  by  thee) 
To  trace  his  heavenly  steps,  and  fill  a  sphere 
Above  yon  crystal  canopy. 

Ctes.  Do  invoke  him 
With  all  the  aids  his  sanctity  of  life 
Have  won  on  the  rewarders  of  his  virtue  ; 
They  shall  not  save  you. — Dogs,  do  you  grin  ?  tor- 
ment them. 

[The  Hangmen  torment  them,  they  still  trailing. 
So,  take  a  leaf  of  Seneca  now,  and  prove 
If  it  can  render  you  insensible 
Of  that  which  but  hegins  here.     Now  an  oil, 
Drawn  from  the  stoic's  frozen  principles, 
Predominant  over  fire,  were  useful  for  you. 

Again,  again.     You  trifle.     Not  a  groan  ? 

Is  my  rage  lost?  What  cursed  charms  defend  them! 
Search  deeper,  villains.  Who  looks  pale,  or  thinks 
That  I  am  cruel  ? 

Aret.  Over-merciful: 
'Tis  all  your  weakness,  sir. 

Parth.  I  dare  not  show 
A  sign  of  sorrow  ;  yet  my  sinews  shrink, 
The  spectacle  is  so  horrid.  [Aside. 

Cft.  I  was  never 

O'ercome  till  now.     For  my  sake  roar  a  little, 
And  show  you  are  corporeal,  and  not  turn'd 
Aerial  spirits.— Will  it  not  do?  By  Pallas, 
It  is  unkindly  done  to  mock  his  fury 
Whom  the  world  styles  Omnipotent !  I  am  tortured 
In  their  want  of  feeling  torments.     Marius*  story, 
That  does  report  him  to  have  sat  unmoved, 
When  cunning  surgeons  ripp'd  his  arteries 
And  veins,  to  cure  his  gout,  compared  to  this, 
Deserves  not  to  be  named.     Are  they  not  dead  ? 
If  so,  we  wash  an  .-Ethiop. 

Sura.  No  ;  we  live. 

Rus!.  Live   to    deride   tbee,    our   calm   patience 

treading 

Upon  the  neck  of  tyranny.     That  securely, 
As  'twere  a  gentle  slumber,  we  endure 
Thy  hangmen's  studied  tortures,  is  a  debt 
\Ve  owe  to  grave  philosophy,  that  instructs  us 
The  flesh  is  but  the  clothing  of  the  soul, 
Which  growing  out  of  fashion,  though  it  be 
Cast  off,  or  rent,  or  torn,  like  ours,  'tis  then, 
Being  itself  divine,  in  her  best  lustre. 
But  unto  such  as  thou,  that  have*  no  hopes 
Beyond  the  present,  every  little  scar, 
The  want  of  rest,  excess  of  heat  or  cold, 
That  does  inform  them  only  they  are  mortal, 
Pierce  through  and  through  them. 

Cies.   \Ve  will  hear  no  more. 


that  have  no  hopet-]    Coxeter  and 


II.  Mason  very  incorrectly  read,  that  hast  no  hofct. 


Rust.  This  only,  and  I  give  thee  warning  of  it  • 
Though  it  is  in  thy  will  to  grind  this  earth 
As  small  as  atoms,  they  thrown  in  the  sea  too, 
They  shall  seem  re-collected  to  thy  sense : 
And,  when  the  sandy  building  of  thy  greatness 
Shall  with  its  own  weight  totter,  look  to  see  me 
As  I  was  yesterday,  in  my  perfect  shape ; 
For  I'll  appear  in  horror. 

Cits.  By  my  shaking 
I  am  the  guilty  man,  and  not  the  judge. 
Drag  from  my  sight  these  cursed  ominous  wizards, 
That,  as  they  are  now,  like  to  double-fiiced  Janus, 
Which  way  soe'er  I  look,  are  furies  to  me. 
Away  with  them  !  first  show  them  death,  then  leave 
No  memory  of  their  ashes.     I'll  mock  fate. 

[Exeunt  Hangmen  with  Rusiicusand  Sura* 
Shall  words  fright  him  victorious  armies  circle  ? 
No,  no  ;  the  fever  does  begin  to  leave  me  ; 

Enter  DOM  ITI  A,  JULIA,  and  C/EXIS;  STEPHANOS  fol- 
lowing. 

Or,  were  it  deadly,  from  this  living  fountain 
I  could  renew  the  vigour  of  my  youth, 
And  be  a  second  Virbiusf.     O  my  glory  ! 
My  life !  command}: !  my  all ! 

Dom.  As  you  to  me  are. 

[Embracing  and  kissing  mutually. 
I  heard  you  were  sad  ;  I  have  prepared  you  sport 
Will  banish  melancholy.     Sirrah,  Csesar, 
(I  hug  myself  for't)  I  have  been  instructing 
The  players  how  to  act ;  and  to  cut  off 
All  tedious  impertinence,  have  contracted 
The  tragedy  into  one  continued  scene. 
I  have  the  art  oft,  und  am  taken  more 
With  my  ability  that  way,  than  all  knowledge 
I  have  but  of  thy  love. 

Ctrs.  Thou  art  still  thyself, 
The  sweetest,  wittiest, 

Dom.  When  we  are  abed 
I'll  thank  your  good  opinion.     Thou  shall  see 
Such  an  Iphis  of  thy  Paris§  ! — and  to  humble 
The  pride  of  Domitilla,  that  neglects  me, 
(Howe'er  she  is  your  cousin,)  I  have  forced  her 
To  play  the  part  of  Anaxarete— — — 
You  are  not  offended  with  it? 

C<es.  Any  thing 

That  does  content  thee  yields  delight  to  me  : 
My  faculties  and  powers  are  thine. 

Dom.  I  thank  you  : 


•  [Ereunt  Hangmen  with  Rutticut  and  Sura.]  After 
Sura,  Coxeter  and  M.  Mason  add,  Stephana*  following. 
This  fending  a  man  out  before  he  conies  in,  is  another 
instance  of  the  surprising  attention  which  Massenger  ex- 
perienced from  the  former  editors.  The  quarto  reads  as  it 
stands  here  :  hangmen,  too,  is  brought  back  in  lieu  of  the 
more  modish  term  executioners. 

t  And  be  a  tecond  Virbius.J  The  name  given  to  Hippoly 
tus  after  he  was  restored  to  life  by  .•Ksrtil:ipiu.<.  He  was  to 
called,  say  the  critics,  quod  inter  viros  bis  fuerit.  See  Tlie 
jEneid,  lib.  vii.  v.  165. 

I  My  life!  command!  my  all! ,  i.  e.  my  power!  my  all! 
This  is  tlie  reading  of  the  old  copies,  and  undoubtedly 
genuine:  the  modern  editors  (I  know  not  why)  choose 
to  read,  My  life .'  command  my  all .'  which  the  reply  of 
Domitia  proves  to  be  rank  nonsense. 

$ Thou  lhalt  »rt 

Such  an  fphis  of  thy  Paris!  &c.]  The  story  of  Iphii 
and  Anaxarete  is  beautifully  told  by  Ovid,  in  the  fourteenth 
book  of  his  Afetamorphosit,(y.  698,  etteq.,)  to  which  I  refer 
the  reader,  as  it  is  too  long  to  be  extracted.  Massinger  has 
followed  his  leader  part  pastu  ;  and  indeed  the  elegance 
and  fpirit  which  he  has  infused  into  these  little  interludes, 
canno;  be  too  highly  commended. 


186 


THE  HUMAN  ACTOR. 


[An  in. 


Prithee  let's  take  our  places.     Bid  them  enter 
Without  more  circumstance. 

After  a  short  flourish,  enter  PAULS  as  Inns. 
How  do  you  like 

That  shape'  ?  methinks  it  is  most  suitable 
To  the  aspect  of  a  despairing  lover. 
The  seeming  late-fallen,  counterfeited  tears 
That  hang  upon  his  cheeks,  was  my  device. 

Cat.  And  all  was  excellent. 

Dom.  Now  hear  him  speak. 

Iphit.  That  she  is  fair,  (and  that  an  epithet 
Too  foul  to  express  her,)  or  descended  nobly, 
Or  rich,  or  fortunate,  are  certain  truths 
In  which  poor  Ipbis  glories.     But  ihat  these 
Perfections  in  no  other  virgin  found 
Abused,  should  nourish  cruelty  and  pride 
In  the  divinest  Anaxarete. 
Is,  to  my  love-sick  languishing  soul,  a  riddle; 
And  with  more  difficulty  to  be  dissolved-)-, 
Than  that  the  monster  Sphinx  from  the  steep  rock 
Ofier'd  to  CEdipus.     Imperious  Love, 
As  at  thy  ever-flaming  altars  Iphis, 
Tliv  never-tired  votary,  hath  presented. 
With  scalding  tears,  whole  hecatombs  of  sighs, 
Preferrini-  thy  power,  and  thy  Paphiun  mother's, 
Before  the  Thunderer's,  Neptune's,  or  Pluto's, 
(That,  after  Saturn,  did  divide  ihe  world, 
And  had  the  sway  of  things,  yet  were  compell'd 
By  thy  inevitable  shafts  to  yield, 
And  light  under  thy  ensigns,)  be  auspicious 
To  this  last  trial  of  my  sacrifice 
Of  love  and  service  ! 

Dom.  Does  he  not  act  it  rarely  ? 
Observe  with  what  a  feeling  lie  delivers 
His  orisons  «o  Cupid  ;  I  am  rapt  with't. 

Iphis.  And  from  thy  never-emptied  quiver  take 
A  golden  arrow*,  to  transfix  her  heart, 
And  force  her  love  like  me  ;  or  cure  my  wound 
With  a  leaden  one,  that  may  beget  in  me 

Hate  and  forgetfulness  of  what's  now  my  idol 

But  I  tall  bacK  my  prayer ;  1  have  blasphemed 
In  my  rash  wish  :  'tis  1  that  am  unworthy  ; 
But  she  all  merit,  and  may  in  justice  challenge, 
From  the  assurance  of  her  excellencies, 
Not  love  but  adoration.     Yet,  bear  witness, 
All-knowing  Powers!  I  bring  along  with  me, 
As  faithful  advocates  to  make  intercession, 
A  loyal  heart  with  pure  and  holy  flumes, 
With  the  foul  fires  of  lust  never  polluted. 
And,  as  I  touch  her  threshold,  which  with  tears, 
My   limbs  benumb'd  with  cold,  I  oft  have  wash'd, 
With  my  glad  lips  I  kiss  this  earth  grown  proud 
With  frequent  favours  from  her  delicate  feet. 

Dnm.  By  Ca;sar's  life  he  weeps  !  and  I  forbear 
Hardly  to  keep  him  company. 

Iphis.  Blest  ground,  thy  pardon, 
If  1  profane  it  with  forbidden  steps. 


How  ifo  yon  like 


That  shape  f]  The  (Ionian  acton.  |il.,\,-.l  in  ma-ks, 
which  Doiinii.i  cal!r  a  >hape. —  \I.  MASON. 

That    a   mask  was  called  a  shape   1  never  hcatd 
Tiie  lact  is,  ih.it   shape  b  a   theatrical   wind,  ami, 
lan^iMur  of  the  property-man,  means,  as  has  been  . 
observed,  (he  who],  of  the  dress. 

i  And  with  more  riijfimlty  to  be  di.«olved.  \  So  the  o!d  co- 
pies.   Coxeter  and  M.  .Ma  i>i,  read  tolvrd. 

J  Iphis.  And  from  thy  never-emptinl  quiver  take 

A  {/olden  arrow,  &e.]  For  this  i-xprc.-.<ion,  which, 
few  other*, occurs  somewhat  too  frequently.  Seethe 
Martyr. 


before, 
in  the 
ilready 


like  a 
Virgin 


I  must  presume  to  knock — and  yet  attempt  it 
\\ith  such  a  trembling  reverence,  as  if 
My  hands  [were  now]*  he'd  up  for  expiation 
To  the  incensed  gods  to  spare  a  kingdom, 
Within  there,  ho  !  something  divine  come  forth 
To  a  distressed  mortal. 

Enter  LATINUS  as  a  Porter. 

Port.  Ha  !  who  knocks  there  ? 

Dt>m.  What  a  churlish  look  this  knave  has  ! 

Port.  Is't  you,  sirrah? 

Are  you  come  to  pule  and  whine  ?.  Avaunt,  and  quickly  j 
Dog-whips  shall  drive  you  hence,  else. 

Dom.  Churlish  devil  ! 

But  that  1  should  disturb  the  scene,  as  I  live 
I  would  tear  his  eyes  out. 

C(fs.  'Tis  in  jest,  Domitia. 

Dom.  I  do  not  like  such  jesting  ;  if  he  were  not 
A  flinty  hearted  slave,  he  could  not  use 
One  of  his  form  so  harshly.     How  the  toad  swells 
At  the  other's  sweet  humility  ! 

Ciet.  'Tis  his  part : 
Let  them  proceed, 

Dom.  A  rogue's  part  will  ne'er  leave  him. 

Iphis.  As  you  have,  gentle  sir,  the  happiness 
(When  you  please)  to  behold  the  figure  of 
The  master-piece  of  nature,  limn'd  to  the  life, 
In  more  than  human  Ana-xarete, 
Scorn  not  your  servant,  that  with  suppliant  hands 
Takes  hold  upon  your  knees,  conjuring  you, 
As  you  are  a  man,  and  did  not  suck  the  milk 
Of  wolves  and  tigers,  or  a  mother  of 
A  tougher  temper,  use  some  means  these  eyes, 
Before  they  are  wept  out,  may  see  your  lady. 
Will  you  be  gracious  sir? 

Port.  Though  1  lose  my  place  for't, 
I  can  hold  out  no  longer. 

Dom.  Now  he  melts, 
Thete  is  some  little  hope  he  may  die  honest. 

Port.  Madam! 

Enter  DOMUILLA  as  ANAXAHETE. 

Anax.  Who  calls?  What  object  have  we  here  ? 

Dom.  Your  cousin  keeps  her  proud  state  still ;  I 
I  have  fitted  her  for  a  part.  [think 

Altai.  Did  1  not  charge  thee 
I  ne'er  might  see  this  thing  more? 

Iphit.  1  am,  indeed,  [on  : 

What  thing  you  please  ;  a  worm  that  you  may  tread 
Lower  I  cannot  fall  to  show  my  duty, 
Till  your  disdain  hath  digg'  d  a  grave  to  cover 
This  body  with  forgotten  dust;  and,  when 
I  know  your  sentence,  cruellest  of  women  ! 
I'll,  by  a  willing  death,  remove  the  object 
That  is  an  eyesore  to  you. 

Anax.  Wretch,  thou  dar'st  not : 

*  HTy  hand*  [were  now]  held  up  for  expiation]  I  am  very 
doubtful  of  the  genuieness  of  this  line.  Of  the  old  copies  of 
this  tragedy  (of  which  there  is  but  one  edition)  some  read. 

My  hand*  held  up,  or  expiation 
and  others, 

My  hand*  help  vp,  for  expiation. 

It  is  evident,  from  the  comma,  that  there  is  an  error  some- 
where, which  was  discovered  at  the  press, and  attempted  to 
be  removed:  but,  as  it  has  happened  more  than  once  in 
these  pla)8,  only  exchanged  for  another.  My  addition  is 
harmless:  but  if  1  could  have  ventured  so  far,  1  should  have 
read, 

My  hands  held  vp  in  prayer,  or  expiation, 
To,  &LC. 

As  the  line  stands  in  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  it  b  im 
possible  to  read  it  as  verse,  or  any  thing  like  verse. 


SCENE  I.J 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


That  were  the  last  and  greatest  service  to  me 
Thy  doting  love  could  boast  of.     What  dull  fool 
But  tliou  could  nourish  any  flattering  hope, 
One  of  my  height  in  youth,  in  birth  and  fortune, 
Could  e'er  descend  to  look  upon  thy  lowness, 
Much  less  consent  to  make  my  lord  of  one 
I'd  not  accept,  though  offer'd  for  my  slave? 
My  thoughts  stoop  not  so  low. 

Dow.  There's  her  true  nature: 
No  personated  scorn. 

Anax.   I  wrong  my  worth, 
Or  to  exchange  a  syllable  or  look 
With  one  so  far  beneath  me. 

Iphis.   Yet  take  heed, 

Take  heed  of  pride,  and  curiously  consider, 
How  brittle  the  foundation  is,  on  which 
You  labour  to  advance  it.     Niobe, 
Proud  of  her  numerous  issue,  dursr.  contemn 
Latona's  double  burthen  ;  but  what  follow'd? 
She  was  left  a  childless   mother,  and   mourn'd  to 

marble. 

The  beauty  you  o'erprize  so,  time  or  sickness 
Can  change'to  loath'd  deformity  ;  your  wealth 
The  prey  of  thieves  ;  queen  Hecuba,  Troy  fired, 
Ulysses'  bondwoman* :  but,  the  love  I  bring  you 
Nor  time,  nor  sickness,  violent  thieves,  nor  fate, 
Can  ravish  from  you. 

Dom.  Could  the  oracle 
Give  better  counsel ! 

Iphis.  Say,  will  you  relent  yet, 
Revoking  your  decree  that  I  should  die? 
Or,  shall  1  do  what  you  command?  resolve; 
lam  impatient  of  delay. 

Anax.  Dispaich  then  : 
I  shall  look  on  your  tragedy  unmoved, 
Peradventure  laugh  at  it;  for  it  will  prove 
A  comedy  to  me. 

Dom.  O  devil!  devil! 

Iphis.  Then  thus  1  take  my  last  leave, 
Of  lovers  fall  upon  you  ;  and,  hereafter, 
When  any  man,  like  me  contemn'd,  shall  study 
In  the  anguish  of  his  soul  to  give  a  name 


[curses 
All  the 


To  a  scornful,  cruel  mistress,  let  him  only 
Say,  This  most  bloody  woman  is  to  me, 

As  Anaxarete  was  to  wretched  Iphis  ! 

Now  feast  your  tyrannous  mind,  and  glory  in 
The  ruins  you  have  made  :  for  Hymen's  bands. 
That  should  have  made  us  one,  this  fatal  halter 
For  ever  shall  divorce  us  :  at  your  gate, 
As  a  trophy  of  your  pride  and  my  affliction, 
I'll  presently  hang  myself. 

Dom.    Not  for  the  world — 

[Starts from  her  seal. 
Restrain  him  as  you  love  your  lives ! 

Cds.  Why  are  you 

Transported  thus,  Domitia?  'tis  a  play; 
Or,  grant  it  serious,  it  at  no  part  merits 
This  passion  in  you. 

Par.  I  ne'er  purposed,  madam, 
To  do  the  deed  in  earnest ;  though  I  bow 
To  your  care  and  tenderness  of  me. 

Dom.  Let  me,  sir, 

Entreat  your  pardon  ;  what  I  saw  presented, 
Carried  me  beyond  myself. 

Cffs.  To  your  place  again, 
And  see  what  follows. 

Dom.  No,  I  am  familiar 

With  the  conclusion;  besides,  upon  the  sudden 
I  feel  myself  much  indisposed. 

C  'IE s.  To  bed  then  ; 
I'll  be  thy  doctor. 

Aret.  There  is  something  more 
In  this  than  passion, — which  I  must  find  out, 
Or  my  intelligence  freezes. 

Dom.  Come  to  me,  Paris, 
To-morrow  for  your  reward. 

[EaeuJit  all  but  Domitilla  and  Stephana* 

StepJi.  Patroness,  hear  me  ; 

Will  you  not  call  for  your  share?  sit  down  with  tlii 
And,  the  next  action,  like  a  Gaditane  strumpet, 
I  shall  look  to  see  you  tumble  ! 

Domitil.  Prithee  be  patient. 
I,  that  have  suffer'd  greater  wrongs,  bear  this  ; 
And  that,  till  my  revenge,  my  comfort  is.      [Exiicu 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  PARTHENIUS,  JULIA,  DOMITILLA,  and  C/tNis. 

Parth.  Why,  'tis  impossible. — Paris! 

Jut.  You  observed  not, 
As  it  appears,  the  violence  of  her  passion, 
When  personating  Iphis,  he  pretended, 


Queen  Hecuba,  Troy  fir' dt 


Ulytses'  bondwoman]  These  two  halt-lines  are  entirely 
misplaced,  and  should  not  be  inserted  here  ;  they  afterwards 
occur  in  the  second  volume,  to  which  passage  they  belon». 
—  M.  AUsox. 

This  it  the  most  unaccountable  notion  that  ever  was 
taken  up.  'J'he  Roman  Actor  was  not  only  written  but 
printed  many  years  before  The  Emperor  of  the  East;  how, 
then,  could  any  lines  or  "  halt'  lines"  be  inserted  into  it  from 
a  piece  which  was  not  yet  in  exigence !  It  required  Mr.  M. 
Mason's  own  words  to  convince  me  that  he  could  range 
through  Massinger,  even  in  his  desultory  way,  without  dii- 


For  your  contempt,  fair  Anaxarete, 
To  hang  himself. 

Parth.  Yes,  yes,  I  noted  that ; 
But  never  could  imagine  it  could  work  her 
To  such  a  strange  intemperance  of  affection, 
As  to  doat  on  him. 

Domitil.  By  my  hopes,  I  think  not 


covering  his  propensity  to  repeat  himself;  which  is  to 
obtrusive  as  to  form  one  of  the  most  characteristic  traits  of 
his  manner.  Wiih  respect  to  the  two  half  lines,  they  are 
where  they  should  be,  and  are  referred  to  in  the  ver»e 
which  follows.  It  may  amuse  the  reader  to  see  this  passage 
as  "  it  occurs  again."  ! 

"  You  are  are  read  in  story,  call  to  your  remembrance 
What  the  great  Hector's  mother,  Hecuba, 
Was  to  Uljsses,  Illium  sack'd." 

The  identity  may  admit  of  »ome  question. bat 

of  this  deplorable  folly. 


188 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


[Aci  IV 


That  she  respects,  though  all  here  saw,  and  mark'd  it; 
Presuming  she  can  mould  the  emperor's  will 
Into  what  form  she  likes,  though  we,  and  all 
The  informers  of  the  world,  conspired  to  cross  it. 

Ciena.  Then  with  what  eagerness,  this  morning, 

urging 

The  want  of  health  and  rest,  she  did  entreat 
Caesar  to  leave  her ! 

Domitil.  Who  no  sooner  absent, 
But  she  calls,  Dwarf!  (so  in  her  scorn  she  styles  me,) 
Put  on  7/n,  pantojies  ;  fetch  pen  and  paper, 
I  am  to  write: — and  with  distracted  looks, 
In  her  smock,  impatient  of  so  short  delay 
As  but  to  have  a  mantle  thrown  upon  her, 
She  seal'd — I  know  not  what,  but  'twas  endorsed, 
To  my  loved  Paris. 

Jul.  Add  to  this,  I  heard  her 
Say,  when  a  page  received  it,  Let  him  wait  me, 
And  carefully,  in  the  vwlk  call'd  our  Retreat, 
Where  C&sar,  in  his  fear  to  give  offence, 
Unseat  for  never  enters. 

Parth.  This  being  certain, 

(For  these  are  more  than  jealous  suppositions,) 
Why  do  not  you,. that  are  so  near  in  blood, 
Discover  it? 

Domitil.  Alas  !  you  know  we  dare  not. 
'Twill  be  received  for  a  malicious  practice, 
To  free  us  from  that  shivery  which  her  pride 
Imposes  on  us.     But,  if  you  would  please 
To  break  the  ice,  on  pain  to  be  sunk  ever, 
We  would  aver  it. 

Parth.  I  would  second  you, 
But  that  I  am  commanded  with  all  speed 
To  fetch  in*  Ascletario  the  Chaldean  ; 
Who,  in  his  absence,  is  condemn'd  of  treason, 
For  calculating  the  nativity 
Of  Caesar,  with  all  confidence  foretelling, 
In  every  circumstance,  when  he  shall  die 
A  violent  death.     Yet,  if  you  could  approve 
Of  my  directions,  I  would  have  you  speak 
As  much  to  Aretinus,  as  you  have 
To  me  deliver'd  :  he  in  his  own  nature 
Being  a  spy,  on  weaker  grounds,  no  doubt, 
Will  undertake  it ;  not  for  goodness'  sake, 
(With  which  he  never  yet  held  correspondence,) 
But  to  endear  his  vigilant  observings 
Of  what  concerns  the  emperor,  and  a  little 
To  triumph  in  the  ruins  of  this  Paris, 
That  cross'd  him  in  the  senate-house. 

Enter  ARETINDS. 

Here  he  comes, 

His  nose  held  up  ;  he  hath  something  in  the  wind, 
Or  I  much  err,  already.     My  designs 
Command  me  hence,  great  ladies ;  but  I  leave 
My  wishes  with  you.  [Exit, 

Aret.  Have  I  caught  your  greatness 
In  the  trap,  my  proud  Augusta ! 

Domitil.  What  is't  raps  him  ? 

Aret.  And  my  fine  Roman  Actor  ?     Is't  even  so  ? 
No  coarser  dish  to  take  your  wanton  palate, 
Save  that  which,  but  the  emperor,  none  durst  taste  of! 
'Tis  very  well.     I  needs  must  glory  in 
This  rare  discovery  :  but  the  rewards 
Of  my  intelligence  bid  me  think,  even  now, 
By  an  edict  from  Csesar,  I  have  power 
To  tread  upon  the  neck  of  Slavish  Rome, 

•  To  fetch  in]  i.  e.  to  seize  •,  a  frequent  expression. 


Disposing  offices  and  provinces 
To  my  kinsmen,  friends,  and  clients. 

Domitil.  This  is  more 
Than  usual  with  him. 

JuL  Aretinus  ! 

A  ret.  How  ! 

No  more  respect  and  reverence  tender'd  to  me, 
But  Aretinus  !     'Tis  confess'd  that  title, 
When  you  were  princesses,  and  commanded  all, 
Had  been  a  favour  ;  but  being,  as  you  are, 
Vassals  to  a  proud  woman,  the  worst  bondage, 
You  stand  obliged  with  as  much  adoration 
To  entertain  him,  that  comes  arm'd  with  strength. 
To  break  your  fetters,  as  tann'd  galley-slaves 
Pay  such  as  do  redeem  them  fro.-.i  the  oar. 
I  come  not  to  entrap  you  ;  but  aloud 
Pronounce  that  you  are  manumized  :  and  to  make 
Your  liberty  sweeter,  you  shall  see  her  fall, 
This  empress,  this  Domitia,  what  you  will, 
That  triumph'd  in  your  miseries. 

Domitil.  Were  you  serious, 
To  prove  your  accusation  I  could  lend 
Some  help. 

Can.  And  I. 

Jul.  And  I. 

A  ret.  No  atom  to  me. 

My  eyes  and  ears  are  every  where  ;  I  know  all 
To  the  line  and  action  in  the  play  that  took  her : 
Her  quick  dissimulation  to  excuse 
Her  being  transported,  with  her  morning  passion. 
I  bribed  the  boy  that  did  convey  the  letter, 
And,  having  perused  it,  made  it  up  again  : 
Your  griefs  and  angers  are  to  me  familiar. 
— That  Paris  is  brought  to  her*,  and  how  far 
He  shall  be  tempted. 

Domitil.  This  is  above  wonder. 

Aret.  My  gold  can  work  much  stranger  miracles 
Than  to  corrupt  poor  waiters.  Here,  join  with  me — 
[Takes  out  a  petitiim. 

"f  is  a  complaint  to  Caesar.  This  is  that  [hands 
Shall  ruin  her,  and  raise  you.  Have  you  set  your 
To  the  accusation  ? 

Jul.  And  will  justify 
What  we've  subscribed  to. 

Cien.  And  with  vehemence. 

Domitil.  I  will  deliver  it. 

Aret.  Leave  the  rest  to  me  then. 

Enter  CXSAK,  with  his  Guard. 

Cits.  Let  our  lieutenants  bring  us  victory, 
While  we  enjoy  the  fruits  of  peace  at  home  ; 
And  being  secured  from  our  intestine  foes, 
(Far  worse  than  foreign  enemies,)  doubts  and  fears, 
Though  all  the  sky  were  hung  with  blazing  meteors, 
Which  fond  astrologers  give  out  to  be 
Assured  presages  of  the  change  of  empires, 
And  deaths  of  monarths,  we,  undaunted  yet, 
Guarded  with  our  own  thunder,  bid  defiance 
To  them  and  fate  ;  we  being  too  strongly  arm'd 
For  them  to  wound  us. 

Aret.   Caesar ! 

Jul.  As  thou  art 
More  than  a  man — 

Cten.  Let  not  thy  passions  be 
Rebellious  to  thy  reason — 


. Tliat  Parii  it  brought  to  her,&c.]  A  line  pre- 
ceding thU,  seems  to  have  been  lost  at  '.lie  press:  the  drift 
of  it  is  not  difficult  to  gutss-  but  I  have  not  meddled  \viiu 
the  old  copies. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


189 


DomitiL  But  receive  [Drivers  the  petition, 

This  trial  of  your  constancy,  as  unmoved 
As  you  go  to  or  from  the  capitol, 
'flanks  given  to  Jove  for  triumphs. 
C^s.  Ha"! 
Domilil.  Vouchsafe 

A  while  to  stay  the  lightning  of  your  eyes, 
Poor  mortals  dare  not  look  on. 

Aret.  There's  no  vein 
Of  yours  that  rises  with  high  rage,  but  is 
An  earthquake  to  us. 

Domit'd.  And,  if  not  kept  closed 
With  more  than  human  patience,  in  a  moment 
Will  swallow  us  to  the  centre. 

Cten.  Not  that  we 

Repine  to  serve  her,  are  we  her  accusers. 
Jul.  But  that  she's  fallen  so  low. 
Aret,  Which  on  sure  proofs 
We  can  make  good. 

DomitiL  And  show  she  is  unworthy 
Of  the  least  spark  of  that  diviner  fire 
You  have  conferr'd  upon  her. 

C<es.  I  stand  doubtful, 
And  unresolved  what  to  determine  of  you. 
In  this  malicious  violence  you  have  ofler'd 
To  the  altar  of  her  truth  and  pureness  to  me, 
You  have  but  fruitlessly  labour'd  to  sully 
A  white  robe  of  perfection,  black-mouth'd  envy 
Could  belch  no  spot  on. — But  1  will  put  off 
The  deity  you  labour  to  take  from  me, 
And  argue  out  of  probabilities  with  you, 
As  if  I  were  a  man.     Can  I  believe 
That  she,  that  borrows  all  her  light  from  me, 
And  knows  to  use  it,  would  betray  her  darkness 
To  your  intelligence  :  and  make  that  apparent, 
Which,  by  her  perturbations,  in  a  play 
Was  yesterday  but  doubted,  and  find  none 
But  you,  that  are  her  slaves,  and  therefore  hate  her, 
Whose  aiAs  she  might  employ  to  make  way  for  her? 
Or  Aretinus,  whom  long  since  she  knew 
To  be  the  cabinet  counsellor,  nay,  the  key 
Of  Caesar's  secrets  '!     Could  her  beauty  raise  her 
To  this  unequall'd  height,  to  make  her  fall 
The  more  remarkable  ?  or  must  my  desires 
To  her,  and  wrongs  to  Lamia,  be  revenged 
By  her,  and  on  herself,  that  drew  on  both  ? 
Or  she  leave  our  imperial  bed,  to  court 
A  public  actor  ? 

Aret.  Who  dares  contradict 

These  more  than  human  reasons,  that  have  power 
To  clothe  base  guilt  in  the  most  glorious  shape 
Of  innocence? 

DomitiL  Too  well  she  knew  the  strength 
And  eloquence  of  her  patron  to  defend  her, 
And  thereupon  presuming-,  fell  securely  ; 
Not  fearing  an  accuser,  nor  the  tiuth 
Produced  against  her,  which  your  love  and  favour 
Will  ne'er  discern  from  falsehood. 

Ca-s.  I'll  not  hear 

A  syllable  more  that  may  invite  a  change 
In  my  opinion  of  her.     You  have  raised 
A  fiercer  war  within  me  by  this  fable, 
Though  with  your  lives  you  vow  to  make  it  story, 
Than  if,  and  at  one  instant,  all  my  legions 
Revolted  from  me,  and  came  arm'd  against  me. 
Here  in  this  paper  are  the  swords  predestined 


•  Caes.  Ha  !}    Omitted  by  Mr.  M.  Mason,  to  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  metre. 


For  my  destruction  ;  here  the  fatal  stars, 

That  threaten  more  than  ruin  ;  this  the  death's  head 

That  does  assure  me,  if  she  c»n  prove  false, 

That  I  am  mortal,  which  a  sudden  fever 

Would  prompt  :ne  to  believe,  arid  faintly  yield  to. 

But  now  in  my  full  confidence  what  she  sutiers, 

In  that,  from  any  witness  but  myself, 

I  nourish  a  suspicion  she's  untrue, 

My  toughness  returns  to  me.     Lead  on,  monsters, 

And,  by  the  forfeit  of  your  lives,  confirm 

She  is  all  excellence,  as  you  all  baseness  ; 

Or  let  mankind,  for  her  fall,  boldly  swear 

There  are  no  chaste  wives  now,  nor  ever  were*. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II — A  private   Walk  in   the  Gardens  of  the 
Palace. 

Enter  DOMITIA.  PARIS,  and  Servants. 

Dom.  Say  we  command  that  none  presume  to  dare, 
On  forfeit  of  our  favour,  that  is  life, 
Out  of  a  saucy  curiousnes,  to  stand 
Within  the  distance  of  their  eyes  or  ears, 
Till  we  please  to  be  waited  on.         [Exeunt  Servants. 

And,  sirrah, 

Howe'er  you  are  excepted,  let  it  not 
Beget  in  you  an  arrogant  opinion 
'Tis  done  to  grace  you. 

Par.   With  my  humblest  service 
I  but  obey  your  summons,  and  should  blush  else, 
To  be  so  near  you. 

Dom.  'T  would  become  you  rather 
To  fear  the  greatness  of  the  grace  vouchsafed  you 
May  overwhelm  you  ;  and  'twill  do  no  less, 
If,  when  you  are  rewarded,  in  your  cups 
You  boast  this  privacy. 

Par.  That  were,  mightiest  empress, 
To  play  with  lightning. 

Dom.  You  conceive  it  right. 
The  means  to  kill  or  save  is  not  alone 
In  Caesar  circumscribed  ;  for,  if  incensed, 
\Ve  have  our  thunder  too,  that  strikes  as  deadly. 

Par.  'Twould  ill  become  the  lowness  of  my  for- 
To  question  what  you  can  do,  but  with  all       [tune, 
Humility  to  attend  what  is  your  will, 
And  then  to  serve  it. 

Dom.  And  would  not  a  secret, 
Suppose  we  should  commit  it  to  your  trust, 
Scald  you  to  keep  it? 

Par.  Though  it  raged  within  me 
Till  I  turn'd  cinders,  it  should  ne'er  have  vent. 
To  be  an  age  a  dying,  and  with  torture, 
Only  to  be  thought  worthy  of  your  c-ounself. 
Or  actuate  what  you  command  to  mej,  [ledge, 

A  wretched  obscure  thing,  not  worth  your  know- 
Were  a  perpetual  happiness. 

Dom.  We  could  wish 


*  Or  let  mankind,  for  her  fall,  boldly  wear 

There  are  no  cha»te  wives  now,   nor  ever  were.]    The 
godlike  Ca'sar"  forgets  that   tlie  chattily  of  Domiiia  had 
long  ceased  lo  be  a  mailer  of  doubt. 

Only  to  be  thought  worthy  of  your  counsel,]  The  modern 
editors,  who  appear  not  to  have  understood  the  word,  read 
council  for  counsel:  but  the  latter  is  ris;ht.  It  mexunecrecy, 
and  so  it  is  frequently  nsed,  not  only  by  Masi-iiiger,  but  by 
all  the  writers  of  his  time  : 

"  But  what  they  did  there  is  counsel  to  me, 

Because  they  lay  late  the  next  day."  Old  Ballad. 
Or  actuate  what  you  command  to  me,}  Here  ai-.tuatc  is 
used  for  act,;\*  act  is  used  by  some  of  our  best  poeis  and 
Pope  among  the  rest,  but  with  less  propriety,  for  actuate. 


190 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


[An  IV 


That  we  could  credit  thee,  and  cannot  find 

In  reason,  but  that  thou,  whom  oft  1  have  seen 

'I  o  personate  a  gentleman,  noble,  wise, 

Faithful  and  gainsome,  and  what  virtues  else 

Tl.e  poet  plenses  to  adorn  you  with  ; 

But  that  (as  vessels  still  partake  the  odour* 

Of  the  sweet  precious  liquors  they  contain'd) 

Thou  must  be  really,  in  some  degrre, 

The  thing  thou  dost  present. — Nay,  do  not  tremble; 

We  seriously  believe  it.  and  presume 

Our  Paris  is  the  volume  in  which  all  [with, 

Those  excellent  gifts  the  stage  hath  seen  him  graced 

Are  curiously  bound  up. 

Par.  The  argument 

Is  the  same,  great  Augusta,  that  I,  acting 
A  fool,  a  coward,  a  traitor,  or  cold  cynic, 
Or  any  other  weak  and  vicious  person, 
Of  force  I  must  be  such.     O  gracious  madam, 
How  glorious  soever,  or  deform'd, 
I  do  appear  in  the  scene,  my  part  being  ended, 
And  all  my  borrow'd  ornaments  put  off, 
I  am  no  more,  nor  less,  than  what  I  was 
Before  I  enter'd. 

Dom.  Come,  you  would  put  on 
A  wilful  ignorance,  and  not  understand 
What  'tis  we  point  at.     Must  we  in  plain  language, 
Against  the  decent  modesty  of  our  sex, 
Sav  that  we  love  thee,  love  thee  to  enjoy  thee ; 
Or  that  in  our  desires  thou  art  preferr'd 
And  C:usar  but  thy  second?  Thou  injustice, 
It'  from  the  height  of  majesty  we  can 
Look  down  upon  thy  lowness,  and  embrace  it, 
Art  bound  with  fervour  to  look  up  to  me. 

Par.  O,  madam  !  hear  me  with  a  patient  ear, 
And  be  but  pleased  to  understand  the  reasons 
That  do  deter  me  from  a  happiness 
Kings  would  be  rivals  for.     Can  I,  that  owe 
My  life,  and  all  that's  mine,  to  Cassar's  bounties, 
Beyond  my  hopes  or  merits,  shower'd  upon  me, 
Make  payment  for  them  with  ingratitude, 
Falsehood,  and  treason  !  Though  you  have  a  shape 
Might  tempt  Hippolytus,  and  larger  power 
To  help  or  hurt  than  wanton  Phaedra  had, 
Let  loyalty  and  duty  plead  my  pardon, 
Though  1  refuse  to  satisfy. 

Dom.  You  are  coy, 

Expecting  I  should  court  you.     Let  mean  ladies 
Use  prayers  and  entreaties  to  their  creatures 
To  rise  up  instruments  to  serve  their  pleasures  ; 
But  for  Augusta  so  to  lose  herself, 
That  holds  command  o'er  Caesar  and  the  world, 
Were  poverty  of  spirit.     Thou  must,  thou  shall : 
The  violence  of  my  passion  knows  no  mean, 
And  in  my  punishments,  and  my  rewards, 
I'll  use  no  moderation.     Take  this  only, 
As  a  caution  from  me  ;  threadbare  chastity 
Is  poor  in  the  advancement  of  her  servants, 
But  wantonness  magnificent :  and  'tis  frequent 
To  have  the  salary  of  vice  weigh  down 
The  pay  of  virtue.     So,  without  more  trifling 
Thy  sudden  answer. 

Par.  In  what  a  strait  am  I  brought  inf  ! 


-(as  vessels  still  partuke  the  odour 


Of  the  tweet  i  recious  liquors  they  contain'd)] 
Quce  temel  ett  imbuta  recent  servabit  odorem 
'J'eita  din.  Hon. 

t  Par.   In  \rhat  a  strait  am  I  brought  in  !J    Coxtter  and 
M.  Mason  read, 

Oil !  what  a  ttrait  am  I  brought  in  ! 
This  ii,  perhaps,  a  better  mode  of  expression ;  bat  we  should 


Alas !  I  know  that  the  denial's  death  ; 

Nor  can  my  grant,  discover'd,  threaten  more. 

Yet,  to  die  innocent,  and  have  the  glory 

For  all  posterity  to  report,  that  I 

Refused  an  empress,  to  preserve  my  faith 

To  my  great  master  ;  in  true  judgment,  must 

Show  fairer  than  to  buy  a  guilty  life 

With  wealth  and  honour.     'Tis  the  base  I  build  on; 

I  dare  not,  must  not,  will  not. 

Dom.  How!  contemn'd  ? 

Since  hopes,  nor  fears,  in  the  extremes  prevail  not, 
I  must  use  a  mean.     Think  who  'tis  sues  to  thee : 
Deny  not  that  yet,  which  a  brother  mav 
j    Grant  to  his  sister  :  as  a  testimony 

I    Enter  C^SAR,  ARETIXUS.  JULIA,   DOMITILLA,  CJENIS, 
and  a  Guard  behind. 

I  am  not  scorn'd,  kiss  me  ; — kiss  me  again  : 
Kiss  closer.     Thou  art  now  my  Trojan  Paris, 
And  I  thy  Helen. 

Par.  Since  it  is  your  will. 

Cits.  And  I  am  .Menelaus;  but  I  shall  be 
Something  I  know  not  yet. 

Dam.  Why  lose  we  time 
And  opportunity  ?  These  are  but  salads 
To  sharpen  appetite  :  let  us  to  the  feast, 

[Courting  Paris  u-antonly. 
Where  T  shall  wish  that  thou  wert  Jupiter, 
And  I  Alcmena ;  and  that  1  had  power 
To  lengthen  out  one  short  night  into  three, 
And  so  beget  a  Hercules. 

Ca-s.  [Comes  forward.]   While  Amphitrio 
Stands  by,  and  draws  the  curtains 

Par.  Oh  ! [Fulls  on  h'ufuce. 

Dom.  Betray 'd! 

C<e».  No  ;  taken  in  a  net  of  Vulcan's  filing, 
Where,  in  myself,  the  theatre  of  the  gods 
Are  sad  spectators,  not  one  of  them  daring 
To  witness,  with  a  smile,  he  does  desire 
To  be  so  shamed  for  all  the  pleasure  that 
You've  sold  your  being  for!    What  shall  I  name 

thee? 

Ingrateful,  treacherous,  insatiate,  all 
Invectives  which,  in  bitterness  of  spirit,  [men, 

Wrong'd  men  have  breathed  out  against  wicked  wo- 
Cannot  express  thee  !   Have  I  raised  thee  from 
Thy  low  condition  to  the  height  of  greatness, 
Command,  and  majesty,  in  one  base  act 
To  render  me,  that  was,  before  I  hugg'd  thee*. 
An  adder,  in  my  bosom,  more  than  man, 
A  thing  beneath  a  beast !  J")id  I  force  these 
Of  mine  own  blood,  as  handmaids  to  kneel  to 
Thy  pomp  and  pride,  having  myself  no  thought 
But  how  with  benefits  to  bind  thee  mine  ; 
And  am  I  thus  rewarded  !   Not  a  knee, 
Nor  tear,  nor  sign  of  sorrow  for  thy  fault  ? 
Break  stubborn  silence  :  what  canst  thou  allege 
To  stay  my  vengeance  ? 


confound  all  times,  if  we  thus  modernized  every  phrase  which 
appears  uncouth  to  our  eyes  and  ears  :  add  too,  that  similar 
redundancies  are  to  be  found  in  almost  every  p:ige  of  our  old 
writers,  and  above  all,  in  Massinger !  An  instance  occurs 
just  below: 

of  which,  if  again 

I  could  be  ignorant  of,  &c. 

•  To  render  me  that  was,  before  I  hugg'd  thee,]  This  and 
the  two  following  lines  have  been  hitherto  p.intcd  and 
pointed  in  a  very  unintelligible  manner.  Mr.  M.  Ma.'on 
tried  to  reform  them,  but  tailed:  the  simple  removal  of  a 
bracket  in  the  old  copies  restores  them  to  sense. 


SCENSIII.] 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


191 


Pom.  This. — Thy  lust  compell'd  me 
To  be  a  strumpet,  and  mine  hath  return'd  it 
In  my  intent  and  will,  though  not  in  act, 
To  cuckold  thee. 

C<E<.  O,  impudence!  take  her  hence, 
And  let  her  make  her  entrance  into  hell, 
By  leaving  life  with  all  the  tortures  that 
Flesh  can  be  sensible  of.     Yet  stay.     What  power 
Her  beauty  still  holds  o'er  my  soul,  that  wrongs 
Of  this  unpardonable  nature  cannot  teach  me 
To  right  myself,  and  hate  her!  —  Kill  her. — Hold! 

0  that  my  dotage  should  increase  from  that 
Which  should  breed  detestation  !   By  Minerva, 
If  I  look  on  her  longer  I  shall  melt 

^nd  sue  to  her,  my  injuries  forgot, 

Again  to  be  received  into  her  favour  ; 

Could    honour  yield    to  it!      Carry    her    to  her 

chamber*  ; 
Be  that  her  prison,  till  in  cooler  blood 

1  shall  determine  of  her.     [Exit  Guard  with  Domitia. 

Aret.  Now  step  I  in, 

While  he's  in  this  calm  mood,  for  my  reward. 
Sir,  if  my  service  hath  deserved — 

C<et.  Yes,  yes : 

And  I'll  reward  thee.     Thou  hast  robb'd  me  of 
All  rest  and  peace,  and  been  the  principal  means 
To  make  me  know  that,  of  which  if  again 
I  could  be  ignorant  of,  I  would  purchase  it 

Re-enter  Guard. 

With  the  loss  of  empire  :  Strangle  him  ;  take  these 

hence  too, 

And  lodge  them  in  the  dungeon.  Could  your  reason, 
Dull  wretches,  flatter  you  with  hope  to  think 
That  this  discovery,  that  hath  shower 'd  upon  me 
Perpetual  vexation,  should  not  fall 
Heavy  on  you  1  Away  with  them ! — stop  their  mouths, 
I  will  hear  no  reply. 

[Exit  Guard  with  Aretinus.  Julia,  Caw's, 
and  Domitilla. 

— O,  Paris,  Paris  ! 

How  shall  I  argue  with  thee  1  how  begin 
To  make  thee  understand,  before  I  kill  thee.     [me  ? 
With  what  grief  and  unwillingness  'tis  forced  from 
Yet,  in  respect  I  have  favour'd  thee,  I'll  hear 
What  thou  canst  speak  to  qualify  or  excuse 
Thy  readiness  to  serve  this  woman's  lust ; 
And  which  thou  couldst  give  me  such  satisfaction, 
As  I  might  bury  the  remembrance  of  it. 
Look  up :  we  stand  attentive. 

Par.  O,  dread  Caesar  ! 
To  hope  for  life,  or  plead  in  the  defence 
Of  my  ingratitude,  were  again  to  wrong  you. 
I  know  I  have  deserved  death ;  and  my  suit  is, 
That  you  would  hasten  it :  yet,  that  your  highness, 
When  I  am  dead,  (as  sure  1  will  not  live,) 
May  pardon  me,  I'll  only  urge  my  frailty, 
Her  will,  and  the  temptation  of  that  beauty 
Which  you  could  not  resist.     How   could  poor  I, 

then, 

Fly  that  which  follow'd  me,  and  Cajsar  sued  for? 
This  is  all.     And  now  your  sentence. 

Ciet.  Which  I  know  not 

How  to  pronounce.     O  that  thy  fault  had  been 
But  such  as  I  might  pardon  !  if  thou  hadst 
In  wantonness,  like  Nero,  fired  proud  Rome, 


*  Carry  her  to  her  chamber  ;  &c.]  Mr.  M.  Mason  reads 
my  chamber,  strangely  enough ;  bat,  indeed,  this  \\  hole 
iceoe  is  very  carelessly  given  by  him. 


Betray'd  an  armv,  buti-her'd  the  whole  senate ; 

Committed  sacrilege,  or  any  crme 

The  justice  of  our  Roman  laws  calls  death, 

I  had  prevented  any  intercession, 

And  freely  >ign'd  thy  pardon. 

Par.  But  for  this, 

Alas  !  you  cannot,  nav,  you  must  not,  sir  j 
Nor  let  it  to  posterity  be  recorded, 
That  Ca-sar,  unreven'.ed,  suft'er'd  a  wrong, 
Which,  if  a  private  man  should  sit  down  with  it, 
Cowards  would  baffie  him. 

CV*.  With  such  true  feeling 
Thou  arguest  against  thyself,  that  it 
Works  more  upon  me,  than  if  my  Minerva, 
The  grand  protrectress  of  my  life  and  empire, 
On  forfeit  of  her  favour,  cried  aloud, 
Cffisar,  show  mercy  !   and,  1  know  not  how, 
I  am  inclined  to  it.     Rise.     I'll  ]>romise  nothing; 
Yet  clear  thy  cloudy  fears,  aud  cherish  hopt-s. 
What  we  must  do,  we  shall  do  :   we  remember 
A  tragedy  we  oft  have  seen  with  pleasure, 
Call'd  The  False  Servant. 

Par.  Such  a  one  we  have,  sir. 

Ctrs.  In  which  a  great  lord*  takes  to  his  protection 
A  man  forlorn,  giving  him  ample  power 
To  order  and  dispose  of  his  estate 
In 's  absence,  he  pretending  then  a  journey : 
But  yet  with  this  restraint  that,  on  no  terms, 
(This  lord  suspecting  his  wife's  cnnstam  y. 
She  having  play'd  false  to  a  former  l.u.->band,) 
The  servant,  though  solicited,  should  consent, 
Though  she  commanded  him,  to  quench  her  names. 

Pur.  That  was,  indeed,  the.  argument. 

Ctcs.  And  what 
Didst  thou  play  in  it? 

Par.  Tfce/MM  senutit,  sir.  [without  ? 

Cas.  Thou  didst,  indied.     Do  the  players  wait 

Par.  They  do.  sir,  and  prepared  to  act  the  story    ( 
Your  majesty  mention 'd. 

C<ft.  Call  them  in.     Who  presents 
The  injured  lord  ? 

Enter  ^iisopvs,  LATIKUS,  and  a  Lady. 

JEsop.  Tis  my  part,  sir. 

C<tt.  Thou  didst  not 

Do  it  to  the  life  ;  we  can  perform  it  better.          [not 
Off  with  my  robe  and  wreath:  since  Nero  scorned 
The  public  theatre,  we  in  private  may 
Disport  ourselves.     This  cloak  and  hat,  without 
Wearing  a  beard,  or  other  property, 
Will  fit  the  person. 

JEsop.  Only,  sir,  a  foil. 
The  point  and  edge  rebated,  when  you  act. 
To  do  the  murder.     If  you  please  to  use  this. 
And  lay  aside  your  own  sword. 

Cirt.  By  no  means. 

In  jest  nor  earnest  this  parts  never  from  me.     [lady 
We'll  have  but  one  short  scene — That,  where  the 
In  an  imperious  way  commands  the  servant 
To  be  unthankful  to  Lis  patron  :  when 
My  cue's  to  enter,  prompt  me  : — Nay,  begin, 
And  do  it  sprightly  :   though  but  a  new  actor, 
When  I  come  to  execution,  you  shall  find 
No  cause  to  laugh  at  me. 

Lot.  In  the  name  of  wonder, 
What's  Casar's  purpose  ! 

•  Css.  In  which  a  great  lord,  &c.l  The  modem  edition! 
give  this  ?p*tch  and  t!  e  nrxt  to  Pan.«.  The  blmidt-r,  which 
is  pnlpable  enough,  originated  with  Cnxeter,  and  the  most 
accurate  of  all  editors  unfortunately  followed  him. 


192 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


JEtop.  There's  is  no  contending. 
Cats.  Why,  when*  ? 
Par.  i  am  arm'd  : 

And,  stood  grim  Death  now  in  my  view,  and  his 
Inevitable  dart  aim'd  at  my  breast, 
His  cold  embraces  should  not  bring  an  ague 
To  any  of  my  faculties,  till  his  pleasures          [years 
Were  served  and   satisfied  ;  which  done,    Nestor's 
To  me  would  be  unwelcome.  [Aside. 

Lady.  Must  we  entreat, 

That  were  born  to  command  ?  or  court  a  servant, 
That  owes  his  food  and  clothing  to  our  bounty, 
For  that,  which  thou  ambitiously  shouldst kneel  for? 
Urge  not,  in  thy  excuse,  the  favours  of 
Thy  absent  lord,  or  that  thou  stand'st  engaged 
For  thy  life  to  his  charity ;  nor  thy  fears 
Of  what  may  follow,  it  being  in  my  power 
To  mould  him  any  way. 
Par.  As  you  may  me, 
Jn  what  his  reputation  is  not  wounded, 
Nor  I,  his  creature,  in  my  thankfulness  suffer. 
I  know  you're  young  and  fair;  be  virtuous  too, 
And  loyal  to  his  bed,  that  hath  advanced  you 
To  the  height  of  happiness. 

I.udu.  Can  my  lovesick  heart 
Be  cured  with  counsel  !  or  durst  reason  ever 
Offer  to  put  in  an  exploded  plea 
In  the  court  of  Venus  ?   My  desires  admit  not 
The  least  delay  ;  and  therefore  instantly 
Give  me  to  understand  what  I  must  trust  to  : 
For,  if  I  am  refused,  and  not  enjoy 
Those  ravishing  pleasures  from  thee,  I  run  mad  for, 
I'll  swear  unto  my  lord,  at  his  return, 
(Making  what  I  deliver  good  with  tears,) 
That  brutishly  thou  wcddst  have  forced  from  me 
What  I  make  suit  for.     And  then  but  imagine 
What  'tis  to  die,  with  these  words,  tlave  and  traitor, 
With  burning  corsiresfwrit  upon  thy  forehead, 
And  live  prepared  for't. 
Par.  This  he  will  believe 


Up'>n  her  information,  'tis  apparent ; 

And  then  I'm  nothing:  and  of  two  extremes, 

Wisdom  says,  choose  the  less.     Rather  than  fall 

Under  your  indignation,  I  will  yield  : 

This  kiss,  and  this,  confirms  it, 

&sop.  Now,  sir,  now. 

Ctes.  I  must  take  them  at  it? 

JEosop.  Yes,  sir ;  be  but  perfect.  [now ; 

CIES.  O  villain  !  thankless  villain  ! — I  should  talk 
But  I've  forgot  my  part.     But  I  can  do : 
Thus,  thus,  and  thus  !  [Sfais  Paris. 

Par.  Oh!  I  am  slain  in  earnest.  [Paris; 

C<es.  'Tis  true  ;  and  'twas  my  purpose,  my  good 
And  yet,  before  life  leave  thee,  let  the  honour 
I've  done  thee  in  thy  death  bring  comfort  to  thee. 
If  it  had  been  within  the  power  ofCasar, 
His  dignity  preserved,  he  had  pardon'd  thee  : 
But  cruelty  of  honour  did  deny  it. 
Yet,  to  confirm  I  loved  thee,  'twas  my  study 
To  make  thy  end  more  glorious,  to  distinguish 
My  Paris  from  all  others  ;  and  in  that 
Have  shown  my  pity.     Nor  would  I  let  thee  fall 
By  a  centurion's  sword,  or  have  thy  limbs 
Rent  piecemeal  by  the  hangman's  hook,  however 
Thy  crime  deserved  it :  but,  as  thou  didst  live 
Home's  bravest  actor,  'twas  my  plot  that  thou 
Shouldst  die  in  action,  and,  to  crown  it,  die, 
With  an  applause  enduring  to  all  times, 
By  our  imperial  hand. — His  soul  is  freed 
From  the  prison  of  his  flesh  ;  let  it  mount  upward' 
And  for  this  trunk,  when  that  the  funeral  pUe 
Hath  made  it  ashes,  we'll  see  it  enclosed 
In  a  golden  urn  ;  poets  adorn  his  hearse 
With  their  most  ravishing  sorrows,  and  the  stage 
For  ever  mourn  him,  and  all  such  as  were 
His  glad  spectators  weep  his  sudden  death, 
The  cause  forgotten  in  his  epitaph. 

[A  tad  music;  tA«  Players  bear  off  Par  it 
body,  Ctesar  and  the  restjollowing 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — A  "Room  in  the  Palace,  with  an  Image  of 
Minerva. 

Enter  PAUTWENIUS,  STEPHANOS,  and  Guard. 

Parth.  Keep  a  strong  guard  upon  him,  and  admit 
Access  to  any,  to  exchange  a  word  [not 

Or  syllable  with  him,  till  the  emperor  pleases 
To  call  him  to  his  presence. — [Eiit  Guard.] — The 

relation 

That  you  have  made  me,  Stephanos,  of  these  late 
Strange  passions  in  Caesar,  much  amaze  me. 
The  informer  Aretinus  put  to  death 
For  yielding  him  a  true  discovery 
Of  the  empress'  wantonness  ;  poor  Paris  kill'd  first, 

•  Why,whent\  This  is  marked  by  the  editors  as  an  im- 
perfect speech  ;  it  is,  however,  complete  ;  and  occurs  con- 
tinually in  our  »!'!  I'.rama.',  as  a  mark  of  impatience. 

I  H  ith  burning  cursives  writ  upon  thy  forehead,]  See 
The  Emperor  of  the  *M»t. 


And  now  lamented  ;  and  the  princesses 
Confined  to  several  islands  ;  yet  Augusta, 
The  machine  on  which  all  this  mischief  moved, 
Received  again  to  grace  ! 

Steph.  Nay,  courted  to  it : 
Such  is  the  impotence*  of  his  affection  ! 
Yet,  to  conceal  his  weakness,  he  gives  out 
The  people  made  suit  for  her,  whom  they  hate  more 
Than  civil  war,  or  famine.     But  take  heed, 
My  lord,  that,  nor  in  your  consent  nor  wishes, 
You  lent  or  furtherance  or  favour  to 
The  plot  contrived  against  her  :  should  she  prove  it, 
Nay,  doubt  it  only,  you  are  a  lost  man, 
Her  power  o'er  doting  Csesar  being  now 
Greater  than  ever. 

Parth.  'Tis  a  truth  I  shake  at ; 
And,  when  there's  opportunity 

•    Such  it  the  impotence  of  hi*  affection  !}   i.  e.  tbf  en 
governablcness,  the  uncontrollable  violence. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  ROMAN   ACTOR. 


193 


Steph.  Say  but,  Do, 
I  am  yours,  and  sure. 

Parth.  I'll  stand  one  trial  more, 
And  then  you  shall  bear  from  me. 

Steph.  Now  observe 
The  fondness  of  this  tyrant,  and  her  pride. 

[They  sland  aside. 

Enter  C.SSAR  and  DOMITIA. 

Cat.  Nay,  all's  forgotten. 

Dom.  It  may  be,  on  your  part. 

Cirs.  Forgiven  too,  Domitia  : — 'tis  a  favour 
That  you  should  welcome  with  more  cheerful  looks. 
Can  Czesar  pardon  what  you  durst  not  hope  for, 
That  did  the  injury,  and  yet  must  sue 
To  her,  whose  guilt  is  wash'd  off  by  his  mercy. 
Only  to  entertain  it? 

Dom.  I  ask'd  none  ; 

And  I  should  be  more  wretched  to  receive 
Remission  for  what  I  hold  no  crime, 
But  by  a  bare  acknowledgment,  than  if, 
By  slighting  and  contemning  it,  as  now, 
I  dared  thy  utmost  fury.     Though  thy  flatterers 
Persuade  thee,  that  thy  murders,  lusts,  and  rapes, 
Are  virtues  in  thee  ;  and  what  pleases  Caesar, 
Though  never  so  unjust,  is  right  and  lawful; 
Or  work  in  thee  a  false  belief  that  thou 
Art  more  than  mortal ;  yet  I  to  thy  teeth, 
When  circled  with  thy  guards,  thy  rods,  thy  axes, 
And  all  the  ensigns  of  thy  boasted  power, 
Will  say,  Dornitian,  nay,  add  to  it  Caesar, 
Is  a  weak,  feeble  man,  a  bondman  to 
His  violent  passions,  and  in  that  my  slave; 
Nay,  more  my  slave  than  my  affections  made  me 
To  my  loved  Paris. 

Cdi.  Can  I  live  and  hear  this  7 
Or  hear,  and  not  revenge  it?  Come,  you  know 
The  strength  that  you  hold  on  me,  do  not  use  it 
With  too  much  cruelty  ;  for  though  'tis  granted 
That  Lydian  Omphale  had  less  command 
O'er  Hercules,  than  you  usurp  o'er  me, 
Reason  may  teach  me  to  shake  off  tbe  yoke 
Of  my  fond  dotage. 

Dom.  Never ;  do  not  hope  it ; 
It  cannot  be.     Thou  being  my  beauty's  captive, 
And  not  to  be  redeem'd,  my  empire's  larger 
Than  thine,  Domitian,  which  I'll  exercise 
With  rigour  on  thee,  for  my  Paris'  death. 
And,  when  I've  forced  those  eyes,  now  red  with  fun-, 
To  drop  down  tears,  in  vain  spent  to  appease  me, 
I  know  thy  fervour  such  to  my  embraces,          [thee, 
Which  shall  be,  though  still  kneel'd  for,  still  denied 
That  thou  with  languishment  shall  wish  my  actor 
Did  live  again,  so  thou  mightst  be  bis  second 
To  feed  upon  those  delicates,  when  he's  sated*. 

Ca'3,  O  my  Minerva !  [her : 

Dom.  There  she  is   (points  to  the  statue).    Invoke 
She  cannot  arm  thee  with  ability 
To  draw  thy  sword  on  me,  my  power  being  greater  : 
Or  only  say  to  thy  centurions, 
Dare  none  of  you  do  what  I  shake  to  think  on, 
And  in  this  woman's  death  remove  the  furies 
That  every  hour  afflict  me  ? — Lamia's  wrongs, 
When  thy  lust  forced  me  from  him,  are  in  me 
At  the  height  revenged ;  nor  would  I  outlive  Paris, 

•  Tofeedvpon  those  dflicates,  when  lie's  sated.]    So  the    j 
old  copies :    but  the  modern  editors,  laudably  solicitous  lor 
the  sense,  as  well  as  the  metre,  of  their  author,  concur   in 
reading, 

It  feed  upon  those  delicate*,  when  lie  were  sated  I 


But  that  thy  love,  increasing  •with  my  hate, 
Mav  add  unto  thy  torments  ;  so,  with  all 
Contempt  I  can,  1  leave  thee.  [Exit. 

C<fs.  1  am  lost, 

Nor  am  I  Ca?sar.     \Vhen  I  first  betray'd 
The  freedom  of  my  faculties  and  will 
To  this  imperious  siren,  I  laid  down 
The  empire  of  the  world,  and  of  myself, 
At  her  proud  feet.     Sleep  all  my  ireful  powers! 
Or  is  the  magic  of  my  dotage  such, 
That  I  must  still  make  suit  to  hear  those  charms 
That  do  increase  my  thraldom  !   Wake,  my  anger; 
For  shame,  break  through  this  lethargy,  and  appear 
With  usual  terror,  and  enable  me, 
Since  I  wear  not  a  sword  to  pierce  her  heait, 
Nor  have  a  tongue  to  say  this,  Let  her  die, 
Though  'tis  done  with  a  fever-shaken  hand, 

[Putli  out  a  table  book. 

To  sign  her  death.     Assist  me,  great  Minerva, 
And  vindicate  thy  votarv  !  (tvrites)  So  ;  sHe's  now 
Among  the  list  of  those  I  have  proscribed, 
And  are,  to  free  me  of  my  doubts  and  fears, 
To  die  to-morrow. 

Steph.  That  same  fatal  book 
Was  never  drawn  yet.  but  some  men  of  rank 
Wrere  mark'd  out  for  destruction.  [Exit 

Parth.  1  begin 
To  doubt  myself. 

Cft.  Who  waits  there  ? 

Parth.  Csesar. 

C.TI.  So! 
These,  that  command  arm'd  troops,  quake   at  my 

frowns, 

And  yet  a  woman  slights  them.  Where's  the  wizard 
We  charged  you  to  fetch  in  ? 

Parth.  Ready  to  suffer 
What  death  you  please  to  appoint  him. 

Cffs.  Bring  him  in. 
We'll  question  him  ourself. 

Enter  Tribunes,  and  Guard  with  ASCLETAHIO. 

Now,  you,  that  hold 

Intelligence  with  the  stars,  and  dare  prefix 
The  day  and  hour  in  which  we  are  to  part 
With  life  and  empire,  punctually  foretelling 
The  means  and  manner  of  our  violent  end  ; 
As  you  would  purchase  credit  to  your  art, 
Resolve  me,  since  you  are  assured  of  us, 
What  fate  attends  yourself? 

Aide.  I  have  had  long  since 
A  ceitain  knowledge,  and  as  sure  as  thou 
Shalt  die  to-morrow,  being  the  fourteenth  of 
The  kalends  of  October,  the  hour  live  ; 
Spite  of  prevention,  this  carcass  shall  be 
Torn  and  devour'd  by  dogs  ; — and  let  that  stand 
For  a  firm  prediction. 

Ctes.  May  our  body,  wretch, 
Find  never  nobler  sepulchre,  if  this 
Fall  ever  on  thee !     Are  we  the  great  disposer 
Of  life  and  death,  yet  cannot  mock  the  stars 
In  such  a  trifle  ?  Hence  with  the  impostor  ; 
And  having  cut  his  throat,  erect  a  pile 
Guarded  with  soldiers,  till  his  cursed  trunk 
Be  turn'd  to  ashes  •  upon  forfeit  of 
Your  life,  and  theirs,  perform  it. 

Ascle.  'Tis  in  vain  ; 

When  what  I  have  foretold  is  made  apparent, 
Tremble  to  think  what  follows. 

Citt.  Drag  him  hence, 

[The  Tribunetand  Guardt  bear  of  Atcletario. 


191 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


[Acr  V 


And  do  as  I  command  you.     I  was  never 

Fuller  of  confidence  ;  for,  having  got 

The  victory  of  inv  passions,  in  my  freedom 

From  proud  Domitia  (who  shall  cease  to  live, 

Since  she  disdains  lo  love),  I  rest  unmoved  : 

And,  in  defiance  of  prodigious  meteors, 

Chaldeans'  »ain  predictions,  jealous  fears 

Of  mv  near  friends  and  freedmen.  certain  hate 

Of  kindred  and  alliance,  or  all  terrors 

'I  he  soldiers'  doubted  faith  or  people's  rage  ^ 

Can  bring  to  shake  my  constancy,  1  am  arm'd. 

That  scrupulous  thing  styled  conscience  is  sear'd 

up. 

And  I,  insensible  of  all  my  actions, 
For  which,  bv  moral  and  religious  fools, 
I  stand  condemn'd,  as  they  had  never  been. 
And,  since  I  have  subdued  triumphant  love, 
I  will  not  deify  pale  captive  fear, 
Nor  in  a  thought  receive  it.     For,  till  thou, 
Wisest  Minerva,  that  from  my  first  youth 
Ha.st  been  my  sole  protectress,  dost  forsake  me, 
Not  Junius  Uusticus'  threatened  apparition*, 
Nor  what  this  soothsayer  but  even  now  foretold, 
Being  things  impossible  to  human  reason, 
Shall   in    a  d:eam  disturb   me.     Bring   my   couch 

there : 

A  sudden  but  a  secure  drowsiness 
Invites  me  to  repose  myself.     Let  music, 
With  some  choice  ditty,  second  it; — [Eiit  Parthe- 

iiius.] — the  mean  time, 

Re»v  there,  dear  book,  which  open'd,  when  I  wake, 
[L'H/s  the  book  under  /iwpi/»ou>,t 
Shall  make  some  sleep  for  ever. 

[  Music  and  a  song.     Ciesar  sleeps. 

Re-enter  PAIITIIENIUS  and  DOMITIA. 

Dam.  Write  my  name 

In  his  bloody  scroll,  Parthenius  !  the  fear's  idle: 
He  durst  not,  could  not. 

Purth.  I  can  assure  nothing  ; 
But.  1  observed,  when  you  departed  from  him, 
After  >ome  little  passion,  but  much  fury, 
He  drew  it  out :  whose  death  he  sign'd,  I  know  not; 
But  in  his  looks  appear'd  a  resolution 
Of  what  before  he  stagger'd  at.      What  he  hath 
Determined  of  is  uncertain,  but  too  soon 
Will  fall  on  you,  or  me,  or  both,  or  anv, 
His  pleasure  known  to  the  tribunes  and  centurions, 
Who  never  use  to  enquire  his  will,  but  serve  it. 
Now,  if,  out  of  the  confidence  of  your  power, 
Ihe  bloody  catalogue  beinj;  still  about  him, 
As  he  sleeps  you  dare  peruse  it  or  remove  it, 
You  may  instruct  yourself,  or  what  to  suffer, 
Or  how  to  cross  it. 

Dam.  i  would  not  be  caught 

With  too  much  confidence.   By  your  leave,  sir.  Ha! 
No  motion  !  vou  lie  uneasy,  sir, 
Let  me  mend  your  pillow.  [Takes the  book. 

Purth.  Have  you  it] 

Dow.  'Tis  here. 

Ctff.  Oh  !  [madam, 

Parth.  You    have   waked   him:    softly,  gracious 


*  A'or  Junii:t  Uusticus'  tlirealen'd  apparition.]  Act  III. 
»r.  ii 

t  [f*ays  the  booh  under  hit  pillow. \  Nolliinp  (as  I  have 
more  th.m  mice  liad  ucc.i.-inii  to  '  bservo)  can  be  more  care- 
l.-«s  than  (lie  »l.i<{  -diiections  ill  tin:  modern  editions  Here 
they  bolh  nuki:  Cois.ir  Ull  asleep  in  ihe  mi. 1st  of  his  speech, 
which,  iic%eittivle»s,  they  both  suffer  him  to  continue  1 


While*  we  are  unknown  ;  and  then  consult  at  leisure 

[Exeunt. 

Dreadful  music.  The  Apparitions  of  JUNIUS  Rvs- 
TICUS  and  PAI.PHUHIUS  SURA  rise,  tcith  bloody  swords 
in  their  hands  ;  they  wave  them  over  the  head  if 
CJESAR,  who  seems  troubled  in  his  sleep,  mid  as  if 
prauing  t>  the  image  of  Miner  HI,  which  they  sctirn- 
fully  seize,  and  then  disappear  with  it. 

Ctes.   Defend  me,  goddess,  or  this  horrid  dream 
Will  force  me  to  distraction  !  whither  have 
These  furies  borne  thee  ?     Let  me  rise  and  follow. 
1  am  bathed  o'er  with  the  cold  sweat  of  death, 
And  am  deprived  of  organs  to  pursue 
These  sacrilegious  spirits.     Am  I  at  once 
Hobb'd  of  my  hopes  and  being?     No,  I  live — 

[Rises  distractedly. 

Yes,  live,  and  have  discoursef,  to  know  myself 

Of  gods  and  men  forsaken.     What  accuser 

Within  me  cries  aloud,  I  have  deserved  it, 

In  being  just  to  neither?     Who  dares  speak  this? 

Am  I  not  Caesar  ? — How!  again  repeat  it  ? 

Presumptuous  traitor,  thou  shall  die!  —  What  traitor  7 

He  that  hath  been  a  traitor  to  himself, 

And  stands  convicted  here.     Yet  who  can  sit 

A  competent  judge  o'er  Caesar?  Ca?sar.     Yes, 

Caesar  by  Cffisar's  sentenced,  and  must  suffer; 

Minerva  cannot  save  him.     Ha  !  where  is  shef  ? 

Where  is  my  goddess?  vanish'd  !     I  am  lost  then. 

No  ;  'twas  no  dream,  but  a  most  real  truth, 

That  Junius  Rusticus  and  Palpliurius  Sura, 

Although  their  ashes  were  cast  in  the  sea, 

Were  by  their  innocence  made  up  again, 

And  in  corporeal  forms  but  now  appear'd, 

Waving  their  bloody  swords  above  my  head, 

As  at  their  deaths  they  threaten'd.   And,  methought, 

Minerva,  ravish'd  hence,  whisper'd  that  she 

Was,  for  my  blasphemies,  disarm'd  by  Jove, 

And  could  no  more  protect  me.     Yes,  'twas  so, 

[Thunder  and  lightning, 
His  thunder  does  confirm  it,  against  which, 
Howe'er  it  spare  the  laurel,  this  proud  wreath 

Enter  three  Tribunes. 

Is  no  assurance.     Ha  !  come  you  resolved 
To  be  my  executioners? 

1  Trib.  Allegiance 

And  faith  forbid  that  we  should  lift  an  arm. 
Against  your  sacred  head. 

2  Trib.  We  rather  sue 
For  mercy. 

3  Trib.  And  acknowledge  that  injustice 
Our  lives  are  forfeited  for  not  performing 
What  Cwsar  charged  us. 

1  Trib.  Nor  did  we  transgress  it 


•  softly,  gracious  madam, 
While  we  are  unknown,]  i.  e.  until:  a  very  common  ac- 
ceptation of  the  uonl  in  our  old  writers.     So  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher: 

"  1  may  be  convey'd  into  your  chamber,  I'll  lie 
Under  your  bed  while  midnight."    Wit  at  several  Weapons, 
And  Waller : 

"  Blessings  may  be  repeated  while  they  cloy  : 
But  shall  we  starve  because  fruition's  joy  ?" 
1  Yes,  live,  and  have  discourse,]  i.  e.  reason  or  judgment. 

J  Ha  !  where  is  she  ! 

Where  i»  my  goddess?}  This  attachment  of  Domilian  to 
Minerva  is  an  i  istoiical  fart.  He  chose  her  at  an  early 
period  of  his  life  for  his  protectress,  multiplied  her  statues  to 
a  great  extent,  and  had  always  a  strong  reliance  on  her 
favour.  If  the  reader  wishes  for  more  on  the  subject,  he 
may  turn  to  the  editor's  translation  of  Jiucnal,  Sat.  V1J 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


In  our  want  of  will  or  care  ;  for,  being  but  men, 
It  could  not  be  in  us  to  make  resistance, 
The  gods  fighting  against  us. 

Ctef.  Speak,  in  what 

Did  they  express  their  anger  ?  we  will  hear  it, 
'But  dare  not  say,  undaunted. 

1  Trib.  In  brief  thus,  sir  : 
The  sentence  given  by  your  imperial  tongue, 
For  the  astrologer  Ascletario's  death, 
Wiih  speed  was  put  in  execution. 

Cies.   Well.  [his  arms 

1  Trih.  For,  his  throat  cut,  his  legs  bound,  and 
Pinion'd  behind  his  back,  the  breathless  trunk 
Was  with  all  scorn  dragg'd  to  the  field  of  Mars, 
And  there,  a  pile  being  raised  of  old  dry  wood, 
Smear'd  o'er  with  oil  and  brimstone,  or  what  else 
Could  help  to  feed  or  to  increase  the  fire, 
The  carcass  was  thrown  on  it ;  but  no  sooner 
The  stuff,  that  was  most  apt,  began  to  flame, 
But  suddenly,  to  the  amazement  of 
The  fearless  soldier,  a  sudden  flash 
Of  lightning,  breaking  through  the  scatter'd  clouds, 
With  such  a  horrid  violence  forced  its  passage, 
And,  as  disdaining  all  heat  but  itself, 
In  a  moment  quench'd  the  artificial  fire  : 
And  before  we  could  kindle  it  again, 
A  clap  of  thunder  follow'd  wiih  such  noise, 
As  if  then  Jove,  incensed  against  mankind, 
Had  in  his  secret  purposes  determined 
An  universal  ruin  to  the  world. 
This  horror  past,  not  at  Deucalion's  flood 
Such  a  stormy  shower  of  rain  (and  yet  that  word  is 
Too  mirrow  to  express  it)  was  e'er  seen  : 
Imagine  rather,  sir,  that  with  less  fury 
The  waves  rush  down  the  cataracts  of  Nile; 
Or  that  the  sea,  spouted  into  the  air 
By  the  angry  Ore,  endangering  tall  ships 

But  sailing  near  it,  so  falls  down  again. 

Yet  here  the  wonder  ends  not,  but  begins : 
For,  as  in  vain  we  labour'd  to  consume 
The  wizard's  body,  all  the  dogs  of  Rome, 
Howling  and  yelling  like  to  famish 'd  wolves, 
Brake  in  upon  us  ;  and  though  thousands  were 
Kill'd  iu  th'  attempt,  some  did  ascend  the  pile, 
And  with  their  eager  fangs  seized  on  the  carcass. 

CV s    But  have  they  torn  it  ? 

1  Trih.  Torn  it  and  devour'd  it. 

Cict.  I  then  am  a  dead  man,  since  all  predictions 
Assure  me  I  am  lost.     O,  n<y  loved  soldiers, 
Your  emperor  must  leave  you  !  yet,  however 
I  cannot  grant  myself  a  short  reprieve, 
I  freely  pardon  you.     The  fatal  hour 
Steals  fast  upon  me  :  I  must  die  this  morning, 
By  five*,  my  soldiers  ;  that's  the  latest  hour 
You  e'er  must  see  me  living. 

1  Trib.  Jove  avert  it ! 
In  our  swords  lies  your  fate,  and  we  will  guard  it. 

Ccej.  O  no,  it  cannot  be  ;  it  is  decreed 
Above,  and  by  no  strength  here  to  be  alter'd. 
Let  prouu  mortality  but  look  on  Ca?sar, 
Compass'd  of  late  with  armies,  in  his  eyes 
Carrying  both  life  and  death,  and  in  his  arms 
Fathoming  the  earth ;  that  would  be  styled  a  god, 
And  is,  for  that  presumption,  cast  beneath 


/  must  die  this  morning, 


By  five,  &c.  i  II  may  be  just  necessary,  for  ihc  sake  of 
tin;  mere  Knglish  reader,  to  observe  that  Mas»inger  makes  use 
here  <>(  llie  Roman  manner  of  computation  :  five  in  the 
morning,  therefore,  answers  to  our  eleven  o'clock. 


The  low  condition  of  a  common  man, 
Sinking  with  mine  own  weight. 

1  Trib.  Do  not  forsake 
Yourself,  we'll  never  leave  you. 

2  Trib.  We'll  draw  up 

More  cohorts  of  your  guard,  if  you  doubt  treason. 

Ceet.  They  cannot  save  me.     The  offended  gods, 
That  now  sit  judges  on  me,  from  their  envy 
Of  my  power  and  greatness  here,   conspire  against 
me. 

1  Trib.  Endeavour  to  appease  them. 

Cift.  'Twill  be  fruitless  : 
I'm  past  hope  of  remission.     Yet  could  I 
Decline  this  dreadful  hour  of  five,  these  terrors, 
That  drive  me  to  despair,  would  soon  fly  from  ine  : 
And  could  you  but  till  then  assure  me* 

1  Trib.  Yes,  sir ; 

Or  we'll  fall  with  you,  and  make  Rome  the  urn 
In  which  we'll  mix  our  ashes. 

Cits.  Tis  said  nobly  : 
I'm  something  comforted  :  howe'er,  to  die 
Is  the  full  period  of  calamity.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— Another  flooro  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  PARTHENIUS,  DOMITIA,  JUI.IA,  C.cxis,  DOMI- 
TiLt-A,  STEPHANOS,  SEJEIUS,  and  ENTELLUS. 

Part'i.  You  see  we  are  all  condemned ;  there's  no 

evasion  ; 
We  must  do,  or  suffer. 

Steph.  But  it  must  be  sudden  ; 
The  least  delay  is  mortal. 

Dam.  Would  I  were 
A  man,  to  give  it  action  ! 

Vomit  it.  Could  I  make  my  approaches,  though 

my  stature 

Does  promise  little,  I  have  a  spirit  as  daring 
As  hers  that  can  reach  higher. 

Steph.  I  will  take 

That  burthen  from  you,  madam.  All  the  art  is, 
To  draw  him  from  the  tribunes  that  attend  him ; 
For,  could  you  bring  him  but  within  my  sword's 

reach, 

The  world  should  owe  her  freedom  from  a  tyrant 
To  Stephanos. 

Sej.  You  shall  not  share  alone 
The  glory  of  a  deed  that  will  endure 
To  all  posterity. 

I'i'.t.  I  will  put  in 
For  a  part  myself. 

Parth.  Be  resolved,  and  stand  close. 
I  have  conceived  a  way,  and  witli  the  hazard 
Of  my  life  I'll  practise  it,  to  fetch  him  hither. 
But  then  no  trifling. 

Steph.  We'll  dispatch  him,  fear  not: 
A  dead  dog  never  bites. 

Par(/i.  Thus  then  at  all. 

[Exit  ;  the  rest  conceal  themselves 

Enter  C^SAU  and  the  Tribunes. 

Cies.  How  slow-paced  are  these  minutes  !  in  ex- 
tremes, 

How  miserable  is  the  least  delay  ! 
Could  I  inapt  feathers  to  the  wings  of  time, 
Or  with  as  little  ease  command  the  sun 


*  And  could  you  but  till  then  auure  me 1  i.  e.  till  five. 

Till  then,  which  is  absolutely  necessur)  to  the  sense,  »*  well 
as  the  metre,  is  omitted  by  Mr.  M.  .Mason. 

t  Could  J  impfeatheri,  &c.J  See  Renegade,  Act  V  sc.  vili 


196 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


[AcrV 


To  scourge  his  coursers  up  heaven's  eastern  hill, 
Making  the  hour  to  tremble  at  past  recalling, 
As  I  can  move  this  dial's  tongue  to  six  ;* 
My  veins  and  arteries,  emptied  with  fear, 
Would  fill  and  swell  again.     How  do  I  look  ? 
Do  you  yet  see  Death  about  me  ? 

1  Trib.  Think  not  of  him  ; 
There  is  no  danger  :  all  these  prodigies 
That  do  affright  you,  rise  from  natural  causes ; 
And  though  you  do  ascribe  them  to  yourself. 
Had  you  ne'er  been,  had  happened. 

Cies.  'Tis  well  said, 

Exceeding  well,  brave  soldier.     Can  it  be, 
That  I,  that  feel  myself  in  health  and  strength, 
Should  still  believe  I  am  so  near  my  end, 
And  have  my  guards  about  me  1  perish  all 
Predictions !   1  grow  constant  they  are  false, 
And  built  upon  uncertainties. 

1  Trib.  This  is  right ; 
Now  Caesar's  heard  like  Caesar. 

Ctf*.  We  will  to 

The  camp,  and  having  there  confirm 'd  the  soldier 
With  a  large  donative  and  increase  of  pay, 
Some  shall 1  say  no  more. 

He-enter  PAHTHENIOS. 

Parth.  All  happiness, 
Security,  long  life,  attend  upon 
The  monarch  of  the  world  ! 

Cies.  Thy  looks  are  cheerful. 

Parth.  And  my  relation  full  of  joy  and  wonder. 
Why  is  the  care  of  your  imperial  body, 
My  lord,  neglected,  the  fear'd  hour  being  past, 
In  which  your  life  was  threaten'dl 

Ctfs.  Is't  past  five? 

Parth.  Past  six,  upon   my  knowledge;    and,  in 

justice, 

Your  clock-master  should  die,  that  hath  deferr'd 
Your  peace  so  long.     There  is  a  post  new  lighted, 
That  brings  assured  intelligence,  that  your  legions 
In  Syria  have  won  a  glorious  day, 
And  much  enlarged  your  empire.     I  have  kept  him 
Conceal'd,  that  you  might  first  partake  the  pleasure 
In  private,  and  the  senate  from  yourself 
Be  taught  to  understand  how  much  they  owe 
To  you  and  to  your  fortune. 

C<FS.  Hence,  pale  fear,  then ! 
Lead  me,  Parthenius. 

1  Trib.  Shall  we  wait  you  ? 
Gift.  No. 

After  losses  guards  are  useful.     Know  your  distance. 
[Exeunt  CtEiar  and  Partlieniiis. 

2  Trib.  How  strangely  hopes  delude  men  !   as  I 
live, 

The  hour  is  not  yet  come. 

1  Trib.  Howe'er,  we  are 
To  pay  our  duties  and  observe  the  sequel. 

[Exeunt  Tribunes.     Domiiia  and  tht  rest 

come  forward. 
Dam.  I  hear  him  coming.     I3e  constant. 

lie-enter  CJESATI  and  PAIITHEXIUS. 

Cits.  Where,  Parthenius, 
Is  this  glad  messenger? 

Steph.  Make  the  door  fast.     Here; 
A  messenger  of  horror. 

Cits.  How  !  betray 'd  ? 


•  At  /  can   move  'Jii*  dial's  tongue  to  tin ;]   I.  e.  to  the 
hour  of  oooa. 


Dom.  No  ;  taken,  tyrant. 

Cats.  My  Domitia 
In  the  conspiracy ! 

Parth.  Behold  this  book. 

CIES.  Nay,  then  I  am  lost.     Yet,  though  I  am 

unarm 'd 
I'll  not  fall  poorly.  [Overthrows  Stephanos. 

Steph.  Help  me. 

Ent.  Thus,  and  thus  ! 

Sej.  Are  you  so  long  a  falling  ?      [They  stab  him. 

Ctes.  'Tis  done  basely.  [Diet* 

Parth.  This  for  my  father's  death. 

Dom.  This  for  my  Paris. 

Jul.  This  for  thy  incest. 

Damiiil.  This  for  thy  abuse 
Of  Domitilla.  [They  severally  stab  him. 

Tribunes,  [within."]  Force  the  doors  ! 

Enter  Tribunes. 

0  Mars ! 
What  have  you  done  ? 

Parth.  \\  hat  Rome  shall  give  us  thanks  for. 

Steph.  Dispatch'd  a  monster. 

1  Trib.  Yet  he  was  our  prince, 
However  wicked  ;  and,  in  you,  this  murder 
Which  whosoe'er  succeeds  him  will  revenge: 
Nor  will  we,  that  served  under  his  command, 
Consent  that  such  a  monster  as  thyself, 
(For  in  thy  wickedness  Augusta's  title 
Hath  quite  forsook  tliee,)  thou,  that  wert  the  ground 
Of  all  these  mischiefs,  shall  go  hence  unpunish'd: 
Lay  hands  on  her,  and  drag  her  to  her  sentence. — 
\Ve  will  refer  the  hearing  to  the  senate, 
Who  may  at  their  best  leisure  censure  you. 
Take  up  his  body  :  be  in  death  hath  paid 
For  all  his  cruelties.     Here's  the  difference  ; 
Good  kings  are  mourn 'd  for  alter  life  ;  but  ill, 
And  such  as  govern 'd  only  by  their  will, 
And  not  their  reason,  unhimented  fall ; 
No  good  man's  tear  shed  at  their  funeral. 

[Exeunt ;  the  Tribunes  bearing  the  body  of  C«sarf 


*  In  this  tragedy  Massinger  seems  to  have  aimed  at  some- 
thing particular!)  dignified  and  lolly.  1  do  not  know  that  lie 
has  quite  succeeded.  The  failure,  hoTevcr,  arises  not  so 
much  from  the  subject  as  the  characters.  The  portrait  of 
Domitian,  which  is  too  disgusiiug  to  excite  murh  interest, 
might  have  been  relieved  by  some  of  those  touches  of  acci- 
dental virtue  which  sometimes  strangled  across  his  vices; 
or  the  vices  themselves  might  have  been  made  to  enliven 
each  other  by  contrast.  History  would  have  supplied  both 
these  resources.  But  Ma>siuger  has  been  content  to  re- 
present him  in  the  least  varied  part  of  his  life,  when  lust 
and  cruelty  had  swallowed  up  all  his  faculties,  extinguished 
every  remembrance  of  virtue,  and  reduced  him  to  a  loath- 
some mass  of  filth  and  fury.  Now  and  then,  indeed,  we 
meet  with  more  movement  and  interest.  During  the 
tortures  of  Ruslicnx  and  Sura  (the  horror  of  which  reminds 
us  of  the  Vinjin  Martyr)  the  force  of  consignee  U  made  to 
appear  fora  moment;  and  while  I. is  assassination  is  prepar- 
ing, he  is  fatally  secure,  then  falls  into  terror;  is  confident 
once  more,  and  is  presently  dispatched.  The  charactfrs  of 
the  women  are  scarcely  better  than  that  of  Domitian. 
Their  love  is  licentiousness;  nor  is  Domitilla,  whose  case 
would  have  allowed  it,  sulticiently  distinguished  from  the 
reft.  But  the  vengeance  implored  by  1/nnia  against  hit 
wife  is  well  conducted.  It  is  aptly  fulfilled  by  herself  in 
the  progres*  of  her  own  debaucheries. 

Indeed  Massinger's  chii-f  attention  is  bestowed  on  Paris. 
In  his  favour  the  voice  of  history  is  raised  far  above  the  tniili ; 
and  in  a  scene  of  extraordinary  animation  he  is  made  to  dc 
fend  himself  and  the  stage  wiihall  the  dignity  of  patriotism 
and  the  intrepidity  of  conscious  reciitnde.  Here  we  n..ij 
reasonably  suppose  the  writer  to  have  ha'l  some  nearer 
meaning;  and  the  charge  of  Aretiuus.  and  the  refutation  of 
it,  Act  I.,  Sc.  iii.,  may  strengthen  the  suspicion  expressed  in 
ihc  account  given  of  The  Jiondinan.  Another  of  the«« 


THE  ROMAN  ACTOR. 


19T 


-.erson;il  circumstances  strikes  as  at  the  very  opening  of 
Jus  j)Uy.  Paris  had  the  wealth  and  the  honours  of  Koine  at 
nis  command,  but  Alassinger  had  too  good  reason  to  com- 
plain that  the  "  times  were  dull,"  and  that  the  profits  of  his 
profession  hardly  satisfied  "  the  day's  expense." 

A  word  must  be  jaid  of  the  "  episodes,"  as  they  have 
been  termed.  Mr.  M.  Mason  has  pronounced  them  tedious, 
and  Davies  allows  them  to  be  incumbnnces.  It  was  their 
duty  to  enquire  whether  the  plot  is  assisted  by  them.  Jf 
liiry  had  done  this  with  care,  they  mun  have  found  that  the 
interlude  ordered  for  Philargus  is  the  occasion  of  his  death, 
and  therefore  contributes  to  the  assassination  of  Domilian 
through  the  vengeance  of  Parthenius,  who  stabs  him  in  the 
name  of  his  murdered  father.  It  also  begins  the  passion  of 
Domitia  lor  Paris,  and  hastens  the  catastrophe,  through  her 
alienation  fiom  the  emperor.  The  other  interludes  promote 
the  last  effect  only  ;  but  all  of  them  are  more  or  less  con- 
uecte'l  with  the  main  subject,  which  they  tend  to  enliven 
aiul  relieve.  The  only  forgetl'ulness  [  observe,  is  in  the  last 
act.  The  princesses  are  "  confined  to  several  islands;"  yet 
they  appear  without  further  notice,  and  partake  in  the  assas- 
sination of  Dt.iiiiiii.in.  However,  this  is  very  unusual  with 
Massiuger,  who  is  generally  exact  in  arranging  his  subject, 
and  accounting  for  the  minutest  incidents  ot'fc> 

A  word  more  of  the  two  conspirators,  whos%. Barnes  have 
not  hitherto  appeared  among  the  dramatis  perjIMKe.  Cox- 
ettr  had  refened  the  reader  to  Suetonius  for  the  materials 
of  this  play,  and  asserted  that  Massinger  had  strictly  copied 
him.  This  seems  to  have  satisfied  Mr.  M.  Mason,  whrf  either 


did  not  look  into  Suetonius,  or,  if  he  did,  was  prudently 
silent  about  characters  which  he  could  nut  find.  But  Stjeius 
(.Sigerius)  and  Entellus  are  as  much  historical  persons  as 
Panhenius  or  any  other.  They  are  expressly  mentioned  in 
this  very  affair  by  Dio  Cassius,  who  furnishes  other  particu- 
lars adopted  by  Massinger,  and  not  to  be  found  in  Suetonius. 

The  first  of  them  indeed  he  calls  Sigerus ;  but  the  true 
name  has  been  recovered  from  Martial,  who  couples  it  -with 
that  of  Parthenius,  lib.  iv.f  79.  It  the  commentator  be  right 
(or  rather  Grotius,  to  whom  he  refers,)  Sigerius  is  also 
quoted  by  Tertullian  as  a  name  of  boldness:  but  the  edition 
which  I  use  reads,  Stei-hanit  atqw  Par theniit  audaciores. 
At  all  events,  the  passage  informs  us  that  the  actors  in  this 
conspiracy  were  long  remembered  in  Rome ;  where,  how- 
ever, was  no  want  of  nam*s  eminent  in  this  bloody  way. 
Indeed,  insurrection  was  now  taking  a  wider  range  ;  and 
the  Cassii,  the  Nigri,  and  the  Albini  had  begun  to  eclipse 
the  murderous  fame  of  their  humbler  predecessors. 

If,  as  I  sincerely  hope,  the  reader  loves  to  see  the  pure 
and  peaceful  manners  of  Christianity  amidst  those  scenes  of 
treachery  and  blood,  he  will  be  gratified  with  the  argument 
which  led  to  the  above  allusion,  Unde  qui  inter  duas  lauros 
obtident  Ceesarem?  (It  is  pleasing  to  discover  the  laurels  of 
Augustus  at  the  door  of  Pertinax,)  L'ndi-  giti  fatunbus  ejut 
exprimendis  paltestriram  *  exercent !  L  nde  qui  armati 
palatium  irrunpunt,  omnibus  titephanin  utqw  Purlhrniii 
audaciores?  De  liomanis,  ni Jailor,  id  ett,  de  non  Christia 
nis.  Apol.  ad  Gentes. 

DR.  IRELAND. 


This  allusion  is  explained  by  Victor's  account  of  the  murder  of  Commodus :  ab  immitto  validissimo  pala-itrila  com- 
sis  faucibiis  ejcpiratit.         ..  ., 

' 


THE   GREAT   DUKE    OF    FLORENCE, 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE.]  "  The  Great  Duke  "  was  licensed  by  Sir  H.  Herbert  "  for  the  Queen  * 
servants  "  July  5th,  1627.  This,  Mr.  Malone  conjectures,  with  every  appearance  of  probability,  to  be  tin 
"  COMICAL  HISTORY  "  before  us.  The  plot  is  raised  on  the  slight  materials  afforded  by  our  old  chroniclers 
in  the  life  of  Edgar,  materials  which  we  have  since  seen  worked  up  by  Mason  into  the  beautiful  d 

ThbtilCT  was  not  committed  to  the  press  till  1636,  when  it  was  preceded  by  two  commendatory  copies  of 
verses  by  G.  Donne  and  J.  Ford.  Though  highly,  and,  indeed,  deservedly,  popular,  it  was  not  reprinted  : 
thismay  be  attributed,  in  some  measure,  to  the  growing  discontent  of  the  times,  which  perversely  turned 
•side  from  scenes  like  these,  to  dwell  with  fearful  anxiety  on  those  of  turbulence  and  blood. 

It  was  acted  "  by  her  Majesty's  servants  at  the  Phoenix  in  Drury  Lane  ;"  where,  the  title  adds,  it  ws 
"often  presented." 


TO  THE  TRULY  HONOURED,  AND  MY  NOBLE  FAVOURER, 

SIR  ROBERT  WISEMAN,  KNT*. 

OF  THORRELLS-HALL,  IN  ESSEX. 

SIR, 

As  I  dare  not  be  ungrateful  for  the  many  benefits  you  have  heretofore  conferred  upon  me,  so  I  have  just 
reason  to  fear  that  my  attempting  this  way  to  make  satisfaction  (in  some  measure)  for  so  due  a  debt,  will 
further  engage  me.  However,  examples  encourage  me.  The  most  able  in  my  poor  quality  have  made  use 
of  Dedications  in  this  nature,  to  make  the  world  take  notice  (as  far  as  in  them  lay)  who  and  what  they 
were  that  gave  supportment  and  protection  to  their  studies,  being  more  willing  to  publish  the  doer,  than 
receive  a  benefit  in  a  corner.  Fortayself,  1  will  freely,  and  with  a  zealous  thankfulness,  acknowledge,  that 
for  many  years  I  had  but  faintly  subsisted,  if  I  had  not  often  tasted  of  your  bounty.  But  it  is  above  my 
strength  and  faculties  to  celebrate  to  the  desert  your  noble  inclination,  and  that  made  actual,  to  raise  up.  or, 
to  speak  more  properly,  to  rebuild  the  ruins  of  demolished  poesie.  But  that  is  a  work  reserved,  and  will  be, 
no  doubt,  undertaken,  and  finished,  by  one  that  can  to  the  life  express  it.  Accept,  I  beseech  you,  the 
tender  of  my  service,  and  in  the  list  of  those  you  have  obliged  to  you,  contemn  not  the  name  of 
Your  true  and  faithful  honourer, 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


•  Sir  Robert  Wiseman  was  the  eldeit  ion  of  Richard  Witeman,  *  merchant  of  London,  who,  having  amaswd  a  forlnne, 
returned  into  E?wx,  in  which  county  he  had  a<-i|»ired  conii-lerable  estates,  and  there  ilitd  in  1618,  aiid  was  succeeded  by 
Sir  Robert— Masninger'i  Patron  wai  the  oldest  of  fourteen  children,  and  a  man  of  amiable  character.  He  died  unmarried 
the  llth  May,  1641,  in  hisbSU,  >ear.— Gilchritt. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


199 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


COZIMO,  duke  of  Florence. 
GIOVANNI,  nephew  to  the  duke, 
SANAZARIIO,  the  duke's  favourite. 
CAHOI.O  CHAROMONTE,  Giovanni's  tutor. 
CoNT.tniNO,  secretary  to  the  duke, 
ALPHJNSO,  J 

HIPPOLITO,  /counsellors  of  state. 

HlEROMMO,  J 

CALANDRINO,  a  merry  fellow,  tervant  to  Giovanni. 


[servantt  to  Charomonte 


BERNARDO, 
CAPONI, 
PKTRUCIMO,          ) 
A  Gentleman. 

FIORINDA,  duchess  of  Urbin. 
LIDIA,  daughter  to  Charomonte. 
CALAMINTA,  servant  to  Fiorinda. 
PETHONELLA,  a  foolish  servant  to  Lidia. 
Attendants,  Servants,  Sfc, 


SCENE,  partly  in  Florence,  and  partly  at  the  residence  of  Charomonte  in  the  country. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — The  Country.    A  Uoom  in  Charoinonte's 
House. 

Enter  CHAROMONTE  and  CONTARING. 

Char,  You  bring  your  welcome  with  you. 

Cant.  Sir,  I  find  it 
In  every  circumstance. 

Char.  Again  most  welcome.  [me, 

Yet,  give  me  leave  to  wish  ('and  pray  you,  excuse 
For  1  must  use  the  freedom  1  was  born  with) 
The  great  duke's  pleasure  had  commanded  you 
To  my  poor  house  upon  some  other  service  ; 
Not  this  you  are  desijrn'd  to  :  but  his  will 
Must  be  obey'd,  howe'er  it  ravish  from  me 
The  happy  conversation  of  one 
As  dear  to  me  as  the  old  Romans  held  [power 

Their  household  Lars,  whom*    they  believed    had 
To  bless  and  guard  their  families. 

Cant,  ''J  is  received  so 
On  my  part,  signior  ;  nor  can  the  duke 
But  promise  to  himself  as  much  as  may 
Be  hoped  for  from  a  nephew.     And  'twere  weakness 
In  any  man  to  doubt,  that  Giovannif, 
Train'd  up  by  your  experience  and  care 
In  all  those  arts  peculiar  and  proper 
To  future  greatness,  of  necessity 
Must  iu  his  actions,  being  grown  a  man, 
Make  good  the  princely  education 
Which  he  derived  from  you. 

Char.  I  have  discharged 

To  the  utmost  of  my  power,  the  trust  the  duke 
Committed  to  me,  and  with  joy  perceive 
The  seed  of  my  endeavours  was  not  sown 
Upon  the  barren  sands,  but  fruitful  glebe, 
Which  yields  a  large  increase  :  my  noble  charge, 

•  Their  houtf hold  Lari,  whom  they  believed,  &c.]  Mr.  M. 
Mason  choose*  to  read,  of  his  own  authority, 

'J  heir  household  Lurt,  who,  they  believed,  &c. 

t  In  any  man  to  doubt  that  Giovanni,]  Giovanni  is  here 
iiu'd  as  a  quadrisyllable.  This  is  incorrect,  and  ihowi  that 
M.i.viiigi-r  li.nl  dudied  the  language  in  books  only:  no 
Italian  would  or  could  pronounce  it  in  this  manner.  He 
makes  the  name  mistake  in  the  name  of  the  dnchets ; 
Fiorinda  is  a  trisyllable,  yet  he  adopts  the  division  of 
poor  Calandrino,  and  constantly  prononncrs  Pi-o-rin-da. 
Shi  dry  adopts  a  similar  pronunciation  in  the  Gentleman  of 
Venice,  where  Giovanni  U  almost  always  a  quadrisyllable. 


By  his  sharp  wit,  and  pregnant  apprehension, 
Instructing  those  that  teach  him  ;  making  use, 
Not  in  a  vulgar  and  pedantic  form, 
Of  what's  read  to  him,  but  'tis  straight  digested, 
And  truly  made  his  own.     His  grave  discourse, 
In  one  no  more  indebted  unto  years, 
Amazes  such  as  hear  him  :   horsemanship, 
And  skill  to  use  his  weapon,  are  by  practice 
Familiar  to  him  :  as  for  knowledge  in 
Music,  he  needs  it  not,  it  being  born  with  him ; 
All  that  he  speaks  being  with  such  grace  deliver'd 
That  it  makes  perfect  harmony. 

C<>«(.  You  describe 
A  wonder  to  me. 

Char.  Sir,  he  is  no  less  ; 
And,  that  there  may  be  nothing  wanting  that 
May  render  him  complete,  the  sweetness  of 
His  disposition  so  wins  on  all 
Appointed  to  attend  him,  that  they  are 
Rivals,  even  in  the  coarsest  office,  who 
Shall  get  precedency  to  do  him  service ; 
Which  they  esteem  a  greater  happiness, 
Than  if  they  had  been  fashion'd  and  built  up 
To  hold  command  o'er  others. 

Cant.  And  what  place 
Does  he  now  bless  with  his  presence  ? 

Char,  He  is  now 

Running  at  the  ring,  at  which  he's  excellent. 
He  does  allot  for  every  *>xercise 
A  several  hour  ;  for  sloth,  the  nurse  of  vices, 
And  rust  of  action,  is  a  stranger  to  him. 
But  I  fear  I  am  tedious ;  let  us  pass, 
If  you  please,  to  some  other  object,  though  I  cannc 
Deliver  him  as  he  deserves. 

Cunt.  You  have  given  him 
A  noble  character. 

Char.  And  how,  I  pray  you 
(For  we,  that  never  look  beyond  our  villas, 
Must  he  inquisitive),  are  state  affairs 
Cirried  in  court  ? 

Cont.  There  s  little  alteration : 
Some  rise,  and  others  fall,  as  it  stands  with 
The  pleasure  of  the  duke,  their  great  disposer 

Char.  Does  Lodovico  Sanazarro  hold 
Weight,  and  grace  with  him? 


200 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Acr.L 


Cont.  Every  day  new  honours 
Are  shower'd  upon  him,  and  without  the  envy 
Of  such  as  are  good  men  ;  since  all  confess 
The  service  done  our  master  in  his  wars 
'Gainst  Pisa  and  Sienna  ini^'  with  justice 
Claim  what's  conferr'd  upon  him. 

Char.  '  f  is  said  nohly  ; 

For  princes  never  more  make  known  their  wisdom, 
Than  when  they  cherish  goodness  where  they  find  it : 
They  being  men,  and  not  gods,  Contarino, 
They  can  j;ive  wealth  and  titles,  but  no  virtues  ; 
That  is  without  their  power.     When  they  advance, 
Not  out  of  judgment,  but  deceiving  fancy, 
An  undeserving  man,  howe'er  set  off 
With  all  the  trim  of  greatness,  state,  and  power. 
And  of  a  creature  even  grown  terrible 
To  him  from  whom  he  took  his  giant  form, 
This  thing  is  still  a  comet,  no  true  star  ; 
And  when  the  bounties  feeding  his  false  fire 
Begin  to  fail,  will  of  itself  go  out, 
And  what  was  dreadful,  prove  ridiculous. 
But  in  our  Sanazarro  'tis  not  so, 
He  being  pure  and  tried  gold  ;  and  any  stamp 
Of  grace,  to  make  him  current  to  the  world. 
The  duke  is  pleased  to  give  him,  will  add  honour 
To  the  great  bestower  ;  for  he,  though  allow'd 
Companion  to  his  master,  still  preserves 
His  majesty  in  full  lustre. 

Cont.  He,  indeed, 

At  no  part  does  take  from  it,  but  becomes 
A  partner  of  his  cares,  and  eases  him, 
With  willing  shoulders,  of  a  burthen  which 
He  should  alone  sustain. 

Char.  Is  he  yet  married  ? 

Cont.  No,  signior,  still  a  bachelor  ;  howe'er 
It  is  apparent  that  the  choicest  virgin 
For  beauty,  bravery,  and  wealth,  in  Florence, 
VV'ould,  with  her  parents'  glad  consent,  be  won, 
Were  his  affection  and  intent  but  known, 
To  be  at  his  devotion. 

Char.  So  I  think  too. 
But  break  we  off — here  comes  my  princely  charge. 

Enter  GIOVANNI  and  CALANDIUNO. 
Make  your  approaches  boldly ;  you  will  find 
A  courteous  entertainment  [Cont.  kneels. 

Giov.  Pray  you,  forbear 
My  hand,  good  signior;  'tis  a  ceremony 
Not  due  to  me.    Tis  fit  we  should  embrace 
With  mutual  arms, 

Cont.  It  is  a  favour,  sir, 
I  grieve  to  be  denied. 

Giov.  You  shall  o'ercome : 

But  'tis  your  pleasure,  not  my  pride,  that  grants  it. 
Nay,  pray  you,  guardian,  and  good  sir,  put  on. 
How  ill  it  shows  to  have  that  reverend  head 
Uncover'd  to  a  boy  ! 

C7mr.   Your  excellence 

Must  give  me  liberty  to  observe  the  distance 
Anil  duty  that  I  owe  you. 

Giov.  Owe  me  duty  ! 
I  do  profess" {and  when  I  do  deny  it, 
Good  fortune  leave  me  !)  you  have  been  to  me 
A  second  father,  and  may  justly  challenge, 
For  training  up  my  youth  in  arts  and,  arms, 
As  much  respect  and  service,  as  was  due 
'Jo  him  that  gave  me  life.     And  did  you  know,  sir, 
Or  will  believe  from  me,  how  many  sleeps 
Good  Charomonte  hath  broken,  in  his  care 
To  build  me  up  a  man,  you  must  confess 


Chiron,  the  tutor  to  the  great  Achilles, 
Compared  with  him,  deserves  not  to  be  named. 
And  if  my  gracious  uncle,  the  great  duke, 
Still  holds  me  worthy  his  consideration, 
Or  finds  in  me  aught  worthy  to  be  loved, 
That  little  rivulet  flnw'd  from  this  spring  ; 
And  so  from  me  report  him. 

Cont.  Fame  already 

Hath  fill'd  his  highness'  ears  with  the  true  story 
Of  what  you  are,  and  how  much  better  d  by  him, 
And  'tis  his  purpose  to  reward  the  travail 
Of  this  grave  sir,  with  a  magnificent  hand. 
For,  though  his  tenderness  hardly  could  consent. 
To  have  you  one  hour  absent  from  his  sight, 
For  full  three  years  he  did  denv  himself 
The  pleasure  he  took  in  you,  that  you,  here, 
From  this  great  master,  might  arrive  unto 
The  theory  of  those  high  mysteries 
Which  you,  by  action,  must  make  plain  in  court. 
'Tis,  therefore,  his  request  (and  that,  from  him, 
Your  excellence  must  grant  a  strict  command), 
That  instantly  (it  being  not  five  hours  riding) 
You  should  take  horse,  and  visit  him.     These  his 

letters 
Will  yield  you  further  reasons.       [Delivers  a  packet. 

Gal.  To  the  court ! — 

Farewell  the  flower*,  then,  of  the  country's  garland. 
This  is  our  sun,  and  when  he's  set,  we  must  not 
Expect  or  spring  or  summer,  but  resolve 
For  a  perpetual  winter. 

Char.  Pray  you,  observe 

[Gi/nw.ni  Beading  the  letters. 
The  frequent  changes  in  his  face. 

Cont.   As  if 

His  much  unwillingness  to  leave  your  house 
Contended  with  his  duty. 

Char.  Now  he  appears 
Collected  and  resolved. 

Gini.  It  is  the  duke  ! 

The  duke  upon  whose  favour  all  my  hopes 
And  fortunes  do  depend.     Nor  must  I  check 
At  his  commands  for  any  private  motives 
That  do  invite  my  stay  here,  though  ihev  are 
Almost  not  to  be  master'd.     My  obedience, 
In  my  departing  suddenly,  shall  confirm 
I  am  his  highness' creature  :  yet,  1  hope 
A  little  stay  to  take  a  solemn  farewell 
Of  all  those  ravishing  pleasures  I  have  tasted 
In  this  my  sweet  retirement,  from  my  guardian, 
And  his  incomparable  daugther,  cannot  meet 
An  ill  construction. 

Cont.  I  will  answer  that ; 
Use  your  own  will. 

Gioy.  1  would  speak  to  you,  sir, 
In  such  a  phrase  as  might  express  the  thanks 
My  heart  would  gladly  pay ;  but 

Char.  I  conceive  you  : 

And  something  1  would  say  ;  but  I  must  do  it 
In  that  dumb  rhetoric  which  you  make  use  of; 
For  I  do  wish  you  all — 1  know  not  how, 
My  toughness  melts,  and,  spite  of  my  discretion, 
I  must  turn  woman.  [Embraces  Giovanni. 

Cont.  What  a  sympathy 
There  is  between  them ! 

Cal.  Were  1  on  ths  rack, 


*  Farewell  the  flower,  then,  of  the  country's  gnrlaivl.] 
I  suppose  this  to  be  the  title  of  one  of  those  innumerable 
livrn  bleu*  that  fluttered  about  the  town  in  our  autlioi'l 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


201 


I  could  not  shed  a  tear.     But  I  am  mad, 
And,  (en  to  one,  shall  hang;  myself  for  sorrow, 
Before  I  shift  my  shirt.     But  hear  you,  sir 
(I'll  separate  you),  when  you  are  gone,  what  will 
Become  of  me  ? 

Giov.  \\  hy  thou  shall  to  court  wich  me. 

Cut.  To  see  you  worried  ? 

Cont.  Worried,  Calandrino ! 

Cat.   Yes,  sir  :  for  bring  this  sweet  face  to  the 

court, 

There  will  be  such  a  longing  'mong  the  madams, 
Who  shall  engross  it  first,  nay,  fight  and  scratch  for't, 
That,  if  they  be  not  stopp'd,  for  entertainment 
They'll  kiss  his  lips  off.     Nay,  if  you'll  scape  so, 
And  not  be  tempted  to  a  further  danger, 
These  succubae  are  so  sharp  set,  that  you  must 
Give  out  you  are  an  eunuch. 

Cont.  Have  a  better 
Opinion  of  court  ladies,  and  take  care 
Of  your  own  stake. 

Cal.  For  my  stake,  'tis  past  caring. 
I  would  not  have  a  bird  of  unclean  feathers 
Handsel  his  lime  twig, — and  so  much  for  him  : 
There's  something  else  that  troubles  me. 

Cont.  What's  that? 

Cal.  Why,  hov/  to  behave  myself  in  court,  and 

tightly. 

I  have  been  told  the  very  place  transforms  men, 
And  that  not  one  ofa  thousand,  that  before 
Lived  honestly  in  the  country  on  plain  salads, 
But  bring  him  thither,  mark  me  that,  and  feed  him 
I'ut  a  month  or  two  with  custards  and  court  cake-bread, 
And  he  turns  knave  immediately.     I'd  be  honest; 
but  I  must  follow  the  fashion,  or  die  a  beggar. 

dot:  And,  if  I  ever  reach  my  hopes,  believe  it 
We  will  share  fortunes. 

Char.  This  acknowledgment 
Enter  LIDIA. 

Binds  me  your  debtor  ever. — Here  comes  one 
In  \vh"se  sad  looks  you  easily  may  read 
What  her  heart  suffers,  in  that  she  is  forced 
To  take  her  last  leave  of  you. 

Cant.  As  I  live, 
A  beauty  without  parallel! 

Lid.   Must  you  go,  then, 
So  suddenly  ? 

Giov.  There's  no  evasion,  Lidia, 
To  g:iin  the  least  delay,  though  I  would  buy  it 
At  any  rate.     Greatness,  with  private  men 
K.steem'd  a  blessing,  is  to  me  a  curse  ; 
And  we,  whom,  for  our  high  births,  they  conclude 
The  only  freemen,  are  the  only  slaves. 
Happy  the  golden  mean!  had  I  been  born 
In  a  poor  sordid  cottage,  not  nurs'd  up 
With  expectation  to  command  a  court, 
1  might,  like  such  of  your  condition,  sweetest, 
Have  ta'en  a  safe  and  middle  course,  and  not. 
As  1  am  now,  against  my  choice,  compell'd 
Or  to  lie  grovelling  on  the  earth,  or  raised 
So  high  upon  the  pinnacles  of  state, 
That  I  must  either  keep  my  height  with  danger, 
Or  fall  with  certain  ruin. 

Lid.  Your  own  goodness 
Will  be  your  faithful  guard. 

Giow.  O.  Lidia. 

Cont.  So  passionate*  !  [Aside. 

*  So  passrionate.]  I.  e.  so  full  of  sorrow— so  deeply  af- 
fected—a  sense  in  which  the  word  is  frequently  used  bv  our 
oM  writers. 


Giov.  For,  had  I  been  your  equal, 
I  might  have  seen  and  liked  with  mine  own  eyes, 
And  not,  as  now,  with  others ;  1  might  still, 
And  without  observation,  or  envy, 
As  I  have  done,  continued  my  delights 
Wiih  you,  that  are  alone,  in  my  esteem, 
The  abstract  of  society :  we  might  walk 
In  solitary  groves,  or  in  choice  gardens; 
From  the  variety  of  curious  flowers 
Contemplate  nature's  workmanship  and  wonders 
And  then,  for  change,  near  to  the  murmur  of 
Some  bubbling  fountain,  I  might  hear  you  sing, 
And,  from  the  well-tuned  accents  of  your  tongue. 
In  my  imagination  conceive 
With  what  melodious  harmony  a  quire 
Of  angels  sing  above  their  Maker's  praises. 
And  then  with  chaste  discourse,  as  we  return'd, 
Imp  *  feathers  to  the  broken  wings  of  time  : — 
And  all  this  I  must  part  from. 

Cont.  You  forget 
The  haste  imposed  upon  us. 

Girv.  One  word  more 

And  then  I  come.     And  after  this,  when,  with 
Continued  innocence  of  love  and  service, 
I  had  grown  ripe  for  Hymeneal  joys, 
Embracing  you,  but  with  a  lawful  flame, 
I  might  have  been  your  husband. 

Lid.  Sir,  I  was, 

And  ever  am,  your  servant ;  but  it  was, 
And  'tis,  far  from  me  in  a  thought  to  cherish 
Such  saucy  hopes.     If  I  had  been  the  heir 
Of  all  the  globes  and  sceptres  mankind  bows  to, 
At  my  best  you  had  deserved  me;  as  I  am, 
Howe'er  unworthy,  in  my  virgin  zeal 
I  wish  you,  as  a  partner  of  your  bed, 
A  princess  equal  to  you ;  such  a  one 
That  may  make  it  the  study  of  her  life, 
With  all  the  obedience  of  a  wife,  to  please  you. 
May  you  have  happy  issue,  and  I  live 
To  be  their  humblest  handmaid ! 

Giov.  I  am  dumb, 
And  can  make  no  reply. 
Cont.  Your  excellence 
Will  be  benighted. 

Giov.  This  kiss,  bathed  in  tears, 
May  learn  you  what  I  should  say. 

Lid.  Give  me  leave 
To  wait  on  you  to  your  horse. 
Char.  And  me  to  bring  you 
To  the  one  half  of  your  journey. 

Giov.  Your  love  puts 
Your  age  to  too  much  trouble. 

Char.  I  grow  young, 
When  most  I  serve  you. 

Cont.  Sir,  the  duke  shall  thank  you.          [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 

Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  ALPHONSO,  HIPPOLITO,  and  HIEROKIMO. 
Alph.  His  highness  cannot  take  it  ill. 
Hip.  However, 

We  with  our  duties  shall  express  our  care 
For  the  safety  of  his  dukedom. 
Hier.  And  our  loves 


•  Imp  feather*  to  the  broken  icing*  of  time.]    See  Tht 
Renegado,  Act  V.,  Sc.  viii. 


204 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[AcrIL 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I. — The  same.     A  Room  in  Fiorinda's 

House. 
Enter  FIOBINDA  and  CALAMINTA. 

Fior.  How  does  this  dressing  show  ? 

Calam.  'Tis  of  itself 

Curious  and  lare ;  but,  borrowing  ornament 
As  it  does  from  your  grace,  that  deigns  to  wear  it, 
Incomparable. 

Fior.  Thou  flatter'st  me. 

Calam.  I  cannot, 
Your  excellence  is  above  it. 

.Fior.  Were  we  less  perfect, 
Yet,  being  as  we  are,  an  absolute  princess, 
We  of  necessity  must  be  chaste,  wise,  fair, 
By  our  prerogative  ! — yet  all  these  fail 
To  move  where  I  would  have  tkem.     How  received 
Count  Sanazarro  the  rich  scarf  I  sent  him 
For  bis  last  visit? 

Calam.  With  much  reverence, 
I  dare  not  say  affection.     He  express'd 
More  ceremony  in  his  humble  thanks, 
Than  feeling  of  the  favour ;  and  appear'd 
Wilfully  ignorant,  in  my  opinion, 
Of  wbat  it  did  invite  him  to. 

Fior.  No  matter  ;  [heard 

He's  blind  with  too  much  light*.     Have  you  not 
Of  any  private  mistress  he's  engaged  to  ? 

Calam,  Not  any ;  and  this  does  amaze  me,  madam, 
That  he,  a  soldier,  one  that  drinks  rich  wines, 
Feeds  high,  and  promises  as  much  as  Venus 
Could  wish  to  find  from  Mars,  should  in  his  manners 
Be  so  averse  to  women. 

Fior.  Troth,  I  know  not ; 
He's  man  enough,  and  if  he  has  a  haunt, 
He  preys  far  off,  like  a  subtile  fox. 

Calam.  And  that  way 
I  do  suspect  him  :  for  I  learnt  last  night, 
When  the  great  duke  went  to  rest,  attended  by 
One  private  follower,  he  took  horse  ;  but  whither 
He's  rid,  or  to  what  end,  1  cannot  guess  at, 
But  I  will  find  it  out. 

Fior.  Do,  faithful  tervant, 

Enter  CALANDRINO. 
We  would  not  be  abused.     Who  have  we  here  ? 

Calam.  How  the  fool  stares  ! 

Fior.  And  looks  as  if  he  were 
Conning  his  neck-verse. 

Cal.  If  I  now  prove  perfect 
Jn  my  A  B  C  of  couriship,  Calandrino 
Is  made  for  ever.     I  am  sent — let  me  see, 
On  a  How  d'j/e,  as  they  call't. 

Calam.   What  wouldst  thou  say?        [ings  ;  well. 

Cal.  Let  me  see  my  notes.     These  are  her  lodg- 

Calam.  Art  thou  an  ass  ? 

Cal.  Peace !  thou  art  a  court  wagtail, 

[Looking  on  his  instruction*. 
To  interrupt  me. 

Fior.  He  has  given  it  you. 

Cal.   And  then  say  to  the  illustrious  Fi-o-rin-da — 
I  have  it.     Which  is  she  ? 


•  ffe't  blind  with  too  much  light.]    Improved  by  Milton, 
'    dark  with  excess  of  light." 


Calam.  Why  this  ;  fop-doodle.  [me  out, 

Cal.  Leave  chattering,  bullfinch  ;  you  would  put 
But  'twill  not  do. — Then,  after  you  have  made 
Your  three  obeisances  to  her,  kneel,  and  kiss 
The  skirt  of  her  gown — I'm  glad  it  is  no  worse. 

Calam.  And  why  so,  sir? 

Cal.  Because  I  was  afraid 
That,  after  the  Italian  garb,  I  should 
Have  kiss'd  her  backward. 

Calam.  This  is  sport  unlook'd  for. 

Cal.  Are  you  the  princess  ? 

Fior.  Yes,  sir. 

Cal.  Then  stand  fair, 
For  I  am  choleric,  and  do  not  nip 
A  hopeful  blossom.      Out  again  : — Three  Ion 
Obeisances 

Fior.  I  am  ready. 

Cal,  I  come  on,  then. 

Calam.   With  much  formality. 

Cal.  Umph  !  one,  two,  three. 

[Makes  antic  curtsies. 

Thus  far  I  am  right.     Now  for  the  last. — O  rare  ! 
She  is  perfumed  all  over  !  Sure  great  women. 
Instead  of  little  dogs,  are  privileged 
To  carry  musk-cats. 

Fior.  Now  the  ceremony 
Is  pass'd,  what  is  the  substance  ? 

Cal.  I'll  peruse 

My  instructions,  and  then  tell  you.     Her  skirt  kiss'd, 
Inform  her  highness  that  your  lord 

Calam.  Who's  that? 

Cal.  Prince   Giovanni,  who  intreats  your  grace. 
That  he  with  your  good  favour  may  have  leave     [it 
To  present  his  service  to  you.   I  think  L  have  nick'd 
For  a  courtier  of  the  first  form. 

Fior.  To  my  wonder. 

Enter  GIOVANNI  and  a  Gentleman. 
Return  unto  the  prince — but  he  prevents 
My  answer.     Calaminta,  take  him  off ; 
And,  for  the  neat  delivery  of  his  message, 
Give  him  ten  ducats :  such  rare  parts  as  yours 
Are  to  be  cherish'd. 

Cal.  We  will  share  :  I  know 
It  is  the  custom  of  the  court,  when  ten 
Are  promised,  fire  is  fair.     Fie  !  fie  !  the  princess. 
Shall  never  know  it,  so  you  dispatch  me  quickly, 
And  bid  me  not  come  to-inorrow. 

Calam.  Very  good,  sir. 

[t'jcunt  Calandrino  and   Calaminta. 

Giov.  Pray  you,  friend, 
Inform  the  duke  I  am  putting  into  act 
What  he  commanded. 

Gent.  I  am  proud  to  be  employ'd,  sir.  [Ex<t. 

Giov.  Madam,  that,  without  warrant,  I  presume 
To  trench  upon  your  privacies,  may  argue 
Rudeness  of  manners ;  but  the  free  access 
Your  princely  courtesy  vouchsafes  to  all 
1  hat  come  to  pay  their  services,  gives  me  hope 
To  find  a  gracious  pardon. 

Fior.  If  you  please,  not 
To  make  that  an  offence  in  your  construction, 
VV  Inch  I  receive  as  a  large  favour  from  you, 
There  needs  not  this  apology. 

Giov.  You  continue, 


SCEVE  II.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


SO* 


As  you  were  ever,  the  greatest  mistress  of 
Fair  entertainment. 

/•tor.  You  are,  sir,  the  master; 
And  in  the  country  have  learnt  to  outdo 
All  that  in  court  is  practised.     But  why  should  we 
Talk  at  such  distance  ?  You  are  welcome,  sir. 
\Ve  have  been  more  familiar,  and  since 
You  will  impose  the  province  (you  should  govern) 
Of  boldness  on  me,  give  me  leave  to  say 
You  are  too  punctual.     Sit,  sir,  and  discourse 
As  we  were  used. 

Giov.  Your  excellence  knows  so  well 
How  to  command,  that  I  can  never  err 
When  1  obey  you. 

Fior.  Nay,  no  more  of  this. 
You  shall  o'erconie  ;  no  more,  I  prav  you,  sir. — 
And  what  delights,  prav  you  be  liberal 
In  your  relation,  hath  the  country  life 
Afforded  you  ? 

Gioc.  All  pleasures,  gracious  madam,  [tues. 

But  the  happiness  to  converse  with  your  sweet  vir- 
I  had  a  grave  instructor,  and  my  hours 
Design 'd  to  serious  studies  yielded  me 
Pleasure  with  profit,  in  the  knowledge  of 
What  before  I  was  ignorant  in  ;  the  signior 
Carolo  de  Charomonte  being  skilful 
To  guide  me  through  the  labyrinth  of  wild  passions, 
That  labour'd  to  imprison  my  free  soul 
A  slave  to  vicious  sloth. 

Fior.   You  speak  him  well. 

Giav.  But  short  of  his  deserts.    Then  for  the  time 
Of  recreation,  I  was  allow'd 
(Against  the  form  follow'd  by  jealous  parents 
In  Italy)  full  libertv  to  partake 
His  daughter's  sweet  society.     She's  a  virgin 
Happy  in  all  endowments  which  a  poet 
Could  fancy  in  his  mistress  ;  being  herself 
A  school  of  goodness,  where  chaste  mauls  may  learn, 
Without  the  aids  of  foreign  principles, 
By  the  example  of  her  life  and  pureness, 
To  be,  as  she  is,  excellent.     I  but  give  you 
A  brief  epitome  of  her  virtues,  which, 
Dilated  on  at  large,  and  to  their  merit, 
Would  make  an  ample  story. 

Fior.  Your  whole  age. 

So  spent  with  such  a  father,  and  a  daughter, 
Could  not  be  teiiious  to  you. 

Giov.  True,  great  princess  : 

And  now,  since  yon  have  pleased  to  grant  the  hearing 
Of  my  time's  expence  in  the  country,  give  me  leave 
To  entreat  the  favour  to  be  made  acquainted 
What  service,  or  what  objects  in  the  court, 
Have,  in  your  excellency's  acceptance,  proved 
Most  gracious  to  you. 

Fiitr.   I'll  meet  your  demand, 
And  make  a  plain  discovery.     The  duke's  care 
For  my  estate  and  person  holds  the  nrst 
And  choicest  place:  then,  the  respect  the  courtiers 
Pay  gladly  to  me,  not  to  be  contemn 'd. 
But  that  which  raised  in  me  the  most  delight 
(  For  I  am  a  friend  to  valour),  was  to  hear 
Tlie  noble  actions  truly  reported 
Of  the  brave  count  Sanazarro.     I  profess. 
When  it  hath  been   iind  fervently,  deliver'd. 
How  boldly,  in  the  horror  of  a  hght, 
Cover'd  with  fire  and  smoke,  and,  as  if  nature 
Had  lent  him  wings,  like  lightning  he  hath  fallen 
Upon  the  Turkish  gallies,  I  have  heard  it 
\\  ith  a  kind  of  pleasure  which  hath  whisper'd  tome, 
This  worthy  must  be  cherish'd. 


Giov.  'Twas  a  bounty 
You  never  can  repent. 

Fior.  I  glory  in  it ; 

And  when  he  did  return  (but  still  with  conquest  J 
His  armour  off,  not  young  Antinous 
Appear'd  more  courtly  :  all  the  graces  that 
Render  a  man's  society  dear  to  ladies, 
Like  pages  waiting  on  him  ,  and  it  does 
Work  strangelv  on  me. 

Giov.  To  divert  your  thoughts. 
Though  they  are  fix'd  upon  a  noble  subject, 
1  am  a  suitor  to  you. 

Fior.   You  will  ask. 

I  do  presume,  what  I  may  grant,  and  then 
It  must  not  be  denied. 

Giov.  It  is  a  favour 
For  which  I  hope  your  excellence  will  .thank  me 

Fior.   Nay,  without  circumstance. 

Giiir.   That  you  would  please 
To  take  occasion  to  move  the  duke, 
That  you,  with  his  allowance  may  command 
This  matchless  virgin,  Lidia  (of  whom 
I  cannot  speak  too  much),  to  wait  upon  you." 
She's  such  a  one,  upon  the  forfeit  of 
Your  good  opinion  of  me,  that  will  not 
Be  a  blemish  to  your  train. 

Fior.  'Tis  rank  !   he  loves  her  : 
But  I  will  fit  him  with  a  suit  [Aside."]. — I  pause  not 
As  if  it  bred  or  doubt  or  scruple  in  nre 
To  do  what  you  desiie,  for  I'll  effect  it, 
And  make  use  of  a  fair  and  fit  occasion  ; 
Yet,  in  return,  I  ask  a  boon  of  you, 
And  hope  to  find  you  in  your  grant  to  me, 
As  I  have  been  to  you. 

Giov.   Command  me,  madam. 

Fior.   'Tis  near  allied  to  yours.  That  you  would  be 
A  suitor  to  the  duke,  not  to  expose 
After  so  many  trials  of  his  faith, 
The  noble  Sanazarro  to  all  dangers, 
As  if  he  were  a  wall  to  stand  the  fury 
Of  a  perpetual  battery  :   but  now 
To  grant  him,  after  his  long  labours,  rest 
And  libeny  to  live  in  court ;  his  arms 
And  his  victorious  sword  and  shield  hung  up 
For  monuments. 

Giov.   Umph  !  I'll  embrace,  fair  princess, 

Enter  COZIMO. 

The  soonest  opportunity.     The  duke  ! 

Co:.  Nay,  blush  not ;  we  smile  on  your  privacy, 
And  come  not  to  disturb  you.     You  are  equals, 
And,  without  prejudice  to  cither's  honours, 
May  make  a  mutual  change  of  love  and  courtship, 
Till  you  are  made  one,  and  with  holy  rites, 
And  we  give  suffrage  to  it. 

Giov.  You  are  gracious. 

Co:.  To  ourself  in  this  :  but  now  break  off:  too 

much 

Taken  at  once  of  the  most  curious  viands, 
Dulls  the  Uiarp  edge  of  appetite.     We  are  now- 
Fur  other  sports,  in  which  our  pleasure  is 
That  you  shall  keep  us  company. 

Ft.*.  We  attend  you.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — The  Country.   A  Hall  in  CHAROMONTE'I 

House. 

Enter  BERNARDO,  CAPON:,  and  PETRUCHIO. 
Bern.  Is  my  lord  stirring  1 


206 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Acr  II. 


Cop.  No  ;  he's  fast. 

Pet.  Let  us  take,  then, 

Our  morning  draught.     Such  as  eat  store  of  beef, 
Mutton,  and  capons,  may  preserve  their  healths 
With  that  thin  composition  call'd  small  beer, 
As,  'tis  said,  they  do  in  England.     But  Italians, 
Tlr.it  think  when  they  have  supp'd  upon  an  olive, 
A  root,  or  bunch  of  raisins,  'tis  a  feast, 
Must  kill  those  crudities  rising  from  cold  herbs, 
With  hot  and  lusty  wines. 

Cup.  A  happiness 
Those  tramontanes*  ne'er  tasted. 

Bern.   I  lave  they  not 
Store  of  wine  there  ? 

Cap.  Yes,  and  drink  more  in  two  hours 
Than  the  Dutchmen  or  the  Dane  in  four  and  twenty. 

Pet.  But  what  is't  ?    Fren'ch  trash,  made  of  rotten 

grapes, 

And  dregs  and  lees  of  Spain,  with  Welsh  metheglin, 
A  drench  to  kill  a  horse  !     But  this  pure  nectar, 
Being  proper  to  our  climate,  is  too  fine 
To  brook  the  roughness  of  the  sea  :  the  spirit 
Of  this  begets  in  us  quick  apprehensions, 
And  active  executions  ;  whereas  their 
Gross  feeding  makes  their  understanding  like  it  : 
They  can  fight,  and  that's  their  all.          [They  drink. 
Enter  SANAZARRO  and  Servant. 

Sanaz.  Security  [open, 

Dwells  about  this  house,  I  think  ;  the  gate's  wide 
And  not  a  servant  stirring.     See  the  horses 
Set  up.  and  clothed. 

Seru.  I  shall,  sir.  [Exit. 

Sanaz.  1  11  make  bold 
To  press  a  little  further. 

Bern.  Who  is  this  ? 
Count  Sanazarro  1 

Pet.  Yes,  I  know  him.     Quickly 
Remove  the  flagon. 
^  Sanaz.  A  good  day  to  you,  friends. 
Nay,  do  not  conceal  your  physic  ;  1  approve  it, 
And,  if  you  please,  will  be  a  patient  with  you. 

Pet.  My  noble  lord.  [Drinks. 

Sanai.  A  health  to  yours.    [Drink  ]    Well  done  ! 
I  see  you  love  yourselves,  and  I  commend  you  ; 
'Tis  the  best  wisdom. 

Pet.  May  it  please  your  honour 
To  walk  a  turn  in  the  gallery,  I'll  acquaint 
My  lord  with  your  being  here.  [Exit. 

'Sannz.  Tell  him  I  come 
For  a  visit  only.     Tis  a  handsome  pile  this.     [Exit. 

Cap.  Why  here  is  a  brave  fellow,  and  a  right  one  ; 
Nor  wealth  nor  greatness  makes  him  proud. 

Bern.  There  are 

•  Thou  tramontanes  ne'er  tasted.]  i.e.  those  ttrarwert 
those  barbarians:  so  the  Italians  called,  ami  'tilt  caTall 
who  ,ve  beyond  the  Alps,  ultra  mont*..  !„  a  bsequen 
speech,  the  author  does  not  forget  to  satirize  the  acknow 
ledKerf  property  of  his  countrymen  to  drinkin,  f  »  Your 

swag-be"ied 


If  Capom,  as  well  as  lago,  be  not,  however,  too  severe 
upon  us,  it  most  be  confessed  that  our  ancestor,  were  apt, 
•cholars,  and  soon  bettered  the  instruction*  which  thev  rJ 
ceived.  Sir  Richard  Baker  (a,  Mr.  Gifchri  observe,)" 
treating  of  the  wars  in  the  Low-Countries  about  the  end  of 
he  smeenth  century,  say,  .-Here  it  must  not  be  omhted! 
that  the  EnKl»h  who,  of  all  the  dwellers  in  the  northern 
part,  of  the  xvorld,  were  hitherto  the  least  drinkers,  and 
deservedly  praised  for  their  sobriety)  in  these  Dutch  wars 
.earned  to  be  drunkards,  and  brought  the  vice  .«o  far  to  over- 
•pread  the  kingdom,  that  law.  were  fain  to  be  enacted  for 
-eprejsuig  it."  Chron.  fol.  p.  382. 


Too  few  of  them  ;  for  most  of  our  new  courtiers 
(Whose  fathers  were  familiar  with  the  prices 
Of  oil  and  corn,  with  when  and  where  to  vent  them, 
And  left  their  heirs  rich,  from  their  knowledge  that 

way), 

Like  gourds  shot  up  in  a  night,  disdain  to  speak 
But  to  cloth  of  tissue. 

Enter  CIIAROMONTE  in  a  nightgown,  PETRUCIIIO 
following. 

Char.  Stand  you  prating,  knaves, 
When  such  a  guest  is  under  my  roof!     See  all 
The  rooms  perfumed.     This  is  the  man  that  carries 
The  sway  and  swing  of  the  court ;  and  I  had  rather 

Preserve  him  mine  with  honest  offices,  than 

But  I'll  make  no  comparisons.     Bid  my  daughter 
Trim  herself  up  to  the  height  ;  I  know  this  courtier 
Must  have  a  smack  at  her  ;  and,  perhaps,  by  his 

place, 

Expects  to  wriggle  further  :   if  he  does, 
I  shall  deceive  his  hopes;  for  I'll  not  taint 
My  honour  for  the  dukedom.    Which  way  went  he? 

Cap.  To  the  round  gallery. 

Char.  I  will  entertain  him 
As  fits  his  worth  and  quality,  but  no  further. 

[Exeunt, 


SCENE  III. — A  Gallery  in  the  same. 

Enter  SANAZARRO. 

Sanaz.  I  cannot  apprehend,  yet  I  have  argued 
All  ways  I  can  imagine,  for  what  reasons 
The  great  duke  does  employ  me  hither  ;  and, 
What  does  increase  the  miracle,  I  must  render 
A  strict  and  true  account,  at  my  return, 
Of  Lidia,  this  lord's  daughter,  and  describe 
In  what  she's  excellent,  and  where  defective. 
'Tis  a  hard  task  :  he  that  will  undergo 
To  make  a  judgment  of  a  woman's  beauty, 
And  see  through  all  her  plasterings  and  painting!, 
Had  need  of  Lynceus'  eyes,  and  with  more  ease 
May  look,  like  him,  through  nine  mud  walls,  than 

make 

A  true  discovery  of  her.  But  the  intents 
And  secrets  of  my  prince's  heart  must  be 
Served,  and  not  search 'd  into. 

Enter  CHAROMONTE. 

Char.  Most  noble  sir, 
Excuse  my  age,  subject  to  ease  and  sloth, 
That  with  lio  greater  speed  I  have  presented 
My  service  with  your  welcome. 

Sanaz.  'Tis  more  fit 

That  I  should  ask  your  pardon,  for  disturbing 
Your  rest  at  this  unseasonable  hour. 
But  my  occasions  carrying  me  so  near 
Your  hospitable  house,  my  stay  being  short  too, 
Your  goodness,  and  the  name  of  friend,  which  you 
Are  pleased  to  grace  me  with,  gave  me  assurance 
A  visit  would  not  offend. 

Char.  Offend,  my  lord  ! 
I  feel  myself  much  younger  for  the  favour. 
How  is  it  with  our  gracious  master  ? 

Sanaz.  He,  sir, 

Holds  still  his  wonted  greatness,  and  confesses 
Himself  your  debtor,  for  your  love  and  care 
To  the  prince  Giovanni  ;  and  had  sent 
Particular  thanks  by  me,  had  his  grace  known, 
The  quick  dispatch  of  what  I  was  design 'd  to 
Would  have  licensed  me  to  see  you. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


207 


Char.  I  am  rich 
In  his  acknowledgment. 

Snnaz.  Sir,  I  have  heard  , 

Your  happiness  in  a  daughter. 

Char.  Sits  the  wind  there  ?  [Aside. 

Su/iaz.  Fame  gives  her  out  for  a  rare  masterpiece. 

Char.  'Tis  a  plain  village  girl,  sir,  but  obedient ; 
That's  her  best  beauty,  sir. 

Sanaz.  Let  my  desire 

To  see  her,  find  a  fair  construction  from  you  j 
I  bring  no  loose  thought  with  me. 

Char.   You  are  that  way, 

My  lord,  free  from  suspicion.     Her  own  manners, 
Without  an  imposition  from  me, 
I  hope,  will  prompt  her  to  it. 

Enter  LIDIA  and  PETRONELLA. 

As  she  is, 

She  comes  to  make  a  tender  of  that  service 
Which  she  stands  bound  to  pay. 

Sanas.  With  your  fair  leave, 
I  make  bold  to  salute  you. 

Lid.  Sir,  you  have  it. 

Petron.  I  am  her  gentlewoman,  will  he  not  kiss 

me  too  ? 
This  is  coarse,  i'faith.  [Aside. 

Char.   How  he  falls  off ! 

Lid.  My  lord, though  silence  best  becomes  a  maid, 
And  to  be  curious  to  know  but  what 
Concerns  myself,  and  with  becoming  distance, 
May  argue  me  of  boldness,  I  must  borrow 
So  much  of  modesty,  as  to  enquire 
Prince  Giovanni's  health . 

Sanaz.  He  cannot  want 
What  you  are  pleased  to  wish  him. 

Lid.  Would  'twere  so  ! 
And  then  there  is  no  blessing  that  can  make 
A  hopeful  and  a  noble  prince  complete, 
But  should  fall  on  him.     O  !  he  was  our  north  star, 
The  light  and  pleasure  of  our  eyes. 

Sanaz.   Where  am  I  ? 

I  feel  myself  another  thing !     Can  charms 
Be  writ  on  such  pure  rubies*  ?  her  lips  melt 
As  soon  as  touch'd  !     Not  those  smooth  gales  that 

glide 

O'er  happy  Araby,  or  rich  Sabaeaf, 
Creating  in  their  passage  gums  and  spices, 
Can  serve  for  a  weak  simile  to  express 
The  sweetness  of  her  breath.     Such  a  brave  stature 
Homer  bestowed  on  Pallas,  every  limb 
Proportion 'd  to  it! 

Char.  This  is  strange ; — my  lord  ! 

Sanaz.  I  crave  your  pardon,  and  yours,  matchless 

maid, 
For  such  I  must  report  you. 

Petron.  There's  no  notice 
Taken  all  this  while  of  me.  [Aside. 

Sanaz.  And  I  must  add, 
If  your  discourse  and  reason  parallel 


• Can  charmt 

Be  writ  on  ittch  pure  rubies  1]  This,  I  believe,  alludes  to 
a  very  old  opinion,  that  some  sorts  of  gems  (from  an  inhe- 
rent sanctity),  could  not  be  profaned,  or  applied  to  the  pur- 
poses of  magic.  The  notion  took  its  rise  probably  from  .s..i:n- 
superstitious  ideas  respecting  the  precious  stones  employed 
in  the  breastplate  of  the  high-priest  of  the  Jews. 

t  O'er  happy  Araby,]  So  the  quarto.  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M. 
Mason  have  blundered  it  into  prose;  they  read,  O'er  happy 
Arabia !  In  The  New  nay  to  Pay  Old  Debts,  tliis  beautiful 
jmilt  occurs  again. 


The  rarenesa  of  your  more  than  human  form, 
You  are  a  wonder. 

Char.  Pray  you  my  lord  make  trial : 
She  can  speak,  I  can  assure  you  ;  and  that  my  pre- 
sence 

May  not  take  from  her  freedom,  I  will  leave  you  : 
For  know,  my  lord,  my  confidence  dares  trust  her 

Where,  and  with  whom,  she  pleases. If  he  be 

Taken  the  right  way  with  her,  I  cannot  fancy 
A  better  match  ;  and  for  false  play,  I  know 
The  tricks,  and  can  discern  them. — Petronella. 

Petron.   Yes,  my  good  lord. 

Char.  I  have  employment  for  you. 

[Exeunt  Charomonle  and  Petronella. 

Lid.  What's  your  will,  sir?  [of 

Sanaz.  Madam,  you  are  so  large  a  theme  to  treat 
And  every  grace  about  you  offers  to  me 
Such  copiousness  of  language  that  I  stand 
Doubtful  which  first  to  touch  at.     If  I  err, 
As  in  my  choice  I  may,  let  me  entreat  you, 
Before  I  do  offend,  to  sign  my  pardon  :" 
Let  this,  the  emblem  of  your  innocence, 
Give  me  assurance. 

Lid.  My  hand  join'd  to  yours, 
Without  this  superstition,  confirms  it, 
Nor  need  1  fear  you  will  dwell  long  upon   me. 
The  barrenness  of  the  subject  yielding  nothing 
That  rhetoric  with  all  her  Iropes  and  figures 
Can  amplify.     Yet,  since  you  are  resolved 
To  prove  yourself  a  courtier  in  my  praise, 
As  I'm  a  woman  (and  you  men  affirm 
Our  sex  loves  to  be  flatter'd^  I'll  endure  it.  i 

Enter  CIIAROMONTE  above. 
Now,  when  you  please,  begin. 

Sanaz.  [turning  fromher  \  Such  Lseda'spaps  were — 
(Down   pillows  styled   by  Jove),  and    their   puie 

whiteness 

Shames  the  swan's  down,  or  snow.     No  heat  of  lust 
Swells  up  her  azure  veins ;  and  yet  I  feel 
That  this  chaste  ice  but  touch'd  fans  fire  in  me. 

Lid.  You  need  not,  noble  sir,  be  thus  transported, 
Or  trouble  your  invention  to  express 
Your  thought  of  me :  the  plainest  phrase  and  language 
That  you  can  use  will  be  too  high  a  strain 
For  such  an  humble  theme. 

Sanas.  If  the  great  duke 
Made  this  his  end  to  try  my  constant  temper, 
Though  I  am  vanquish 'd,  'tis  his  fault,  not  mine 
For  I  am  flesh  and  blood,  and  have  affections 
Like  other  men.     Who  can  behold  the  temples 
Or  holy  altars,  but  the  objects  work 
Devotion  in  him  ?  And  I   may  as  well 
Walk  over  burning  iron  with  bare  feet, 
And  he  unscorch'd,  as  look  upon  this  beauty 
Without  desire,  and  that  desire  pursued  too, 
Till  it  be  tjuench'd  with  the  enjoying  those 
Delights,  which  to  achieve,  danger  is  nothing, 
And  loyalty  but  a  word. 

Lid.   I  ne'er  was  proud  ; 
Nor  can  find  1  am  guilty  of  a  thought 
Deserving  this  neglect  and  strangeness  from  you  : 
Nor  am  I  amorous.  * 


*  Nor  am  7  amorous.]  This  would  be  a  strange  decU/a. 
tion  for  Lidia  to  make,  when  Sanazarro  had  said  nothing  u 
her  on  the  subject  of  love  ;  these  words,  therefore,  mutt  be 
considered  as  the  beginning  of  a  sentence  that  ii  Itft  un- 
finished^ and  should  be  printed  thus : 

Nor  am  J  amorous M.  MASOH. 

"  However  ttrange  the  declaration"  may  be,  it  ii  actually 


J08 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Acrii 


Sanuz.  Suppose  his  greatness 
Loves  her  himself,  why  makes  he  choice  of  me 
To  be  his  agent?  It  is  tyranny 
To  call  one  pinch'd  with  hunger  to  a  feast, 
And  at  that  instant  cruelly  deny  him 
To  taste  of  what  he  sees.     Allegiance 
Tempted  too  far  is  like  the  trial  of 
A  good  sword  on  an  anvil ;  as  that  often 
Flies  in  pieces  without  service  to  the  owner, 
So  trust  enforced  too  far  proves  treachery, 
And  is  too  late  repented. 

Lid.  Pray  you,  sir, 
Or  license  me  to  leave  you,  or  deliver 
The  reasons  which  invite  you  to  command 
My  tedious  waiting  on  you. 

Char.  As  I  live, 

I  know  not  what  to  think  on't.     Is't  his  pride, 
Or  his  simplicity  ? 

Sanaz.  Whither  have  my  thoughts 
Carried  me  from  myself?  In  this  my  dulness, 

I've  lost  an  opportunity 

[Turn*  to  her;  she  falls  off". 

Lid.  Tis  true, 

I  was  not  bred  in  court,  nor  live  a  Star  there ; 
Nor  shine  in  rich  embroideries  and  pearl, 
As  they,  that  are  the  mistresses  of  great  fortunes, 
Are  every  day  adorn 'd  with 

Sanaz.  Will  you  vouchsafe 
Your  ear,  sweet  lady  ? 

Lid.  Yet  I  may  be  bold, 
For  my  integrity  and  fame,  to  rank 
With  such  as  are  more  glorious.     Though  I  never 
Did  injury,  yet  I  am  sensible 
When  I'm  contemn'd,  and  scorn'd. 

Sanaz.  Will  you  please  to  hear  me? 

Lid.  O  the  difference  of  natures  !  Giovanni, 
A  prince  in  expectation,  when  he  lived  here 
Stole  courtesy  from  heaven*,  and  would  not  to 


made :  nor  is  there  the  smallest  necessity  for  supposing  the 
sentence  to  be  incomplete.  Lidia  simply  means,  I  am  not 
apt  to  be  inflamed  at  first  sight ;  and  the  remark  is  perfectly 
natural,  in  her  uncertainty  respecting  the  motives  of  Sana- 
zarro's  conduct. 

*  Giovanni, 

A  prince  in  expectation  when  he  lived  here, 
Stole  courtesy  from  heaven,  &c  ]  This  is  from  Sbaks- 
peare,  and  the  plain  meaning  of  ihe  phrase  is.  that  the 
affability  and  sweetness  of  Giovanni  were  of  a  heavenly  kind, 
i.  e.  more  perfect  than  was  usually  found  among  men  ;  re- 
sembling that  divine  condescension  which  excludes  none  from 
its  /t'gard,  and  therefore  immediately  derived  or  stolen  from 
heaven,  from  whence  all  good  proceeds.  In  this  there  is  no 
impropriety  :  common  usage  warrants  the  application  of  the 
term  to  a  variety  of  actions  which  imply  nothing  of  turpi- 
tude, but  rather  the  contrary:  affections  are  stolen — in  a 
word,  to  steal,  here,  and  in  many  other  places,  means  little 
else  than  to  win  by  importunity,  by  imperceptible  progret- 
sion,  by  gentle  violence,  &c. 

I  mention  this,  because  it  appears  to  me  that  the  com- 
mentators on  our  great  poet  have  altogether  mistaken  him : 
"  And  then  I  stole  alt  courtesy  from  heaven, 

And  dress'd  myself  in  such  humility, 
«      That  I  did  pluck  allegiance  from  men's  hearts." 

Htn.1V.,  Part  I.,  Act  III.,  sc.  ii. 

"This,"  says  Warburton,  who  is  always  t»o  refined  for  his 
subject,  "  is  an  allusion  to  the  story  of  Prometheus,  who 
stole  fire  from  thence;  and  as  with  this  he  made  a  man,  so 
with  that  Bolingbroke  made  a  king."  If  there  be  any  allu- 
sion to  the  story  (which  I  will  not  deny),  it  is  of  the  most 
remote  and  obscure  kind  ;  the  application  of  it,  however,  is 
surely  too  absuid  for  serious  notice.  Steevens  supposes  the 
meaning  to  be, — "  I  was  so  affable1,  that  I  engrossed  the 
devotion  and  reverence  of  all  men  to  myself,  and  thus  de- 
frauded heaven  of  its  worshippers."  Is  heaven  worshipped 
wi'h  "  affability '!"  or  have  politeness  and  elegance  of 
manners  such  irresistible  charms,  that,  when  found  below, 
they  must  of  necessity  "  engross  all  devotion"  and  exclude 


The  meanest  servant  in  my  father's  house 
Have  kept  such  distance. 

Sanaz.  Pray  you  do  not  think  me 
Unworthy  of  your  ear  ;  it  was  your  beauty 
That  turn'd  me  statue.     1  can  sjwak,  fair  lady. 

Lid.  And   I  can  hear.     The  harshness  of  your 

courtship 
Cannot  corrupt  my  courtesy. 

Sanuz.   \Vill  you  hear  me, 
If  I  speak  of  love  ? 

Lid.  Provided  you  be  modest ; 
I  were  uncivil,  else. 

Char.  They  are  come  to  parley 
I  must  observe  this  nearer.  [lie  retire* 

Sanaz.  You  are  a  rare  one, 

And  such  (but  that  my  haste  commands  me  hence) 
I  could  converse  with  ever.     Will  you  grace  me 
With  leave  to  visit  you  again? 

Lid.  So  you, 

At  your  return  to  court,  do  me  the  favour 
To  make  a  tender  of  my  humble  service 
To  the  prince  Giovanni. 

Sanaz.  Ever  touching 

Upon  that  string !  And  will  you  give  me  hope 
Of  future  happiness? 

Lid.  That,  as  I  shall  find  you : 
The  fort  that's  yielded  nt  the  first  assault 
Is  hardly  worth  the  taking. 

He-enter  CHAKOMONTE  beiow. 

Char.  O,  they  are  at  it. 

Sanaz.  She  is  a  magazine  of  all  perfection, 
And  'tis  death  to  part  from  her,  yet  I  must — 
A  parting  kiss,  fair  maid. 

Lid.  That  custom  grants  you.  [ship, 

Char.  A  homely  breakfast  does  attend  your  lord- 
Such  as  the  place  affords. 

Sanaz.  No  ;  I  have  feasted 
Already  here  ;  my  thanks,  and  so  I  leave  you : 
I  will  see  you  again.     Till  this  unhappy  hour 
I  was  never  lost,  and  what  to  do,  or  say, 
I  have  not  yet  determined.  [Exit. 

Char.  Gone  so  abruptly  ! 
'Tis  very  strange. 

Lid.  Under  your  favour,  sir, 
His  coming  hither  was  to  little  purpose, 
For  any  thing  I  heard  from  him. 

Char    Take  heed,  Lidia! 
I  do  advise  you  with  a  father's  love, 
And  tenderness  of  your  honour;  as  I  would  not 
Have  you  coarse  and  harsh  in  giving  entertainment, 
So  by  no  means  to  be  credulous  :  for  great  men, 
Till  they  have  gain'd  their  ends,  are  giants  in 
Their  promises,  but,  those  obtain'd,  weak  pigmies 
In  their  performance.     And  it  is  a  maxim 
Allow'd  among  them,  so  they  may  deceive, 
They  m  y  swear  any  thing  ;  for  the  queen  of  love, 
As  they  hold  constantly,  does  never  punish, 
But  smile,  at  lovers'  perjuries*. — Yet  be  wise  too, 


the  Deity  from  our  thoughts  T— This  is  not  the  language,  nor 
are  these  the  ideas  of  Shakspeare  :  and  it  would  well  be- 
come the  critics  to  pause  before  they  seriously  disgrace  him 
with  such  impious  absurdities. 

• for  the  queen  nf  love, 

As  they  hold  constantly,  does  never  punish, 

But  smile,  at  lovers'  perjuries. — j 

liidct  hoc,  inquam,  Venus  ipsa. 

It  would  be  as  well  if  the  queen  of  love  had  be«-n  a  little 
more  fastidious  on  this  subject.  Her  faciliiy,  I  lear.  has  dune 
much  mischief,  as  lovers  of  all  ages  have  availed  UMUMIWI 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


109 


And  when  you  are  sued  to  in  a  noble  way, 
Be  neither  nice  nor  scrupulous. 

Lid.  All  you  speak,  sir, 
I  hear  as  oracles ;  nor  will  digress 


From  your  directions. 

Char.  So  shall  you  keep 
Your  fame  untainted. 

Lid.  As  1  would  my  life,  sir. 


[Exeunt. 


ACT  IIL 


SCKNE  I. — Florence.     An  ante  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  SANAZARUO  and  Servant. 

Sanas.  Leave  the  horses  with  my  grooms;  but 

be  you  careful, 

With  your  best  diligence  and  speed,  to  find  out 
The  prince,  and  humbly,  in  my  name,  entreat 
I  may  exchange  some  private  conference  with  him, 
Before  the  great  duke  know  of  my  arrival. 

Serv.  t  haste,  my  lord. 

Sonar.  Here  I'll  attend  his  coming : 
And  see  you  keep  yourself,  as  much  as  may  be, 
Conceal'd  from  all  men  else. 

Strv.  To  serve  your  lordship, 
I  wish  I  were  invisible.  [Exit. 

Sanas.  I  am  driven 

Into  a  desperate  strait,  and  cannot  steer 
A  middle  course  ;  and  of  the  two  extremes 
Which  I  must  make  election  of,  I  know  not 
Which  is  more  full  of  horror.     Never  servant 
Stood  more  engaged  to  a  magnificent  master, 
Than  I  to  Cozimo :  and  all  those  honours 
And  glories  by  his  grace  conferr'd  upon  me, 
Or  by  my  prosperous  services  deserved, 
If  now  1  should  deceive  his  trust,  and  make 
A  shipwreck  of  my  loyalty,  are  ruin'd. 
And,  on  the  other  side,  if  I  discover 
Lidia's  divine  perfections,  all  my  hopes 
In  her  are  sunk,  never  to  be  buoy'd  up  : 
For  'tis  impossible,  but,  as  soon  as  seen, 
She  must  with  adoration  be  sued  to. 
A  hermit  at  his  heads  but  looking  on  her, 
Or  the  cold  cynic,  whom  Corinthian  Lais        [stone, 
(Not  moved  with  her  lust's  blandishments)  call'd  a 
At  this  object  would  take  fire.     Nor  is  the  duke 
Such  an  Hippolytus,  but  that  this  Phaedra 
But  seen,  must  force  him  to  forsake  the  groves 
And  Dian'a  huntmanship,  proud  to  serve  under 
Venus'  soft  ensigns.     No,  there  is  no  way 
For  me  to  hope  fruition  of  my  ends, 
But  to  conceal  her  beauties ; — and  how  that 
May  be  effected,  is  as  bard  a  task 
As  with  a  veil  to  cover  the  sun's  beams, 
Or  comfortable  light.     Three  years  the  prince 
J.ived  in  her  company,  and  Contarino, 
The  secretary,  hath  possess'd*  the  duke 

of  it :  but  she  had  it  from  her  father,  whose  laxity  of  prin- 
ciple is  well  kiuiNwi  : 


Jupiter. 


•juria  ridet  amantum 
hath  posjess'd  the  duke 


What  a  rare  piece  the  is  :]    i.  «r.  acquainted,  or  informed. 
In  this  sense  the  word  perpetually  occur*  in  our  oldwiiters. 
Thus  in  The  City  \iyhtcap  :  "  You,  sirr.ih,  we  are  poueu'd, 
were  their  pander."    Ag^iu,  in  The  City  Match: 
"  She  is  possea'd 

What  si  reams  of  gold  you  flow  in." 


What  a  rare  piece  she  is  : — but  he's  my  creature, 
And  may  with  ease  be  frighted  to  deny 
What  he  hath  said  :  and,  if  my  long  experience, 
With  some  strong  reasons  I  have  thought  upon, 
Cannot  o'er-reach  a  youth,  my  practice  yields  me 
But  little  profit. 

Enter  GIOVANNI  with  the  Servant. 
Giov.  You  are  well  return'd,  sir. 

Sanaz.    Leave   us. — [Exit   Servant.']     When   tlat 

your  grace  shall  know  the  motives 
That  forced  me  to  invite  you  to  this  trouble, 
You  will  excuse  my  manners. 

Giov.  Sir,  there  needs  not 
This  circumstance  between  us.     You  are  erer 
My  noble  friend. 

Sanas.  You  shall  have  further  cause 
To  assure  you  of  my  faiih  and  zeal  to  serve  you 
And,  when  I  have  committed  to  your  trust 
(Presuming  still  on  your  retentive  silence) 
A  secret  of  no  less  importance  than 
My  honour,  nay,  my  head,  it  will  confirm 
What  value  you  hold  with  me. 

Giov.  Pray  you,  believe,  sir, 
What  you  deliver  to  me  shall  be  lock'd  up 
In  a  strong  cabinet,  of  which  you  yourself 
Shall  keep  the  key  :  for  here  I  pawn  my  honour, 
Which  is  the  best  security  I  can  give,  yet, 
It  shall  not  be  discover'd. 

Sanaz.  This  assurance 
Is  more  than  I  with  modesty  could  demand 
From  such  a  paymaster;  but  I  must  be  sudden : 
And  therefore,  to  the  purpose.    Can  your  excellence, 
In  your  imagination,  conceive 
On  what  design,  or  whither,  the  duke's  will 
Commanded  me  hence  last  night] 

Giov.  No,  I  assure  you  ; 
And  it  had  been  a  rudeness  to  enquire 
Of  that  I  was  not  call'd  to. 

Sanaz.  Grant  me  hearing, 
And  I  will  make  you  truly  understand 
It  only  did  concern  you. 

Giov.  Me,  my  lord  !  [tunes  ; 

Sana:.  You,  in  your  present  state,  and  future  foi- 
For  both  lie  at  the  stake. 

Giav.  You  much  amaze  me. 
Pray  you,  resolve  this  riddle, 

Sar.az.  You  know  the  duke, 
If  he  die  issueless,  as  yet  he  is, 
Determines  you  his  heir. 

Giov.  It  hath  pleased  his  highness 
Oft  to  profess  so  much. 

Sanas.  But  say,  he  should 
Be  won  to  prove  a  second  wife,  on  whom 
He  may  beget  a  son,  how,  in  a  moment, 
V/ill  all  those  •''•..ious  expectations,  which 


£10 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Act  III 


Render  you  reverenced  and  remarkable, 
Be  in  a  moment  blasted,  howe'er  you  are 
His  much-loved  si.-ter's  son  ! 

Giov.  I  must  bear  it 
With  patience,  and  in  me  it  is  a  duty 
That  I  was  born  with  :  and  'twere  much  unfit 
For  the  receiver  of  a  benefit 
To  offer,  for  his  own  ends,  to  prescribe 
Laws  to  the  giver's  pleasure. 
Sanas.  Sweetly  answer'd, 

And  like  your  noble  self.     This  your  rare  temper 
So  wins  upon  me,  that  I  would  not  live 
(If  that  by  honest  arts  I  can  prevent  it) 
To  see  your  hopes  made  frustrate.     And  but  think 
How  you  shall  be  transform 'd  from  what  you  are, 
Should  this  (as  heaven  avert  it!)  ever  happen. 
It  must  disturb  your  peace  :  for  whereas  now, 
Being,  as  you  are,  received  for  the  heir  apparent, 
You  are  no  sooner  seen,  but  wonder'd  at ; 
The  signiors  making  it  a  business  to 
Enquire  how  you  have  slept ;  and,  as  you  walk 
The  streets  of  Florence,  the  glad  multitude 
In  throngs  press  but  to  see  you;  and,  with  joy, 
The  father,  pointing  with  his  finger,  tells 
His  son,  This  is  the  prince,  the  hopeful  prince, 
That  must,  hereafter  rule,  and  you  obey  him. — 
Great  ladies  beg  your  picture,  and  make  love 
To  that,  despairing  to  enjoy  the  substance. — 
And.  but  the  last  night,  when  'twas  only  rumour'd 
That  you  were  come  to  court,  as  if  you  had 
Bv  sea  past  hither  from  another  world, 
What  general  shouts  and  acclamations  follow'd! 
The  bells  rang  loud,  the  bonfiies  blazed,  and  such 
As  loved  not  wine,  carousing  to  your  health, 
Were  drunk,  and  blush 'd  not  at  it.     And  is  this 
A  happiness  to  part  with  ? 

Giav.  I  allow  these 

As  flourishes  of  fortune,  with  which  princes 
Are  often  >ooth'd  ;  but  never  yet  esteem'd  them 
For  real  blessings. 

Sunaz.  Yet  all  these  were  paid 
To  what  you  may  be,  not  to  what  you  are ; 
For  if  the  great  duke  but  shew  to  his  servants 
A  son  of  his  own,  you  shall,  like  one  obscure, 
Pass  unregarded. 

Gior.  I  confess,  command 
Is  not  to  be  contemn'd,  and  if  my  fate 
Appoint  me  to  it,  as  I  may,  I'll  bear  it 
U  ith  willing  shoulders.     But,  my  lord,  as  yet, 
You've  told  me  of  a  danger  coining  towards  me, 
But  have  not  named  it. 

Sunn-.  That  is  soon  deliver'd. 
Great  Cozimo,  your  uncle,  as  I  more 
Than  guess,  for  'tis  no  frivolous  circumstance 
That  does  persuade,  my  judgment  to  believe  it, 
Purposes  to  be  married. 

Giou.  Married,  sir!  [me. 

With  whom,  and  on  what  terms?  pray  you,  instruct 
Sanas.  With  the  fair  Lidia. 
Giov.  Lidia! 
Sanaz.  The  daughter 
Of  signior  Charomonte. 

Giav.  Pardon  me 

Though  I  appear  incredulous :  for,  on 
My  knowledge,  he  ne'er  saw  her. 

Sunaz.  That  is  granted  : 
But  Contarino  hath  so  sung  her  praises, 
And  given  her  out  for  such  a  masterpiece, 
That  he's  transported  with  it,  sir : — and  love 
Steals  sometime*  through  the  ear  into  the  heart, 


As  well  as  by  the  eye.  The  duke  no  sooner 
Heard  her  described,  but  I  was  sent  in  post 
To  see  her,  and  return  my  judgment  of  her 

Giov.  And  what's  your  censure] 

Sanaz.  '  1  is  a  pretty  creature. 

Gi't>.  She's  very  fair. 

Simuz.  Yes,  yes,  I  have  seen  worse  faces. 

Giov.  Her  limbs  are  neatly  form'd. 

Sanaz.  She  hath  a  waist 
Indeed  sized  to  love's  wish. 

Giov.  A  delicate  hand  too.  « 

Sinai.  Then  for  a  leg  and  foot — 

Giov.  And  there  I  leave  you, 
For  I  presumed  no  further. 

Saniiz.  As  she  is,  sir, 

I  know  she  wants  no  gracious  part  that  may 
Allure  the  duke  ;  and,  if  he  only  see  her, 
She  is  his  own  ;  he  will  not  be  denied, 
And  then  you  are  lost  :  yet,  if  you'll  second  me, 
(As  you  have  reason,  for  it  most  concerns  you), 
I  can  prevent  all  yet. 

Giiu;.  I  would  you  could, 
A  noble  way. 

Sanaz.  I  will  cry  down  her  beauties  ; 
Especially  the  beauties  of  her  mind, 
As  much  as  Contarino  hath  advanced  them  ; 
And  this,  I  hope,  will  breed  forgetfulness, 
And  kill  affection  in  him  :  but  you  must  join 
With  me  in  my  report,  if  you  be  question 'd. 

Giov.  I  never  told  a  lie  yet ;  and  I  hold  it 
In  some  degree  blasphemous*  to  dispraise 
What's  worthy  admiration  :  yet,  for  once, 
I  will  dispraise  a  little,  and  not  vary 
From  your  relation. 

Sanaz.  Be  constant  in  it. 

Enter  ALPHONSO. 

Alpli.  My  lord,  the  duke  hath  seen  your  man,  and 
wonders 

Enter  COZIMO,  HIPPOLITO,  CONTAHINO,  and 
Attendants. 

You  come  not  to  him.  See,  if  his  desire  [hither 
To  have  conference  with  you  hath  not  brought  him 
In  his  own  person. 

Coz.  They  are  comely  coursers, 
And  promise  swiftness. 

Cant.  They  are,  of  my  knowledge, 
Of  the  best  race  in  Naples. 

Coz.  You  are,  nephew, 

As  I  hear,  an  excellent  horseman,  and  we  like  it : 
'Tis  a  fair  grace  in  a  prince,     Pray  you,  make  trial 
Of  their  strength  and  speed  ;  and,  if  you  think  them 

fit 

For  your  employment,  with  a  liberal  hand 
Reward  the  gentleman  that  did  present  them 
1   From  the  viceroy  of  Naples. 

Giov.  I  will  u* 
My  best  endeavour,  sir. 

Coz.  Wait  on  my  nephew, 

Exeunt  Giovanni,  Alphonso,  Hippolito.  and  Attendants. 

Nay,  stay  you,  Contarino  ;  be  within  call ; 

It  may  be  we  shall  use  you.  [Exit  Contarino. 


-and  /  hold  it 


In  tome  degree  blasphemous.]  So  the  word  was  usually 
accented  in  Massinger's  time,  and  with  strict  regard  to  itl 
Greek  derivation.  Thus  Sidney  : 

"  liltuphemou*  word*  the  speaker  vain  do  prove." 
And  Spenser: 

"  And  therein  shut  up  his  blaiphtmous  tongue." 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


You  have  rode  hard,  sir, 

And  we  thank  you  for  it :  every  minute  seems 
Irksome,  and  tedious  to  us,  till  you  have 
Made  your  discovery.  Say,  friend,  have  you  seen 
This  phoenix  of  our  age  ! 

S^nnz.  I  have  seen  a  maid,  sir ; 
But,  if  that  I  have  judgment,  no  such  wonder* 
As  she  was  deliver'd  to  you. 

Cm.  This  is  strange.  [look'd  on 

Sana:.  But  certain  truth.      It  may  be,  she  was 
With  admiration  in  the  country,  sir ; 
But,  if  compared  with  many  in  your  court, 
She  would  appear  but  ordinary. 

Coz.  Contarino 
Reports  her  otherwise. 

Sanas.   Such  as  ne'er  saw  swans, 
May  think  crows  beautiful. 

Coz.  How  is  her  behaviour  ? 

Sanas.  Tis  like  the  place  she  lives  in. 

Coz.  How  her  wit, 
Discourse,  and  entertainment? 

Sanaz.   Very  coarse  ; 

I  would  not  willingly  say  poor,  and  rude  : 
But,  had  she  all  the  beauties  of  fair  women, 
The  dulness  of  her  soul  would  fright  me  from  her. 

Cm.  You  are  curious,  sir.     I  know  not  what  to 

think  on't. 
Contarino ! 

Re-enter  CONTARIXO. 

Cont.  Sir. 

Cm.  Where  was  thy  judgment,  man, 
To  extol  a  virgin  Sanazarro  tells  me 
Is  nearer  to  deformity  ? 

Sanas.  I  saw  her, 

And  curiously  perused  her ;  and  I  wonder 
That  she,  that  did  appear  to  me,  that  know 
What  beauty  is,  not  worthy  the  observing, 
Should  so  transport  you. 

Cont.  Troth,  my  ln»d,  I  thought  then 

Cos.  Thought !  Didst  thou  not  affirm  it  ? 

Cont.  I  confess,  sir, 
I  did  believe  so  then ;  but,  now  I  hear 
My  lord's  opinion  to  the  contrary, 
I  am  of  another  faith  ;  for  'tis  not  fit 
That  1  should  contradict  him.     I  am  dim,  sir, 
But  he's  sharp-sighted. 

Sanas.  This  is  to  my  wish. 

Cos.  We  know  not  what  to  think  of  this ;  yet 
would  not 

Re-enter  GIOVANNI,  HIPPOI.ITO,  and  ALPIIONSO. 
Determine  rashly  of  it. — How  do  you  like 
My  nephew's  horsemanship? 

Hip.  In  my  judgment,  sir. 
It  is  exact  and  rare. 

Alph.  And,  to  my  fancy, 
lie  did  present  great  Alexander  mounted 
On  his  Bucephalus. 

Coz.  You  are  right  courtiers, 
And  know  it  is  your  duty  to  cry  up 
All  actions  of  a  prince. 


•  Sanaz.  /  have  teen  a  m»id,  tir; 

But  if  that  I  have  judgment,  no  tuch  wonder,  &c.]  It  i> 
too  much  to  »ay  that  this  simple  thought  if  borrowed  ;  and 
y  rt  an  expression  of  Shakspeare's  might  not  impiobably  have 
hung  on  Massinger's  mind: 

"  Mir. No  wonder,  sir ; 

"  But,  certainly  a  maid  "  Tcmpett. 

The  commentators  have  amassed  a  prodigious  number  of  ex- 
tracts to  illustrate  the  expression  •  this  from  Massinger, 
however,  which  appears  to  me  more  to  the  purpose  tli»n  any 
of  them,  they  luve,  as  usual,  overlooked. 


Sane/:.  Do  not  betray 
Yourself,  you're  safe ;  I  have  done  my  part. 

[Aside  to  Giovanni 

Giov.  I  thank  you  ; 
Nor  will  I  fail. 

Coz.  What's  your  opinion,  nephew, 
Of  the  horses? 

Giou.  Two  of  them  are,  in  my  judgment, 
The  best  I  ever  back'd ;  I  mean  the  roan,  sir, 
And  the  brown  bay  :  but  for  the  chesnut-colour'd, 
Though  he  be  full  of  metal,  hot,  and  fiery. 
He  treads  weak  in  his  pasterns. 

Coz.  So  :  come  nearer  ; 
This  exercise  hath  put  you  into  a  sweat ; 
Take  this  and  dry  it* :  and  now  I  command  you 
To  tell  me  truly  what's  your  censure  of 
Charomonte's  daughter,  Lidia. 

Giov.  I  am,  sir, 

A  novice  in  my  judgment  of  a  lady  ; 
But  such  as  'tis  your  grace  shall  have  it  freely. 
I  would  not  speak  ill  of  her,  and  am  sorry, 
If  I  keep  myself  a  friend  to  truth,  I  cannot 
Report  her  as  I  would,  so  much  I  owe 
Her  reverend  father  :  but  I'll  give  you,  sir, 
As  near  as  I  can,  her  character  in  little. 
She's  of  a  goodly  stature,  and  her  limbs 
Not  disproportion 'd ;  for  her  face,  it  is 
Far  from  deformity ;  yet  they  flatter  her, 
That  style  it  excellent:  her  manners  are 
Simple  and  innocent ;  but  her  discourse 
And  wit  deserve  my  pity,  more  than  praise  : 
At  the  best,  my  lord,  she  is  a  handsome  picture, 
And,  that  said,  all  is  spoken. 

Cm.  I  believe  you  ; 
I  ne'er  yet  found  you  false. 

Giou.  Nor  ever  shall,  sir. 
Forgive  me,  matchless  Lidia !  too  much  love, 
And  jealous  fear  to  lose  thee,  do  compel  me, 
Against  my  will,  my  reason,  and  my  knowledge, 
To  be  a  poor  detractor  of  that  beauty 
Which  fluent  Ovid,  if  he  lived  again, 
Would  want  words  to  express.  [Aside, 

Cos.  Pray  you  make  choice  of 
The  richest  of  our  furniture  for  these  horses, 

[To  Sanazarro. 

And  take  my  nephew  with  you ;  we  ia  this 
Will  follow  his  directions. 

Giov.  Could  I  find  now 
The  princess  Fiorinda,  and  persuade  her 
To  be  silent  in  the  suit  that  I  moved  to  her, 
All  were  secure. 

Sanas.  In  that,  my  lord,  I'll  aid  you. 

Coz.  We  will  be  private  ;  leave  us. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Cosimo 

All  my  studies 

And  serious  meditations  aim  no  further 
Than  this  young  man's  good.    He  was  my  sister's  son 
And  she  was  such  a  sister,  when  she  lived, 
I  could  not  prize  too  much  ;  nor  can  1  better 
Make  known  how  dear  I  hold  her  memory, 
Than  in  my  cherishing  the  only  issue 
Which  she  hath  left  behind  her.     Who's  that! 


Fior.  Sir. 


Enter  FIORINDA. 


•  Thii  ejcercite  hath  put  you  into  a  sweat ; 

Take  this  and  dry  it :]  This  is  from  Shakspcare  ;  if  he 
had  been  suffered  to  remain  in  quiet  possession  of  it,  the 
reader  would  have  little  to  regret  on  the  score  of  delicacy : 

" He'i  fat,  and  scant  of  breath  : 

Here,  Hamlet,  take  my  napkin,  rub  thy  brow." 
Pi 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Act  HL 


Coz.  My  fair  charge  !  you  are  welcome  to  us. 

Fior.  I  have  found  it,  sir. 

Coz.  All  things  go  well  in  Urbin.  [me 

Finr.  Your  gracious  care  to  me,  an  orphan,  frees 
From  all  suspicion  that  my  jealous  fears 
Can  drive  into  my  ftincy. 

Coz.  The  next  summer, 

In  our  own  person,  we  will  bring  you  thither, 
And  seat  you  in  your  own. 

Fior.   When  you  think  fit,  sir. 
But,  in  the  mean-time,  with  your  highness'  pardon, 
I  am  a  suitor  to  you. 

Cos.  Name  it,  madam, 
With  confidence  to  obtain  it. 

Fior.  That  you  would  please 
To  lay  a  strict  command  on  Charomonte, 
To  bring  his  daughter  Lidia  to  the  court : 
And  pray  you,  think,  sir,  that  'tis  not  ray  purpose 
To  employ  her  as  a  servant,  but  to  use  her 
As  a  most  wish'd  companion. 

Coz.  Ha  !  your  reason  ?  [given  her 

Fior.  The  hopeful  prince,  your  nephew,  sir,  hath 
To  me  for  such  an  abstract  of  perfection 
In  all  that  can  be  wish'd  for  in  a  virgin, 
As  beauty,  music,  ravishing  discourse, 
Quickness  of  apprehension,  with  choice  manners 
And  learning  too,  not  usual  with  women, 
That  I  am  much  ambitious  (though  I  shall 
Appear  but  as  a  foil  to  set  her  oft') 
To  be  by  her  instructed,  and  supplied 
In  what  I  am  defective. 

Cm.  Did  my  nephew 
Seriously  deliver  this  ? 

Fior.  I  assure  your  grace, 
With  zeal  and  vehemency  ;  and,  even  when, 
With  his  best  words,  he  strived  to  set  her  forth, 
(Though  the  rare  subject  made  him  eloquent,) 
lie  would  complain,  all  he  could  say  came  short 
Of  her  deservings. 

Coz.  Pray  you  have  patience.  [TFa/fcs  aside. 

This  was  strangely  carried.— Ha !  are  we  trifled  with? 
Dare  they  do  this  ?     Is  Cozimo's  fury,  that 
Of  late  was  terrible,  grown  contemptible? 
Well;  we  will  clear  our  brows,  and  undermine 
Their  secret  works,  though  they  have  digg'd  Jike 

moles, 

And  crush  them  with  the  tempest  of  my  wrath 
When  I  appear  most  calm.     He  is  unfit 
To  command  others,  that  knows  not  to  use  itf, 
And  with  all  rigour:  yet  my  stern  looks  shall  not 
Discover  my  intents  ;  for  I  will  strike 

When  I  begin  to  frown You  are  the  mistress 

Of  that  you  did  demand. 

Fior.  I  thank  your  highness  ; 
But  speed  in  the  performance  of  the  grant 
Doubles  the  favour,  sir. 

Cot.  You  shall  possess  it 

Sooner  than  you  expect : 

Only  be  pleased  to  be  ready  when  my  secretary 
Waits  on  you  to  take  the  fresh  air.     My  nephew, 
And  my  bosom  friend  so  to  cheat  me !    tis  not  fair. 
Re-enter  GIOVANNI  and  SANAEARRO. 

Sunaz.   Where  should  this  princess  be?  nor  in  her 

lodgings, 

Nor  in  the  private  walks,  her  own  retreat, 
Which  she  so  much  frequented ! 


that  know*  not  to  me  it,]    i.  e.  his 

command,  authority:  the  expre*si.>n  is  harsh,  but  is  not  un- 
common in  the  writers  of  Massinger's  time. 


Giov.  By  my  life, 

She's  with  the  duke  !  and  I  much  more  than  feat 
Her  forwardness  to  prefer  my  suit  hath  ruin'd 
What  witli  such  care  we  built  up. 

Cos.   Have  you  furnish 'd 
Those  coursers,  as  we  will'd  you? 

Sanas.  'J  here's  no  sign 
Of  anger  in  his  looks. 

Giuv.  They  are  complete,  sir. 

Cos.  Tis  «  ell :  to  your  rest.     Soft  sleeps  wait  on 

you,  madam. 

To-morrow,  with  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
Be  ready  to  ride  with  us.     They  with  more  safety 
Had  trod  on  fork-tongued  adders,  than  provoked  me. 

[Exit. 

Fior.  I  come  not  to  be  thank'd,  sir,  for  the  speedy 
Performance  of  my  promise  touching  Lidia ; 
It  is  effected. 

Sanaz.  \Ve  are  undone. 

Finr.  The  duke 

No  sooner  heard  me  with  my  best  of  language 
Describe  her  excellencies,  as  you  taught  me, 
But  he  confirm 'd  it.     You  look  sad,  as  if 
You  wish'd  it  were  undone. 

Giov.  No,  gracious  madam, 
I  am  your  servant  for't. 

Fior.  Be  you  as  careful 

For  what  I  moved  to  you.     Count  Sanazarro, 
Now  I  perceive  you  honour  me,  in  vouchsafing 
To  wear  so  slight  a  favour. 

Sanaz.  'Tis  a  grace 
I  am  unworthy  of. 

Fior.  You  merit  more, 
In  prizing  so  a  trifle.     Take  this  diamond  ; 
I'll  second  what  I  have  begun  ;  for  know, 
Your  valour  hath  so  won  upon  me,  that 
Tis  not  to  be  resisted  :   I  have  said,  sir, 
And  leave  you  to  interpret  it.  [Eiit. 

Sanaz.  This  to  me 

Is  wormwood.     Tis  apparent  we  are  taken 
In  our  own  noose.     What's  to  be  done  ? 

Giov.  I  know  not. 

And  'tis  a  punishment  justly  fallen  upon  me, 
For  leaving  truth,  a  constant  mistress,  that 
Ever  protects  her  servants,  to  become 
A  slave  to  lies  and  falsehood.     What  excuse 
Can  we  make  to  the  duke,  what  mercy  hope  for, 
Our  packing*  being  laid  open  ? 

Sanaz.  Tis  not  to 

Be  question 'd  but  his  purposed  journey  is 
To  see  fair  Lidia. 

Giov.  And  to  divert  him 
Impossible. 

Sanaz.  There's  now  DO  looKing  backward. 

Giov.  And  which  way  to  go  on  with  safety,  not 
To  be  imagined. 

Saiias.  Give  me  leave :  I  have 
An  embryon  in  my  brain,  which,  I  despair  not. 
May  be  brought  to  form  and  fashion,  provided 
You  will  be  open-breasted. 

Giov.  Tis  no  time  now, 
Our  dangers  being  equal,  to  conceal 
A  thought  from  you. 

Sanaz.  What  power  hold  you  o'er  Lidia  ? 
Do  you  think  that,  with  some  hazard  of  her  life, 
She  would  prevent  your  ruin? 


*  Our  packing  being  laid  oj>en .']  i.  e.  onr  insidioni  con 
trivance,  our  iniquitous  collusion  to  deceive  the  duke :  to 
the  word  is  used  by  Suakspeare,  and  others. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


913 


Giow.  I  presume  so  : 
If,  in  the  undertaking  it,  she  stray  not 
From  what  becomes  her  innocence  ;  and  to  that 
'Tis  far  from  me  to  piess  her:  1  myself 
Will  rather  suffer. 

Sunas.  'Tis  enough  ;  this  night 
Write  to  her  by  your  servant  Calandrino, 
As  I  shall  give  directions  ;  my  man 

Eii.ier  CALANDRINO,  fantastically  dressed. 

Shall  bear  him  company.     See,  sir,  to  my  wish 
He  does  appear:  but  much  transformed  from  what 
He  was  when  lie  came  hither. 

CaL  I  confess 

1  am  not  very  wise,  and  yet  I  find 
A  fool,  so  he  be  parcel  knave,  in  court 
May  flourish,  and  grow  rich. 

Giov.  Calandrino. 

CaL  Peace! 
I  am  in  contemplation. 

Giov.  Do  not  you  know  me  ? 

Cul.  I  tell  thee,  no  :  on  forfeit  of  my  place, 
I  must  not  know  myself,  much  less  my  father, 
But  by  petition ;  that  petition  lined  too 
With  golden  birds,  that  sing  to  the  tune  of  profit, 
Or  I  am  deaf. 

Gioo.  But  you've  your  sense  of  feeling. 

[Offering  to  strike  him. 

Sanas.   Nay,  pray  you,  forbear. 

Cul.  I  have  all  that's  requisite 
To  the  making  up  of  a  signior  :  my  spruce  ruff, 
My  hooded  cloak,  long  stocking,  and  paued  hose, 
My  case  of  toothpicks,  and  my  silver  fork*, 


To  convey  an  olive  neatly  to  my  mouth ; — 

And,  what  is  all  in  all,  my  pockets  ring 

A  golden  peal.     O  that  the  peasants  in  the  country, 

My  quondam  fellows,  but  saw  me  as  I  am, 

How  they  would  admire  and  worship  me! 

Giov.  As  they  shall ; 
For  instantly  you  must  thither. 

Cut.  My  grand  signior, 
Vouchsaj'e  a  beso  las  manos*,  and  a  cringe 
Of  the  last  edition. 

Giov.  You  must  ride  post  with  letters 
This  night  to  Lidia. 

Cul.  An  it  please  your  grace, 
Shall  1  use  my  coach,  or  footcloth  mule  ? 

Sanaz.  You  widgeon, 
You  are  to  make  all  speed  ;  think  not  of  pomp. 

Giov.  Follow  for  your  instructions,  sirrah. 

Cat,   I  have 
One  suit  to  you  my  good  lord. 

Sanaz.  What  is't  ? 

Cal.  That  you  would  give  me 
A  subtile  court-charm,  to  defend  me  from 
The  infectious  air  of  the  country. 

Giov.  What's  the  reason  ? 

Cal.  Why,  as  this  court-air  taught  me  knavish 

wit, 

By  which  I  am  grown  rich,  if  that  again 
Should  turn  me  fool  and  honest,  vain  hopes  farewell ' 
For  1  must  die  a  beggar. 

Sanaz.  Go  to,  sirrah, 
You'll  be  whipt  for  this. 

Giov.  Leave  fooling,  and  attend  us.         [Exeunt f. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.— The  Country.     A    Hall   in   CHAUO- 
MONTE'S    Home. 

Enter  CHAROMONTE  and  LIDIA. 

Char.  Daughter,  I  have  observed,  since  the  prince 
left  us, 

*   Cal.  /  have  all  that's  requisite 
To  the  ma/tiny  up  of  a  giijnior  ;  my  spruce  ruff", 
My  hooded  ctoat,  lony  stocking,  and  paned  lm»e, 
My  case  of  toothpicks,  and  my  silver  fork,]  Calhiidi  ino  is 
very  correct  in  his  enumeration  of  the  articles  which  in  his 
time  made  up  a  complete liutior;  and  whi.-h  are  frequently 
Introduced  with  evident  marks  of  disapprobation  and  ridicule 
t>,  our  <>Id  poets.    The  rutt',  clo.ik,  and  long  stocking,  are 
sufficiently  familiar:  hose  are  breeches: 
"  Lorenzo,  ihou  dost  boast  of  ba^e  renown  ; 

Why,  I  could  whip  all  these,  were  their  hose  down." 

The  Spanish  Trayedy. 

Paned  hose,  therefore,  are  breeches  composed  of  final!  squares 
or  pinncU.  While  1  am  on  this  most  grave  subject,  it  may 
mot  be  amiss  to  observe  that,  about  this  time,  the  large 
sla-hed  breeches  of  a  former  reign  began  to  give  way  to 
others  of  a  closer  make;  an  innovation  which  the  old  people 
Hind  very  inconvenient,  and  of  which  they  complained  with 
ton.e  degree  of  justice,  as  being  ill  adapted  to  the  hard  oak 
chairs  and  benches  on  which  they  usually  sat !  Toothpicks, 
the  next  accompaniment  of  state,  were  recently  imported 
Irom  Italy,  as  were/brA»;  the  want  of  which  our  ancestors 
supplied  as  well  as  they  could  with  their  fingers.  Thomas 
Coryat  (an  itinerant  btitt'oon,  with  just  understanding  enough 
to  make  hi.n-elf  worth  the  laughing  at)  claims  tlie  honour  of 
introducing  the  u?e  of  forks  into  this  country,  which,  he 
lays,  he  leirned  in  Italy—"  where  the  natives,  and  al?o  most 
Mi-angers  tliat  are  commor;mt  there,  doe  alwaies  at  their 
Dieiles  us;  a  littV  forke,  when  they  cut  their  mealc,  for 
While  with  their  knife,  which  they  hold  in  one  hand,  they 


(Whose  absence  I  mourn  with  you),  and  the  visit 
Count  Sanazarro  gave  us,  you  have  nourished 


cut  the  meat  out  of  the  dish,  they  fasten  their  forke,  whicli 
they  hold  in  their  other  hand,  upon  the  same  dish."  C'o- 
ryat's  Crudities.  Jj-c.,  1611. 

Jonson,  who,  more  than  any  of  his  contemporaries. 
"  caught  the  manners  living  as  they  rose,"  la>hes  the  pros- 
titution of  monopolies  in  his  time,  by  making  Mtercraft 
promise  Tailbush  and  Cilihead  to  procure  them  grants  fot 
the  manufacturing  of  toothpicks  and  furlis.  What  he  sayi 
of  the  former  is  loo  long  tor  my  purpose  ;  the  latter  are  lhu» 
introduced  : 

"  Meer.  Do  you  hear,  sirs? 

Have  I  dtservf.cl  this  from  you  two,  for  all 

My  pains  at  court  to  get  you  each  a  patent  ? 

"  Gilt.  For  what? 

"  Meer.   Upon  my  project  of  the  forks, 

"  Gilt.  Forks!  what  be  they?      ' 

"  Jlfeer.  The  laudable  UJB  of  forks 

Brought  into  custom  here,  as  they  are  in  Italy, 

To  the  sparing  of  napkins."  The  Devil' s  an  A st. 

*  Cal.  My  yrand  siynior, 

Vouchsafe  a  beso  las  manos,  &c.]  This  is  the  phrase  in 
which  Calandrino  supposes  his  "  quondam  fellows"  will  ad- 
dress him.  1  know  not  whether  it  be  through  ignorance  or 
design — but  the  modern  editors  always  make  their  foreign 
scraps  even  more  barbarous  than  the  ancient  ones.  There 
is  no  occasion  for  this.  In  Massinger's  time,  these  tags  of 
politeness  were  in  every  body 's  mouth,  and  better  uudemtood 
than  they  are  at  this  day. 

t  1  have  restricted  myself  to  as  few  remarks  af  possible  on 
the  beauties  of  the  author,  but  I  cannot  forbear  observing, 
on  the  present  occasion,  that  the  act  we  have  just  finished, 
for  language,  sentiment,  surprising  yet  natural  turns,  and 
general  felicity  of  conduct,  is  not  to  be  paralleled  in  any 
drama  with  which  I  am  acquainted. 


S14 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Aoi.  IV 


S;i«i  and  retired  thoughts,  and  parted  with 
That  freedom  arid  alacrity  of  spirit 
With  which  vou  used  to  cheer  me. 

Lid.   For  the  count,  sir, 

All  thought  of  him  does  with  his  person  die; 
But  I  confess  ingenuously,  I  cannot 
So  soon  forget  the  choice  and  chaste  delights, 
The  courteous  conversation  of  the  prince, 
And  without  stain,  I  hope,  afforded  me, 
When  he  inside  this  house  a  court. 

Cluir.  It  is  in  us, 

To  keep  it  so  without  him.     Want  we  know  not, 
And  all  we  i-an  complain  of,  heaven  be  prais'd  for't, 
Is  too  much  plenty ;  and  we  will  make  use  of 

Enter  CAPONI,  BERNARDO,  PETRUCHIO,  and  other 
Servants. 

All  lawful  pleasures.     How  now,  fellows  ;  when 
Shall  we  have  this  lusty  dunce  1 

Cap.  In  the  afternoon,  sir. 
Tis  a  device,  I  wis,  of  my  own  making1, 
And  such  a  one,  as  shall  make  your  signiorship  know 
1  have  not  been  your  butler  for  nothing,  but 
Have  crotchets  in  my  head.     We'll  trip  it  lightly, 
And  make  my  sad  young  mistress  merry  again, 
Or  I'll  forswear  the  cellar. 

Berti.  If  we  had 

Our  fellow  Calandrino  here,  to  dance 
His  part,  we  were  perfect. 

Pet.  O  !  he  was  a  rate  fellow  ; 
But  1  fear  the  court  hath  spoil'd  him. 

Cap.  When  I  was  young, 
I  could  have  cut  a  caper  upon  a  pinnacle ; 
But  now  I  am  old  and  wise. — keep  your  figure  fair 
And  follow  but  the  sample  I  shall  set  you, 
The  duke  himself  will  send  for  us,  and  laugh  at  us  ; 
A  nd  that  were  credit. 

Enter  CALANDRINO. 

Lid.  Who  have  we  here  ? 

Cat.  I  find 

What  was  brawn  in  the  country,  in  the  court  grows 
'      tender. 

The  bots  on  these  jolting  jades  !  I  am  bruised  to  jelly. 
A  coach  for  my  money!  and  that  the  courte/.ans 

kj^ow  well ; 

Their  riding  so,  makes  them  last  three  years  longer 
Than  such  as  are  hacknied. 

Chur.  Calandrino  !  'tis  he. 

Cat.  Now  to  my  postures. — Let  my  hand  have 

the  honour 

To  convey  a  kiss  from  my  lips  to  the  cover  of 
Your  foot,  dear  signior. 

Char.  Fie  !  you  stoop  too  low,  sir. 

Cal.  The  hem  of  your  vestment,  lady :  your  glove 

is  for  princes ; 
Nay.  1  have  conn'd  my  distances. 

Lid.  'Tis  mo  ,t  courtly. 

Cnp.  Fellow  ( 'alandrino  ! 

Cut.  Signior  de  Caponi, 
Grand  bot flier  of  the  mansion. 

Bern.  How  is't,  man  ?  [Claps  him  on  the  shoulder. 

Cal    Be  not  so  rustic  in  your  salutations, 
Signior  Bernardo,  master  of  the  accounts. 
Signior  Petruchio,  may  you  long  continue 
Your  function  in  the  chamber  ! 

Cap.  When  shall  we  learn 
Such  gambols  in  our  villa  ? 

Lid.  Sure  he's  mad. 


Char.  'Tis  not  unlike,  for  most  of  such  mush- 
rooms are  so. 
What  news  at  court  ? 

Cut.  I'ustol  they  are  mysteries, 
And  not  to  be  reveal'd.    With  your  favour,  signior; 
1  am,  in  private,  to  confer  awhile 
With  this  signiora  :  but  I'll  pawn  my  honour, 
That  neither  my  terse  language,  nor  my  habit, 
Howe'er  it  may  convince,  nor  my  new  shrugs, 
Shall  render  her  enamour'd. 

Char.  Take  your  pleasure  ; 
A  little  of  these  apish  tricks  may  pass, 
Too  much  is  tedious.  [Exit. 

Cal.  The  prince,  in  this  paper, 
Presents  Ins  service.     Nay,  it  is  not  courtly 
To  see  the  seal  broke  open  ;  so  I  leave  you. 
Signiors  of  the  villa,  I'll  descend  to  be 
Familiar  with  you. 

Cap.  Have  you  forgot  to  dance? 
Cal.  No,  I  am  better'd. 
Pet.  Will  you  join  with  us? 
Cal.  As  I  like  the  project. 

Let  me  warm  my  brains  first  with  the  richest  grape. 
And  then  I'm  for  you. 

Cap.    We  will  want  no  wine.  [Exeunt  all  but  Lidia. 
Lid.  That  this  comes  only  from  the  best  of  princes 
With  a  kind  of  adoration  does  commnnd  me 
To  entertain  it ;  and  the  s^eet  contents 

[Kissing  the  letter. 

That  are  inscribed  here  by  his  hand  must  be 
Much  more  than  musical  to  me.     All  the  service 
Of  my  life  at  no  part  can  deserre  this  favour. 
O  what  a  virgin  longing  1  feel  on  me 
To  unrip  the  seal,  and  read  it !  yet,  to  break 
What  he  hath  fastened,  rashly,  may  appear 
A  saucy  rudeness  in  me. —  I  must  do  it 
(Nor  can  1  else  learn  his  commands,  or  serve  them). 
But  with  such  reverence  as  I  would  open 
Some  holy  writ,  whose  grave  instructions  beat  down 
Rebellious  sins,  and  teach  my  better  part 
How  to  mount  upward. — So  [Opens  the  letter."],  'tis 

done,  and  I 

With  eagle's  eyes  will  curiously  peruse  it.     [Reads. 
Chus'e  Lidia,  the  favours  are  /so  great 
()ii  me  fti/  you,  conftrr'd,  that  to  entreat 
The  Isast  addition  /•>  them,  in  true  sense 
Mai/  argue  me  of  blushb'ss  impudence. 
But,  such  are  my  eitreinfs,  if  you.  deny 
A  further  grace,  I  must  unpitied  die. 
Haste  cms  ojj'  circumstance.     As  you're  admired 
For  beauty,  the  rrpii-t  of  i'  hath  fired 
The  duke  mu  uncte,  and,  I  fear,  you'll  prove, 
A'ot  with  a  sacred,  but  unlawful  love. 
If  he  see  you  us  von  are,  my  hoped-for  light 
Js  chiuged  into  an  ei'trlastiiig  night ; 
Him  to  prevent  it,  if  uour  goodness  Jind, 
Ynu  saie  tico  lires,  and  me  (ion  ecer  bind, 

The  honourer  of  your  virtues,  GIOVANNI. 
Were  I  more  deaf  than  adders,  these  sweet  charms 
Would  through  my  ears  tind  passage  to  my  soul. 
And  soon  enchant  it.     To  save  such  a  prince, 
Wrbo  would  not  perish  ?  virtue  in  him  must  suffer, 
And  piety  he  forgotten.     The  duke's  lust, 
Though  it  raged    more  than  'J  arquiu's,   shall   not 

reach  me — 

All  quaint  inventions  of  chaste  virgins  aid  me! 
My  prayers  are  heard  ;  J  liave't.    'i  he  duke  ne'er  saw 

me  — 
Or,  if  that  fail,  I  am  again  provided- 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


215 


But  for  the  servants  ! — They  will  take  what  form 

I  please  to  put  upon  them.     Giovanni, 

Be  safe  ;  thy  servant  Lidia  assures  it. 

Let  mountains  of  afflictions  fall  on  me, 

Their  weight  is  easy,  so  1  set  thee  free.         [Eiit. 


SCENE  II. — Another  Pimm  in  the  same. 

Enter  COZIMO,  GIOVANNI,  SANAZAHRO,  CIIAROMOXTE 
and  Attendants. 

Sanaz.  Are  you  not  tired  with  travel,  sir? 

Coz.  No,  no  : 
I  am  fresh  and  lusty. 

Char.  This  day  shall  be  ever 
A  holiday  to  me,  that  br.ngs  my  prince 
Under  my  humble  roof.  [  Weept. 

Giov.  See,  sir,  my  good  tutor 
Sheds  tears  for  joy. 

Cos.  Dry  them  up,  Charomonte ; 
And  all  forbear  the  room,  while  we  exchange 
Some  private  words  together. 

Gior.  O,  my  lord, 
How  grossly  have  we  overshot  ourselves! 

Sanaz.  In  what,  sir  ? 

Giuv.  In  forgetting  to  acquaint 
My  guardian  wi;h  our  purpose  :  all  that  Lidia 
Can  do  avails  us  nothing,  if  the  duke 
Find  out  the  truth  from  him. 

Sannz.  'Tis  now  past  help. 
And  we  must  stand  the  hazard  : — hope  the  best,  sir. 

[Exeunt  Giovanni,  Sanazarro,  and  Attendants. 

Char.  My  loyalty  doubted,  sir! 

Cos.  'Tis  more.     Thou  hast 
Abused  our  trust,  and  in  a  high  degree 
Committed  treason. 

Char.  Treason  !   'tis  a  word 

My  innocence  understands  not.     Were  my  breast 
Transparent,  and  my  thoughts  to  be  discern'd. 
Not  one  spot  shall  be  found  to  taint  the  candour 
Of  my  allegiance  :  and  I  must  be  bold 
To  tell  you,  sir,  (for  he  that  knows  no  guilt 
Can  know  no  fear),  'tis  tyranny  to  o'ercharge 
An  honest  man  ;  and  such,  till  now,  I've  lived, 
And  such,  my  lord,  I'll  die. 

Cot.  Sir,  do  not  flatter 

Yourself  with  hope  ;  these  great  and  glorious  words, 
Whio.h  every  guilty  wretch,  as  well  as  you, 
Teat's  arm'd  with  impudence,  can  with  ease  del i/er, 
And  with  as  full  a  mouth,  can  work  on  us  : 
Nor  shall  gay  flourishes  of.language  clear 
\Yli;it  is  in  fact  apparent. 

Char.  Fact!  what  fact? 
You,  that  know  only  what  it  is,  instruct  me, 
For  1  am  ignorant. 

Coz.  This,  then,  sir:   We  gave  up, 
On  our  assurauce  of  your  faith  and  care, 
Our  nephew  Giovanni,  nay,  our  heir 
In  expection,  to  be  train'd  up  hy  you 
As  did  become  a  prince. 

Char.  And  I  discharged  it : 
Is  this  the  treason  ? 

Coz.  Take  us  with  you,  sir*. 
And,  in  respect  we  knew  his  youth  was  prone 


•  Take  vt  with  you,t!r.}  i.  e.  hear  us  out,  understand  our 
meaning  fully,  before  you  form  your  conclu.-ion»  :  this  ex- 
1  rt'-MMii  is  common  to  all  our  old  writers;  and.  indeed,  will 
be  frequently  found  in  the  succeeding  page*  of  this  work. 


To  women,  and  that,  living  in  our  court, 
He  might  make  some  unworthy  choice,  before 
His  weaker  judgment  was  continn'd,  we  did 
Remove  him  from  it;  constantly  presuming, 
You,  with  your  best  endeavours,  rather  would 
Have    quench 'd  those    heats   in   him,  than    light  a 

torch, 
As  you  have  done,  to  his  looseness. 

CVta«.  I  !   My  travail 
Is  ill-requited,  sir  ;   for,  by  my  soul, 
I  was  so  curious  that  way.  that  1  granted 
Access  to  none  could  tempt  him  ;  nor  did  ever 
One  syllable,  or  abscene  accent,  touch 
His  ear,  that  might  corrupt  him. 

Coz.  No!    Why,  then, 

With  your  allowance,  did  y°u  g've  ^ree  way 
To  all  familiar  privacy  between 
My  nephew  and  your  daughter?     Or  why  did  vou 
(Had  you  no  other  ends  in't  but  our  service) 
Read  to  them,  and  together,  as  they  had  been 
Scholars  of  one  form,  grammar,  rhetoric, 
Philosophy,*  story,  and  interpret  to  them 
The  close  temptations  of  lascivious  poets  ? 
Or  wherefore,  for  we  still  had  spies  upon  vou, 
Was  she  still  present,  when,  by  your  advice, 
He  was  taught  the  use  of  his  weapon,  horsemanship. 
Wrestling,  nay,  swimming,  but  to  fan  in  her 
A  hot  desire  of  him?  and  then,  forsooth, 
His  exercises  ended,  cover 'd  with 
A  fair  pretence  of  rt  creation  for  him 
(When  Lidia  was  instructed  in  those  graces 
That  add  to  beauty),  he,  brought  to  admire  her, 
Must  hear  her  sing,  while  to  her  voice  her  hand 
Made  ravishing  music  ;  and,  this  applauded,  dance 
A  light  lavolta  with  her?  f 

I'/inr.  Have  you  ended 
All  you  can  charge  me  with  ? 

Coz.  Nor  stopt  you  there, 
But  they  must  unattended  walk  into 
The  silent  groves,  and  hear  the  amorous  birds 
Warbling  their  wanton  notes  ;   here,  a  sure  shade 
Of  barren  sicamores,  which  the  all-seeing  sun 
Could  not  pierce  through ;  near  that,  an   harbour 

hung 

With  spreading  eglantine:  there,  a  bubbling  spring 
Watering  a  bank  of  byucintbs  and  lilies; 
With  all  allurements  that  could  move  to  lust ; 
And  could  this,  Charomonte  (should  I  grunt 


•  Philosophy,  story,]  For  ttory,  the  modern  editors  un- 
necessarily read  hu'tory.  The  l>vo  word*  were  anciently 
synonymous. 

t  A  liyht  lavolt.i  with  her.]  What  the  dance  here  alluded 
to  is  1  cannot  tell,  nor  can  I  find  an  explanation  of  the 
word  in  any  dictionary.  CoxtTEK  and  M.  MASON. 

'I'll. it's  a  pily!  Dictionaries,  generally  speaking,  are  not 
the  places  to  look  for  teinis  <>f  this  kind,  whicli  should  be 
sought  in  the  kindred  writings  of  contemporary  au.hors. 
I.aaolta  (literally,  thrturn)  was.  a  dance  originally  imported, 
with  many  others,  from  Italy.  It  is  frequently  mentioned 
by  our  old  writers,  with  \\  horn  it  was  a  favourite ;  and  is  so 
graphically  described  by  Sir  John  Davit*,  in  his  Orchestra, 
that  all  further  attempts  to  explain  it  must  he  superfluous: 

"  Yet  is  there  one,  the  most  delightful  kind, 
A  lofty  jumping,  or  a  leaping  round, 

Where,  arm  in  arm,  two  dancer.*  are  entwin'd, 
And  whirl  themselves  in  strict  einbraccmeiils  bound" 

Our  countrymen,  who  seem  to  be  lineally  descended  from 
Sisyphus,  and  who,  at  the  end  of  every  century,  UMially 
have  their  work  to  do  over  again,  »ft»;r  proudly  impor- 
ting from  Germany  the  long-exploded  tra?h  of  their  o«n 
nurseries,  have  just  brought  bai-U  from  the  same  country, 
anil  with  an  iqu.il  degree  of  exultation,  the  well  known 
laeol/a  of  their  grand-lathers,  under  the  mellifluous  name  ol 
the  tcatt*/ 


S16 


THE  GREAT  DUKF.  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Acr  IV. 


They  had  been  equals  both  in  birth  and  fortune). 

Become  your  gravity  ?  nay,  'tis  clear  as  air, 

That  your  ambitious  hopes  to  match  your  daughter 

Into  our  family ,  gave  connivance  to  it: 

And  this,  though  not  in  act,  in  the  intent 

I  call  high  treason. 

Char.  Hear  my  just  defence,  sir ; 
And,  though  you  are   my   prince,  it  will   not   take 

from 

Your  greatness,  to  acknowledge  with  a  blush, 
In  this  mv  accusation  you  have  been 
More  sway'd  by  spleen,  and  jealous  suppositions, 
Than  certain  groumls  of  reason.     You  had  a  father, 
(Blest  be  his  memory),  that  made  frequent  proofs 
Of  my  loyalty  and  faith,  and,  would  1  boast 
The  dangers  I  have  broke  through  in  his  service, 
I  could  say  more.     Nay,  you  yourself,  dread  sir, 
Whenever  I  was  put  unto  the  test, 
Found  me  true  gold,  and  not  adulterate  metal  ; 
And  am  I  doubted  now  ? 

Cm.  This  is  from  the  purpose. 

Char.  I  will  come  to   it,  sir:   Your   grace   well 

knew, 

Before  the  prince's  happy  presence  made 
My  poor  house  rich,  the  chiefest  blessing  which. 
I  gloried  in,  though  now  it  prove  a  curse, 
Was  an  only  daughter.     Nor  did  you  command  me, 
As  a  security  to  your  future  fears, 
To  cast  her  off :  which  had  you  done,  hovve'er 
She  was  the  light  of  my  eyes,  and  comfort  of 
My  feeble  age,  so  far  I  prized  my  duty 
Above  affection,  she  now  had  been 
A  stranger  to  my  care.     But  she  is  fair ! 
Is  that  her  fault  or  mine  ?  Did  ever  father 
Hold  beauty  in  his  issue  for  a  blemish  ? 
Her  education  and  her  manners  tempt  too! 
If  these  offend,  they  are  easily  removed  : 
You  may,  if  you  think  fit,  before  my  face, 
In  recompense  of  all  my  watchings  for  you, 
With  burning  corrosives  transform  her  to 
An  ugly  leper ;  and,  this  done,  to  taint 
Hffi  sweetness,  prostitute  her  to  a  brothel*. 
This  I  will  rather  suffer,  sir,  and  more, 
Than  live  suspected  by  you. 

Cos.  Let  not  passion 
Carry  you  beyond  your  reason. 

Char.  I  am  calm,  sir ; 

Yet  you  must  give  me  leave  to  grieve  I  find 
My  actions  misinterpreted.     Alas  !  sir, 
Was  Lidia's  desire  to  serve  the  prince 
Call'd  an  offence  1  or  did  she  practise  to 
Seduce  his  youth,  because  with  her  best  zeal 
And  fervour  she  endeavoured  to  attend  him  ? 
'Tis   a  hard    construction.      Though  she  be  my 

daughter, 

I  may  thus  far  speak  her  :  from  her  infancy 
She  was  ever  civil,  her  behaviour  nearer 
Simplicity  than  craft  ;  and  malice  dares  not 
Affirm,  in  one  loose  gesture,  or  light  language, 
She  gave  a  sign  she  was  in  thought  unchaste. 
I'll  fetch  her  to  you,  sir  ,  and  but  look  on  her 
With  equal  eyes,  you  must  in  justice  grant 
That  your  suspicion  wrongs  her. 

Cos.  It  may  be  ; 
But  1  must  have  stronger  assurance  of  it 

* prostitute  her  to  a  brothel.]    The 

.uarlo  reads,  to  *  loathiome  brothel.  The  epithtt  is  alto- 
gether idle,  and  utterly  destroys  the  metre;  I  have  there- 
lore  omitieii  it  without  scruple,  a*  an  interpolation. 


Than  passionate  words  :  and,  not  to  trifle  time, 

As  we  came  unexpected  to  your  house, 

Ue  will  prevent  all  means  that  may  prepare  her 

How  to  answer  that,  with  which  we  come  to  charge 

And  howsoever  it  may  be  received  [her. 

As  a  foul  breach  to  hospitable  rites. 

On  thy  allegiance  and  boasted  faith, 

Nay,  forfeit  of  thy  head,  we  do  confine  thee 

Close  prisoner  to  thy  chamber,  till  all  doubts 

Are  clear'd,  that  do  concern  us. 

Char.  I  obey,  sir, 

And  wish  your  grace  had  followed  my  herse 
To  my  sepulchre,  my  loyalty  unsuspected, 
Rather  th:m  now — but  I  am  silent,  sir, 
And  let  that  speak  my  duty*.  [Erif. 

Cm.  If  this  man 

Be  false,  disguised  treachery  ne'er  put  on 
A  shape  so  near  to  truth.     Within,  there ! 

Re-enter  GIOVANNI    and     SANAZARRO,   ushering    in 

PETRONELI.A.       CALANDRINO    and    others    Kiting 

forth  a  Banquet. 

Sanas.  Sir. 

Coz.  Bring  Lidia  forth. 

Giow.  She  comes,  sir,  of  herself, 
To  present  her  service  to  you. 

Coz.  Ha  !  This  personage 
Cannot  invite  affection. 

Sanaz.  See  you  keep  state. 

Petron.  I  warrant  you. 

Coz.  The  manners  of  her  mind 
Must  be  transcendent,  if  they  can  defend 
Her  rougher  outside.     May  we  with  your  liking 
Salute  you,  lady? 

Petron.  Let  me  wipe  my  mouth,  sir, 
With  my  cambric  handkerchief,  arid  then  have  at  you. 

Cos.   Can  this  be  possible  ? 

Sana:.  Yes,  sir  ;  you  will  find  her 
Such  as  I  gave  her  to  you. 

Petron.  Will  your  dukeship 

Sit  down  and  eat  some  sugar-plums  ?  Here's  a  castle 
Of  march-pane  too  ;  and  this  quince-marmalade 
Was  of  my  own  making  :  all  summ'd  up  together, 
Did  cost  the  setting  on  ;  and  here  is  wine  too 
As  good  as  e'er  was  tapp'd.     I'll  be  your  taster, 
For  I  know  the  fashion  [Drinks  all  off'.]  ; — now  yov 

must  do  me  right,  sir ; 
You  shall  nor  will  nor  choose. 

Giov.  She's  very  simple.  [lady  \ 

Coz.  Simple  !   'tis  worse.  Do  you  drink  thus  often, 

Petron.  Still  when  I  am  thirsty,  and  eat  when  I 
am  hungry :  [y°u» 

Such  junkets  come  not  every  day.     Once  more  to 
With  a  heart  and  a  half,  i'faith. 

Coz.  Pray  you,  pause  a  little  ; 
If  I  hold  your  cardsj,  I  shall  pull  down  the  side  : 
I  am  not  good  at  the  game. 

Petron.  Then  I'll  drink  for  you.  [pledgft 

Coz.    Nay,    pray  you    stay:   i'il  find  you  out  a 
That  shall  supply  my  place ;  what  think  you  of 
This  complete  signior  ?     You  are  a  Juno, 
And  in  such  state  must  feast  this  Jupiter: 
What  think  you  of  him? 

•  This  scene  is  exquisitely  written.  It  must,  however,  be 
confessed,  that  Charomonle's  justification  ol  himself  is  less 
complete  than  might  be  expected  from  one  who  had  so 
good  a  cause  to  dcti-nd. 

+  Coz.  Pray  you  paute  a  little  ; 

If  1  hold  your  card*,  &c.J  See  The  Unnatural  Cimitat, 
Act  11.  Sc.  2. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


517 


Petron.  I  desire  no  better. 

Co:.  And  you  will  undertake  this  service  for  me  ? 
You  are  good  at  the  sport. 

Cal.   Who,  I  ?  a  pidler,  sir.  [drink 

Cos.  Nay,  you  shall  sit  enthroned,  and  eat  and 
As  you  were  a  duke. 

Cat.  If  your  grace  will  have  me, 
I'll  eat  and  drink  like  an  emperor. 

Cos.  Take  your  place  then  : 
We  are  amazed. 

Giov.  This  is  gross  :  nor  can  the  imposture 
But  be  discover'd. 

Sanaz.  The  duke  is  too  sharp-sighted 
To  be  deluded  thus. 

Cal.  Nay,  pray  you  eat  fair, 
Or  divide,  and  I  will  choose.     Cannot  you  use 
Your  fork,  as  I  do  1  Gape,  and  I  will  feed  you, 

[Feeds  her. 
Gape  wider  yet ;  this  is  court-like. 

Petron.  To  choke  daws  with: 
I  like  it  not. 

Cal.  But  you  like  this  ? 

Petron.  Let  it  come,  boy.  [They  drink. 

Coz.  What  a  sight  is  this  !     We  could  be  angry 

with  you. 

How  much  you  did  belie  her  when  you  told  us 
She  was  only  simple  !  this  is  barbarous  rudeness, 
Beyond  belief. 

Giov.  I  would  not  speak  her,  sir, 
Worse  than  she  was. 

Sanaz.  And  I,  my  lord,  chose  rather 
To  deliver  her  better  parted*  than  she  is, 
Than  to  take  from  her. 

Enter  CAPONI,  with  his  fellow  Servants  for  the  dance. 

Cap.  Ere  I'll  lose  my  dance, 

I'll  speak  to  the  purpose.  1  am,  sir,  no  prologue  ; 
But  in  plain  terms  must  tell  you,  we  are  provided 
Of  a  lusty  hornpipe. 

Coz.  Prithee,  let  us  have  it, 
For  we  grow  dull. 

Cap.  But  to  make  up  the  medley, 
For  it  is  of  several  colours,  we  must  borrow 
Your  grace's  ghost  here. 

Cal.  Pray  you,  sir,  depose  me  ; 
It  will  not  do  else.     I  am,  sir,  the  engine 

[Rises,  and  resigns  his  chair. 
By  which  it  moves. 

Petron.  I  will  dance  with  my  duke  too  ; 
1  will  not  out.  [in  this   i 

Coz.    Begin  then. — [They  dance.] — There's  more   j 
Than  yet  1  have  discover'd.     Some  (Edipus 
Resolve  this  riddle. 

Petron.  Did  1  not  foot  it  roundly  ?  [Falls. 

•  Sana?,.  And  /,  my  lord,  chose  rather 

To  delivtr  her  better  parted  than  the  is]    i.  e.  girted  or  I 

endowed  wilh  better  parts,  &c.     See  J  irytn  Martyr,  Act  i 
II.,  Sc.  3. 

It  seems  to  have  been  the  opinion  of  Massinger  and  his  | 

fellow  dramatists,  that  no  play  could    succeed  without  the  I 

admission  of  some  kind  of  farcical  interlude   among  the  j 

graver  scenes.     If  the  dramas  of  our  author  be  intimately  \ 

considered,  few   will  be  found   without   some   extraneous  i 

mummery  of  thi»  description;   and,  indeed,  nothing  but  a  I 
persuasion    of   the    nature  which    I  have  just  mentioned 

could  give  birth  to  the  poor  mockery  before  us.    As  a  trick,  ' 

it  is  so  gross   and  palpable,  that  the  duke  could  not  have  I 

been  deceived   by  it  for  a  moment  (to  do  him  justice,  he  j 

frequently  hints  his  suspicions);  and  as  a  piece  of  humour,  | 
it  is  so  low,  and  even  disagreeable,  that  I  cannot   avoid 
regretting  a  proper  regard  for  his  characters  had  not  pre- 


Coz.  As  I  live,  stark  drunk  !  away  with  her. 
We'll  reward  you, 

[Exeunt  Servants  with  Petronelta 

When  you  have  cool'd  yourselves  in  the  cellar. 

Cap.  Heaven  preserve  you  ! 

Cor.  We  pity  Charomonte's  wretched  fortune 
Fn  a  daughter,  nay,  a  monster.     Good  old  man ! 
The  place  grows  tedious ;  our  remove  shall  be 
With  speed  :  we'll  only  in  a  word  or  two 
Take  leave,  and  comfort  him. 

Sanai.  'Twill  rather,  sir, 

Increase  his  sorrow,  that  you  know  his  shame  ; 
Your  grace  may  do  it  by  letter. 

Coz.  Who  sign'd  you 
A  patent  to  direct  us?  Wait  our  coming, 
In  the  garden. 

Giov.  All  will  out. 

Sanas.  I  more  than  fear  it. 

[Eieunt  Giovanni  and  Sanasarro. 

Cos.  These  are  strung*  chimeras  to  us :  what  to 

judge  oft 

Is  past  our  apprehension.     One  command 
Charomonte  to  attend  us.  [Exit  an  Attendant."] 

Can  it  be 

That  Contarino  could  be  so  besotted 
As  to  admire  this  prodigy !  or  her  father 
To  dote  upon  it !   Or  does  she  personate*, 
For  some  ends  unknown  to  us,  in  this  rude  beha 

viour, 

Which  in  the  scene  presented,  would  appear 
Ridiculous  and  impossible.     O,  you  are  welcome. 

Enter  CHAUOMONTE. 

We  now  acknowledge  the  much  wrong  we  did  you 
In  our  unjust  suspicion.     We  have  seen. 
The  wonder,  sir,  your  daughter. 

Char.  And  have  found  her 
Such  as  1  did  report  her.     What  she  wanted 
Incourtshipt,  was,  I  hope,  supplied  in  civil 
And  modest  entertainment. 

Cos.  Pray  you,  tell  us, 
And  truly,  we  command  you,  did  you  never 
Observe  she  was  given  to  drink  7 

Char.  To  drink,  sir  ! 

Co*.  Yes  :  nay  more,  to  be  drunk  ? 

Char.  I  had  rather  see  her  buried. 

Cot.  Dare  you  trust  your  own  eyes,  if  you  find 

her  now 
More  than  distemper'd  ? 

Char.  I  will  pull  them  out,  sir,  [please 

If  your  grace   can  make   this   good.     And  if  you 
To  grant  me  liberty,  as  she  is  I'll  fetch  her, 
And  in  a  moment. 

Cm.  Look  you  do,  and  fail  not, 
On  the  peril  of  your  head. 

Char.  Drunk  !— She  disdains  it.  [Exit. 


-or  dor*  the  personate, 


veuted  the  author  from  adopting  it  an  the  present  occasion. 


For  tome  ends  unknown  to  us? — This  rude  behaviour 

f  I  ithin  the  scene  presented,  would  appear 

Ridiculous  and  impossible.]  So  the  old  copy.  Mr.  M. 
Mason  rtad«, 

Or  does  .the  personate. 

For  some  ends  unknown  to  us,  this  rude  bchavimu; 

Which,  in  the  scene  presented,  would,  &c.J 
And  I  have  continued  it,  although   the  old  reading  makei 
very  good  sense.     To  peisonate  is  used  here  with  great  pro- 
priety, for — to  play  a  fictitious  character. 

t What  she  u-antcd 

In  courtship,]  Courtship  is  used  here  for  that  grace  and 
elegance  of  behaviour  which  a  retired  gentleman  miglil 
suppose  to  be  taught  and  practUed  at  court. 


S18 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Acr  IV. 


Coz.  Such  contrarieties  were  never  read  of. 
Chamoronte  is  no  fool  ;  nor  can  I  think 
His  confidence  built  on  sund.     We  are  abused, 
'Tis  too  apparent. 

lie-enter  CIIAROMONTE  with  LIDIA. 
Lid.  I  am  indisposed  sir ; 

And  that  lite  you  once  tender'd  much  endanger'd 
In  forcing  me  from  my  chamber. 

Char.  Here  she  is,  sir  ; 

Suddenly  sick,  ]  grunt ;  but,  sure,  not  drunk  ; 
Sj.eak  to  my  lord  the  duke. 

Lid.  All  is  discover'd.  [Kneels. 

C»z.  Is  this  your  only  daughter? 

Char.  And  mv  heir,  sir  ; 
Nor  keep  I  any  woman  in  my  *  house 
(  Unless  for  sordid  offices)  but  one 
1  do  maintain,  trimm'd  up  in  her  cast  habits, 
To  make  her  sport :   and  she,  indeed,  loves  wine, 
And   will  take  too  much  of  it :  and,  perhaps,  for 

mirth, 
She  was  presented  to  you. 

Cm.  It  shall  yield  ' 

No  sport  to  the  contrivers.     'Tis  too  plain  now. 
Her  presence  does  confirm  what  Contarino 
Deliver'd  of  her  ;  nor  can  sickness  dim 
The  splendour  of  her  beauties  ;  being  herself,  then, 
She  must  exceed  his  praise. 

Lid.   Will  your  grace  hear  me? 
I'm  taint,  and  can  say  little. 

Coz  Here  are  accents 
Whose  every  syllable  is  musical ! 
Pray  you,  let  me  raise  you,  and  awhile  rest  here. 
False  Sanazarro,  treacherous  Giovanni ! 
But  sraad  we  talking! 

Char.  Here's  a  storm  soon  raised.  [swear 

Coz.     As   thou    art    our    subject,    Charoinonte, 
To  act  what  we  command. 

Chin:  That  is  an  oath 
I  long  since  took. 

Cnz.  'I  hen,  by  that  oath  we  charge  thee, 
Without  excuse,  denial,  or  delay, 
To  apprehend,  and  suddenly,  Sanazarro, 
And  our  ungrateful  nephew'.     We  have  said  it. 
Do  it  without  reply,  or  we  pronounce  thee, 
Like  them,  a  traitor  to  us.     See  them  guarded 
In  several  lodgings,  and  forbid  access 
To  all,  but  when  we  warrant.     Is  our  will 
Heard  sooner  than  obey'd  ? 

Chur.  These  are  strange  turns  ; 
But  1  must  not  dispute  them.  [Exit, 

Coz.  13e  severe  in't. 

O  my  abused  lenity !  from  what  height 
Is  my  power  fall'n  ! 

Lid.  O  me  most  miserable  ! 
That,  being  innocent,  make   others  guilty. 
Most  gracious  prince 

Coz.  Pray  you  rise,  and  then  speak  to  me. 

•  A'or  keep  I  any  woman  in  my  house.  Coxeter  had 
dropt  a  word  at  the  press,  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  was  reduced 
t»  jjuess  what  it  might  be.  He  failed  as  usual:  luckily  the 
mistake  was  of  no  further  consequence  th.in  to  show  with 
what  pertinacity  he  persutud  in  not  consulting  the  old 
copies. 


Lid.  My  knees  shall  first  be  rooted  in  this    earth 
And,  Myrrha-like,  I'll  grow  up  to  a  tree, 
Dropping  perpetual  tears  of  sorrow,  which 
Harden'd  by  the  rough  wind,  and  turn'd  to  amher, 
Unfortunate  virgins  like  myself  shall  wear  ; 
Before  I'll  make  petition  to  your  greatness, 
Rut  with  such  reverence,  my  hands  held  up  thus. 
As  I  would  do  to  heaven. .    You  princes  are 
As  gods  on  earth  to  us,  and  to  be  sued  to 
With  such  humility,  as  his  deputies 
May  challenge  from  their  vassals. 

Coz.   Here's  that  form 
Of  language  I  expected  ;  pray  you,  speak 
What  is  your  suit  ] 

Lid.  That  you  would  look  upon  me 
As  an  humble  thing,  that  millions  of  degrees 
Is  placed  beneath  you  :  for  what  am  1,  dread  sir, 
Or  what  can  fall  in  the  whole  course  of  mv  life. 
That   may   be    worth   your   care,  mucti  less    your 

trouble  ? 

As  the  lowly  shrub  is  to  the  lofty  cedar, 
Or  a  molehill  to  Olympus,  if  compared, 
I  am  to  you,  sir.     Or,  suppose  the  prince, 
(Which  cannot  find  belief  in  me),  forgetting 
The  greatness  of  his  birth  and  hopes,  hath  thrown 
An  eye  of  favour  on  me,  in  me  punish, 
That  am  the  cause,  the  rashness  of  his  youth. 
Shall  the  queen  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  air, 
The  eagle,  that  bears  thunder  on  her  wings, 
In  her  angry  mood  destroy  her  hopeful  young, 
For  suffering  a  wren  to  perch  too  near  them  ? 
Such  is  our  disproportion. 
Coz.   With  what  fervour 
She  pleads  against  herself! 
Lid.   For  me,  poor  maid, 
1  know  the  prince  to  he  so  far  ahove  me, 
That  my  wishes  cannot  reach  him.     Yet  I  am 
So  much  his  creature,  <that,  to  fix  him  in 
Your  wonted  grace  and  favour,  I'll  abjure 
His  sight  for  ever,  and  betake  myself 
To  a  religious  life  (where  in  my  prayers 
I  may  remember  him),  and  ne'er  see  man  more, 
But  my.  ghostly  father.     Will  you  trust  me,  sir? 
In  truth  I'll  ke'ep  my  word  ;  or,  if  this  fail, 
A  little  more  of  fear  what  may  befal  him 
Will  stop  my  breath  for  ever. 

Coz.  Had  you  thus  argued  [Raise*  her. 

As  you  were  yourself,  and  brought  as  advocates 
Your  health  and  beauty,  to  make  way  for  you, 
No  crime  of  his  could  put  on  such  a  shape 
But  1  should  look  with  the  eyes  of  mercy  on  it. 
What  would  I  give  to  see  this  diamond 
In  her  perfect  lustre,  as  she  was  before  [fort ; 

The  clouds  of  sickness  dimm'd  it !     Yet  take  com- 
And,  as  you  would  obtain  remission  for 
His  treachery  to  me,  cheer  your  drooping  spirits, 
And  call  the  blood  again  into  your  cheeks. 
And  then  plead  for  him  ;  and  in  such  a  habit 
As  in  your  highest  hopes  you  would  put  on, 
If  we  were  to  receive  you  for  our  bride. 
Lid.  I'll  do  my  best,  sir. 
Coz.  And  that  best  will  be 
A  crowu  of  all  felicity  to  me.  [Exeunt 


I.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


919 


ACT  V 


SCENE  I. — The  same.  An  upper  Chamber  in  Charo- 
monte's  House. 

Enter  SANAZARRO. 
Sanaz.  'Tis  proved  in  me ;  the  curse  of  Luman 

frailty. 

Adding  to  our  afflictions,  makes  us  know 
\V!iat's  food  ;  and  vet  our  violent  passions  force  us 
To  follow  what  is  ill.     Reason  assured  me 
It  was  not  safe  to  shave  a  lion's  skin  ; 
And  that  to  trifle  with  a  sovereign  was 
To  play  with  lightning:  yet  imperious  beauty, 
Treading  upon  the  neck  of  understanding, 
Compell'd  me  to  put  oft"  my  natural  shape 
Of  loyal  duty,  to  disguise  myself 
In  the  adulterate  and  cobweb  mask 
Of  disobedient  treachery.     Where  is  now 
lUv  borrow'd  greatness,  or  the  promised  lives 
Of  following  courtiers  echoing  my  will  ? 
In  a  moment  vanish'd  !  Power  that  stands  not  on 
Its  proper  base,  which  is  peculiar  only 
To  absolute  princes,  falls  or  rises  with 
Their  frown  or  favcur.  The  great  duke,  my  master 
(  \\  ho  almost  changed  me  to  his  other  self,) 
No  sooner  takes  his  beams  of  comfort  from  me, 
But  I,  as  one  unknown,  or  unregarded, 
Un pitied  suffer.     \Vlio  makes  intercession 
To  his  mercv  for  roe,  now  ?  who  does  remember 
'J  he  service  I  have  done  him  ?  not  a  man  : 
And  such  as  spake  no  language  but,  Mv  lord 
The  favourite  of  Tuscany 's  grand  duke, 
Deride  my  madness. — Ha!  what  noise  of  horses? 

[He  looks  back. 

A  goodly  troop!    This  back  part  of  my  prison 
Allows  me  liberty  to  see  and  know  them. 
Contarino  ?  yes,  'tis  he,  and  Lodovico*  ; 
And  the  duchess  Fiorinda,  Urbin's  heir, 
A  princess  1  have  slighted  :  yet  I  wear 
Her  favours  :  and,  to  teach  me  what  I  am, 
She  whom  I  scorn'd  can  only  mediate  for  me. 
This  way  she  makes,  yet  speak  to  her  I  dare  not ; 
And  how  to  make  suit  to  her  is  a  task 
Of  as  much  difficulty. — Yes,  thou  blessed  pledge 

[Takes  ojf  the  ling. 

Of  her  affection,  aid  me!  This  supplies 
The  want  of  pen  and  ink  ;  and  this,  of  paper. 

[Takes  u  pane  of  glass. 
It  must  be  so  ;  and  I  in  mv  petition 
Concise  and  pithy. 

SCENE  II. —  Tue  Court  before  Charomonte's  House. 

Enter  CONTARINO  leading    in  FIORINDA,  ALFHCNSO, 
Hiri'OLiTo,  IliEiiOMSio,  and  CALAMINTA. 

Fior.  Tis  a  goodly  pile,  this. 
Hier.  But  betterf  by  the  owner. 


• Lodovico;]  i.e.  Lodovico  Hippolito. 

t  Rut  better  by  the  owner.)  Mr.  M.  Mason  reads  bettered, 
which  spoils  the  climax  intended  by  the  author  :  to  complete 
hi»  eincmUtion,  he  should  have  redd,  in  the  next  line,—  Ltit 
mott  enriched,  &c.  States,  in  the  follow  ing  line,  are  states- 
men, men  of  power,  &.C.,  a  sense  in  which  it  was  commonly 
wed. 


Alph.  But  most  rich 
In  the  great  states  it  covers. 

Fior.  The  duke's  pleasure 
Commands  us  hither. 

Coitt.  Which  was  laid  on  us 
To  attend  you  to  it. 

Hip.  Signior  Charomonte, 
To  see  your  excellence  his  guest,  will  think 
Himself  most  happy. 

Fior.  Tie  my   shoe.— [The    pane  falls  down.'] — 

What's  that  ? 
A  pane  thrown  from  the  window,  no  wind  stirring ! 

Calam.  And    at  your   feet   too    fall'n :  —  there's 
something  writ  ou't. 

Cont.  Some  courtier,  belike,  would  have  it  known 
He  wore  a  diamond. 

Calam.  Ha  !  it  is  directed 
To  the  princess  Fiorinda. 

Fior.  We  will  read  it.  [Readt. 

He  u-hom  you  pleased  to  facour,  is  cast  down 
Past  hope  of  rising,  by  the  great  duke's  Jr own 
If,  by  your  gracious  means,  he  cannot  hint 
A  pardon ; — and  that  gut,  he  Hi  es  i/our  slave. 
Of  men  the  most  distressed. 

SANAZARRO. 

Of  me  the  most  beloved  ;  and  I  will  save  thee, 
Or  perish  with  thee.  Sure,  thy  fault  must  be 
Of  some  prodigious  shape,  if  that  my  prayers 
And  humble  intercession  to  the  duke, 

Enter  COZIMO  and  CHAROMONTE. 
Prevail  not  with  him.     Here  he  comes  ;  delay 
Shall  not  make  less  my  benefit. 

Cm.  What  we  purpose 

Shall  know  no  change,  and  therefore  move  me  not. 
We  were  made  as  properties,  and  what  we  shall 
Determine  of  them  cannot  be  call'd  rigour, 
But  noble  justice.     When  they  proved  disloyal, 
They  were   cruel  to  themselves.     The  prince  that 

pardons 

The  first  affront  offer'd  to  majesty, 
Invites  a  second,  rendering  that  power 
Subjects  should  tremble  at,  contemptible 
Ingratitude  is  a  monster,  Carolo, 
To  be  strangled  in  the  birth,  not  to  be  cherish 'd. 
Madam,  you're  happily  met  with. 

Fior.  Sir,  I  am 

An  humble  suitor  to  you  ;  and  the  rather 
Am  confident  of  a  grant,  in  that  your  grace, 
When  I  made  choice  to  be  at  your  devotion, 
Vow'd  to  deny  me  nothing. 

Cos.  To  this  minute 
We  have  confirm'd  it.     What's  your  boon  ? 

.Fior.  It  is,  sir, 

That  you,  in  being  gracious  to  your  servant. 
The  ne'er  sufficiently  praised  Sanazarro, 
That  now  under  your  heavy  displeasure  suffers. 
Would  be  good  unto  yourself.     His  services, 
So  many,  and  so  great  (your  storm  of  fury 
Calm'd  by  your  better  judgment),  must  inform  you 
Some  little  slip,  for  sure  it  is  no  more, 
From  his  loyal  duty,  with  your  justice  cannot 
Make  foal  his  fair  deservings.  Great  sir,  therefore, 
Look  backward  on  his  former  worth,  and  turning 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Act  V( 


Your  eye  from  his  offence,  what  'tis  1  know  not, 
And,  I  am  confident,  you  will  receive  him 
Once  more  into  your  favour. 

Cot.  You  say  well, 

You  are  ignorant  in  the  nature  of  his  fault ; 
Which  when  you  understand,  as  we'll  instruct  you, 
Your  pity  will  appear  a  charity, 
It  being  conferr'd  on  an  unthankful  man, 
To  be  repented.     He's  a  traitor,  madam, 
To  you,  to  us,  to  gratitude ;  and  iu  that 
All  crimes  are  comprehended. 

Fior.  If  his  offence 
Aim'd  at  me  only,  whatsoe'er  it  is, 
'Tis  freely  pardon'd. 

Ci>*.  This  compassion  in  you 
Must  make  the  colour  of  his  guilt  more  ugly. 
The  honours  we  have  hourly  heap'd  upon  him, 
The  titles,  the  rewards,  to  the  envy  of 
The  old  nobility,  as  the  common  people, 
We  now  forbear  to  touch  at,  and  will  only 
Insist   on    his  gross   wrongs   to   you.     You   were 

pleased, 

Forgetting  both  yourself  and  proper  greatness, 
To  favour  him,  nay,  to  court  him  to  embrace 
A  happiness,  which,  on  his  knees,  with  joy 
He  should  have  sued  for.     Who  repined  not  at 
The  grace  you  did  him  ?  yet,  in  recompense 
Of  your  large  bounties,  the  disloyal  wretch 
Makes  you  a  stale;  and,  what  he  might  be  by  you 
Scorn'd  and  derided,  gives  himself  up  wholly 
To  the  service  of  another.     If  you  can 
Bear  this  with  patience,  we  must  say  you  have  not 
The  bitterness  of  spleen,  or  ireful  passions 
Familiar  to  women.     Pause  upon  it, 
And  when  you  have  seriously  weigh'd  his  carriage, 
Move  us  again,  if  your  reason  will  allow  it, 
His  treachery  known  :  and  then,  if  you  continue 
An  advocate  for  him,  we,  perhaps,  because 
We  would  deny  you  nothing,  may  awake 
Our  sleeping  mercy.     Carolo  ! 

Char.  My  lord.  [They  talk  aside. 

Fior.  To  endure  a  rival  that  were  equal  to  me 
Cannot  but  speak  my  poverty  of  spirit ; 
But  an  inferior,  more  ;  yet  true  love  must  not 
Know  or  degrees,  or  distances :  Lidia  may  be 
As  far  above  me  in  her  form,  as  she 
Is  in  her  birth  beneath  me  ;  and  what  I 
In  Sanazarro  liked,  he  loves  in  her. 
But,  if  I  free  him  now,  the  benefit 
Being  done  so  timely,  and  confirming  too 
My  strength   and  power,  my  soul's  best  faculties 

being 

Bent  wholly  to  preserve  him,  must  supply  me 
With  all  I  am  defective  in,  and  bind  him 
My  creature  ever.     It  must  needs  be  so, 
Nor  will  I  give  it  o'er  thus. 

Coz.  Does  our  nephew 
Bear  his  restraint  so  constantly*,  as  you 
Deliver  it  to  us  1 

Char.  In  my  judgment,  sir, 
He  suffers  more  for  his  offence  to  you, 
Than  in  his  fear  of  what  can  follow  it. 
For  he  is  so  collected,  and  prepared 
I'o  welcome  that  you  shall  determine  of  him, 
As  if  his  doubts  and  fears  were  equal  to  him. 


•  Coz.  Doe*  our  nephew 

Bear  hit  restraint  *o  constantly,]  i.  e.  with  such  unshaken 
(.alienee,  such  immoveable  resolution,  &c. 


And  sure  lie's  not  acquainted  with  much  guilt, 
That  more  laments  the  telling  one  untruth. 
Under  your  pardon  still,  for  'twas  a  fault,  sir, 
Than  others,  that  pretend  to  conscience,  do 
Thi-ir  crying  secret  sins. 

Coz.  No  more  ;  this  gloss 
Defends  not  the  corruption  of  the  text ; 
Urge  it  no  more. 

[Charomonte  and  tie  others  tan:  anae. 

Fior.  I  once  more  must  make  bold,  sir. 
To  trench  upon  your  patience.  I  have 
Consider'd  my  wrongs  duly  :  yet  that  cannot 
Divert  my  intercession  for  a  man 
Your  grace,  like  me,  once  favour'd.     I  am  still 
A  suppliant  to  you,  that  you  would  vouchsafe 
The  hearing  his  defence,  and  that  1  may, 
With  your  allowance   see  and  comfort  him. 
Then,  having  heard  all  that  he  can  allege 
In  his  excuse,  fir  being  false  to  you, 
Censure  him  as  you  please. 

Coz.   You  will  o'ercome  ; 

There's  no  contending  with  you.  Pray  you,  enjoy 
What  you  desire,  and  tell  him,  he  shall  have 
A  speedy  trial  ;  in  which  we'll  forbear 
To  sit  a  judge,  because  our  purpose  is 
To  rise  up  his  accuser. 

Fior.  All  increase 
Of  happiness  wait  on  Cozimo  ! 

[Eieuiit  Fiorinda  and  Calaminta 
Alph.  Was  it  no  more  7 

Char.  My  honour's  pawn'd  for  it. 

Cont.  I'll  second  you. 

Hip.  Since  it  is  for  the  service  and  the  safety 
Of  the  hopeful  prince,  fall  what  can  fall,  I'll  run 
'1  he  desperate  hazard. 

Hier.  He's  no  friend  to  virtue 
That  does  decline  it. 

[They  all  come  forward  and  kneel. 

C-'Z.  Ha  !  what  sue  you  for? 
Shall  we  be  ever  troubled  1  Do  not  tempt 
That  anger  may  consume  you. 

Char.  Let  it,  sir  : 

The  loss  is  less,  though  innocents  we  perish, 
Than  that  your  sister's  son  shoti  d  tali,  unheard. 
Under  your  fury.  Shall  we  fear  to  entreat 
That  grace  for  him,  that  are   your  faithful  servants 
Which  you  vouchsafe  the  count,  like  us  a  subject  ? 

Coz.  Did  not  we  vow,  till  sickness  hud  forsook 
Thy  daughter  Lidia,  and  she  appear'd 
In  her  perfect  health  and  beauty  to  plead  for  him, 
We  were  deaf  to  all  persuasion  ? 

Char.  And  that  hope,  sir, 
Hath  wrought  a  miracle.  She  is  recover'd, 
And,  if  you  please  to  warrant  her,  will  bring 
The  penitent  prince  before  you. 

Coz.  To  enjoy 
Such  happiness,  what  would  we  not  dispense  with 

Alph.  Hip.  Hier.  We  all  kneel  for  the  prince. 

Cunt.  Nor  can  it  stand 

With  your  mercy,  that  are  gracious  to  strangers. 
To  be  cruel  to  your  own. 

Coz.  But  art  thou  certain 
I  shall  behold  her  at  the  best? 

Char.  If  ever 

She  was  handsome,  as  it  fits  not  me  to  say  so. 
She  is  now  much  better'd. 

Coz.  Rise  ;  thou  art  but  dead 
If  this  prove  otherwise.     Lidia,  appear, 
And  feast  an  appetite  almost  pined  to  death 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


With  longing  expectation  to  behold 

Thy  excellencies  :  thou  as  beauty's  queen, 

Shalt  censure  the  detractors*.     Let  my  nephew 

Be  led  in  triumph  under  her  command  ; 

We'll  have  it  so  ;  and  JSanazarro  tremble 

To  think  whom  he  hath  slander'd.     We'll  retire 

Ourselves  a  little,  and  prepare  to  meet 

A  blessing,  which  imagination  tells  us 

We  are  not  worthy  of:  and  then  come  forth, 

But  with  such  reverence,  as  if  I  were 

Myself  the  priest,  the  sacrifice  mv  heart. 

To  offer  at  the  altar  of  that  goodness 

That  must  or  kill  or  save  me. 

Char.  Are  not  these 
Strange  gambols  in  the  duke? 

Alph.  Great  princes  have, 
Like  meaner  men,  their  weakness. 

Hip.  And  may  use  it 
Without  control  or  check. 

Coat.  'Tis  fit  they  should  ; 
Their  privilege  were  less  else,  than  their  subjects'. 

Hier.  Let  them  have  their  humours  ;  there's  no 
crossing  them.  [Eieunt. 


SCENE  III. — A  state-room  in  the  same. 
Enter  FIORINDA,  SANAZARRO,  and  CALAMINTA. 

Sanas.  And  can  it  be,  your  bounties  should  fall 

down 

In  showers  on  my  ingratitude,  or  the  wrongs 
Your  greatness  should  revenge,  teach  you  to  pity  ? 
What  retribution  can  I  make,  what  service 
Pay  to  your  goodness,  that,  in  some  proportion, 
May  to  the  world  express  I  would  be  thankful? 
Since  my  engagements  are  so  great,  that  all 
My  best  endeavours  to  appear  your  creature 
Can  but  proclaim  my  wants,  and  what  1  owe 
To  your  magnificence. 

Fior.  All  debts  are  discharged 
In  this  acknowledgment  :  yet  since  you  please 
I  shall  impose  some  terms  of  satisfaction 
For  that  which  you  profess  yourself  obliged  for, 
They  shall  be  gentle  ones,  and  such  as  will  not, 
I  hope,  afflict  you. 

Sanaz.  Make  me  understand, 
Great  princess,  what  they  are,  and  my  obedience 
Shall,  with  all  cheerful  willingness,  subscribe 
To  what  you  shall  command, 

Fior.  1  will  bind  you  to 

Make  good  your  promise.     First,  I  then  enjoin  you 
To  love  a  lady,  that,  a  noble  way, 
Truly  affects  you,  and  that  you  would  take 
To  your  protection  and  care  the  dukedom 
Of  Urbin,  which  no  more  is  mine,  but  your's. 
And  that,  when  you  have  full  possession  of 
My  person  as  my  fortune,  you  would  use  me 
Not  as  a  princess,  but  instruct  me  in 
The  duties  of  an  humble  wife,  for  such, 
The  privilege  of  my  birth  no  more  remember'd, 
I  will  be  to  you.     This  consented  to, 
All  injuries  forgotten,  on  your  lips 
I  thus  sign  your  quietus. 


-thnu,  at  beauty's  queen, 


Shalt  censure  the  detrai-lort.]  Censure,  as  I  have  already 
observed,  is  used  by  our  old  writers  where  we  should  now 
use  judge,  and  with  the  same  latitude  of  meaning  through 
iti  various  acceptations. 


Sanas.  I  am  wretched. 
In  having  but  one  life  to  be  employ'd 
As  you  please  to  dispose  it.     And,  believe  it, 
If  it  be  not  already  forfeited 
To  the  fury  of  my  prince,  as  'tis  your  gift, 
With  all  the  faculties  of  my  soul  I'll  study, 
In  what  I  may,  to  serve  you. 

Fior.  I  am  happy 

Entei  GIOVANNI  and  LIDIA. 
In  this  assurance.     What 
Sweet  lady's  this? 

Sanaz.  'Tis  Lidia,  madam,  she 

Fior.  I  understand  you. 

Nay,  blush  not ;  by  my  life,  she  is  a  rare  one  ; 
And,  if  I  were  your  judge,  I  would  not  blame  you 
To  like  and  love  her.     But,  sir,  you  are  mine  now ; 
And  I  presume  so  on  your  constancy, 
That  I  dare  not  be  jealous. 

Sanas.  All  thoughts  of  her 
Are  in  your  goodness  buried. 

Lid.  Pray  you,  sir, 

Be  comforted  ;  your  innocence  should  not  know 
What  'tis  to  fear  ;  and  if  that  you  but  look  on 
The  guards  that  you  have  in  yourself,  you  cannot. 
The  duke's  your  uncle,  sir,  and  though  a  little 
Incensed  against  you,  when  he  sees  your  sorrow, 
He  must  be  reconciled.     What  rugged  Tartar, 
Or  cannibal,  though  bathed  in  human  gore, 
Hut,  looking  on  your  sweetness,  would  forget 
His  cruel  nature,  and  let  fall  his  weapon, 
Though  then  aim'd  at  your  throat; 

Gioo.  O  Lidia, 

Of  maids  the  honour,  and  your  sex's  glory  ! 
It  is  not  fear  to  die,  but  to  lose  you, 
That  brings  this  fever  on  me.     1  will  now 
Discover  to  you,  thitt  which,  till  this  minute, 
I  dur-ft  not  trust  the  air  with.     Ere  you  knew 
What  power  the  magic  of  your  beauty  had, 
I  was  enchanted  by  it,    liked,  and  loved  it, 
My  fondness  still  increas-ing  with  my  years ; 
And,  flatter'd  by  false  hopes,  I  did  attend 
Some  blessed  opportunity  to  move 
The  duke  with  his  consent  to  make  you  mine: 
But  now,  such  is  my  star-cross'd  destiny, 
When  he  beholds  you  as  you  are,  he  cannot 
Deny  himself  the  happiness  to  enjoy  you. 
And  I  as  well  in  reason  may  entreat  him 
To  give  away  his  crown,  as  to  part  from, 
A  jewel  of  more  value,  such  you  are. 
Yet,  howsoever,  when  you  are  his  duchess, 
And  I  am  turn'd  into  forgotten  dust, 
Pray  you,  love  my  memory  : — I  should  say  more, 
But  I'm  cut  off. 

Enter  COZIMO,  Cii AROMONTE,  CONTARINO,  HIERONIUO 
HIPPOLITO,  and  ALPHONSO. 

Sanaz.  The  duke  !  That  countenance,  once, 
When  it  was  clothed  in  smiles,  show'd  like  an  angel's 
But,  now  'tis  folded  up  in  clouds  of  fury, 
'Ti.s  terrible  to  took  on. 

Lid.  Sir. 

Cos-  A  while 

Silence  your  musical  tongue,  and  let  me  feast 
My  eyes  with  the  most  ravishing  object  that 
They  ever  gazed  on.     There's  no  miniature 
In  her  fair  face,  but  is  a  copious  theme 
Which  would,  discoursed  at  large  of,  make  a  volume 
What  clear  arch'd  brows  !  what  sparkling  eyes  !  the 
lilies 


222 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


[Acr.  V 


Contending  with  the  roses  in  her  cheeks, 

Who  shalfmost  set  them  off.     What  ruby  lips  ! — 

Or  unto  what  can  I  compare  her  neck, 

But  to  a  rock  of  crystal?  every  limb 

Proportion  d  to  love's  wish,  and  in  their  neatness 

Add  lustre,  to  the  riches  of  her  habit, 

Not  borrow  from  it. 

Lid.  You  are  pleased  to  show,  sir, 
The  fluency  of  your  language,  in  advancing 
A  subject  much  unworthy. 

Coz.  How  !  unworthy ! 
By  all  the  vows  which  lovers  offer  at 
The  Cyprian  goddess'  altars,  eloquence 
Itself  presuming,  as  you  are.  to  speak  you, 
Would  be  struck  dumb ! — And  what  have  you  de- 
served then  [Giovanni  and  Sanazarro  kneel. 
(Wretches,  you  kneel  too  late),  that  have  endea- 

vour'd 

To  spout  the  poison  of  your  black  detraction 
On  this  immaculate  whiteness  1  was  it  malice 
To  her  perfeclions  ?  or 

Fior.  Your  highness  promised 
A  gracious  hearing  to  the  count. 

Lid.  And  prince  too  ; 
Do  not  make  void  so  just  a  grant. 

Coz.  We  will  not: 

Yet,  since  their  accusation  must  be  urged, 
And  strongly,  ere  their  weak  defence  have  hearing, 
We  seat  you  here,  as  judges,  to  determine 
Of  your  gross  wrongs,  and  ours.    [Seats  the  Ladies 

in  the  chairs  of  state.]  And  now,  remembering 
Whose  deputies  you  are,  be  neither  sway'd 
Or  with  particular  spleen,  or  foolish  pity, 
For  neither  can  become  you. 

Char.  There's  some  hope  yet, 
Since  they  have  such  gentle  judges. 

Cor.  Rise,  and  stand  fonh,  then, 
And  hear,  with  horror  to  your  guilty  souls,       [cess, 
What  we  will  prove  against  you.     Could  this  prin- 
Thou  enemy  to  thyself !  [To  Sanazarro.]  stoop  her 

high  flight 

Of  towering  greatness  to  invite  thy  lowness 
To  look  up  to  it,  and  with  nimble  wings 
Of  gratitude  couldst  thou  forbear  to  meet  it  1 
Were  her  favours  boundless  in  a  noble  way, 
And  warranted  by  our  allowance,  yet, 
In  thy  acceptation,  there  appear'd  no  sign 
Of  a  modest  thankfulness? 

Fior.  Pray  you  forbear 
To  press  that  further ;  'tis  a  fault  we  have 
Already  heard,  and  pardon 'd. 

Coz.  We  will  then 

Pass  over  it,  nnd  briefly  touch  at  that 
Which  does  concern  ourself ;  in  which  both  being 
Equal  offenders,  what  we  shall  speak  points 
Indifferently  at  either.     How  we  raised  thee, 
Forgetful  Sanazarro  !  of  our  grace, 
To  a  full  possession  of  power  and  honours, 
It  being  too  well  known,  we'll  not  remember. 
And  what  thou  wtrt,  rash  youth,  in  expectation, 

[To  Giovanni. 

And  from  which  headlong  thou  hast  thrown  thyself, 
Not  Florence,  but  all  Tuscany  can  witness 
With  admiration.     To  assure  thy  hopes, 
We  did  keep  constant  to  a  widowed  bed, 
And  did  deny  ourself  those  lawful  pleasures 
Our  absolute  power  and  height  of  blood  allow'd  us  ; 
Made  both,  the  keys  that  open'd  our  heart's  secrets, 
And  what  you  spake,  believed  as  oracles  : 
But  you,  in  recompense  of  this,  to  lain 


That  gave  you  all,  to  whom  you  owed  your  being, 
With  treacherous  lies  endeavour'd  to  conceal 
This  jewel  from  our  knowledge,  which  ourself 
Could  only  lay  just  claim  to. 

Giov.  'Tis  most  true,  sir. 

Sanaz.  We  both  confess  a  guilty  cause. 

Coz.  J  ook  on  her. 
Is  this  a  beauty  fit  to  be  embraced 
By  any  subject's  arms  ?  can  any  tire 
Become  that  forehead,  but  a  diadem  ? 
Or,  should  we  grant  your  being  false  to  us 
Could  be  excused,  your  treachery  to  her, 
In  seeking  to  deprive  her  of  that  greatness 
(Her  matchless  form  consider'd)  she  was  born  to, 
Must  ne'er  find  piirdon.     We  have  spoken,  ladies, 
Like  a  rough  orator,  that  brings  more  truth 
Than  rhetoric  to  make  good  his  accusation  ; 
And  now  expect  your  sentence. 

[The  Ladies  descend  from  ihe  statt* 

Lid.  In  your  birth,  sir, 

You  were  mark'd  out  the  judge  of  life  and  death, 
And  we,  that  are  your  subjects,  to  attend, 
With  trembling  fear,  your  doom. 

Fior.  We  do  resign 
This  chair,  as  only  proper  to  yourself. 

Gioc.  And  since  injustice  we  are  lost,  we  fly 
Unto  your  saving  mercy.  [All  kneeling, 

Sanaz.  Which  sets  off 
A  prince,  much  more  than  rigour. 

Char.  And  becomes  him, 

When  'tis  express'd  to  such  as  fell  by  weakness, 
That  being  a  twin-born  brother  to  affection, 
Better  than  wreaths  of  conquest. 

Ilier.  Hip.  Con t.  Alph.  We  all  speak 
Their  language,  mighty  sir. 

Coz.  You  know  our  temper, 

And  therefore  with  more  boldness  venture  on  it : 
And,  would  not  our  consent  to  your  demands 
Deprive  us  of  a  happiness  hereafter 
Ever  to  be  despaired  of,  we,  perhaps, 
Might  hearken  nearer  to  you  ;  and  could  wish 
With  some  qualification  or  excuse 
You  might  make  less  the  mountains  of  your  crimes. 
And  so  invite  our  clemency  to  feast  with  you. 
But  you,  that  knew  with  what  impatiency 
Of  grief  we  parted  from  the  fair  Clarinda, 
Our  duchess  (let  her  memory  still  be  sacred  !), 
And  with  what  imprecations  on  ourself 
We  vow'd,  not  hoping  e'er  to  see  her  equal, 
Ne'er  to  make  trial  of  a  second  choice, 
If  nature  framed  not  one  that  did  excel  her, 
As  this  maid's  beauty  prompts  us  that  she  does: 
And  yet,  with  oaths  then  mix'd  with  tears,  upon 
Her  monument  we  swore  our  eye  should  never 
Again  be  tempted  ; — 'tis  true,  and  those  vows 
Are  registered  above,  something  here  tells  me. 
Carolo,  thou  heardst  us  swear. 

Char.  And  swear  so  deeply, 
That  if  all  women's  beauties  were  in  this, 
(As  she's  not  to  be  named  with  the  dead  duchess,) 
Nay  all  their  virtues  bound  up  in  one  story 
(Of  which  mine  is  scarce  an  epitome), 
If  you  should  take  her  as  a  wife,  the  weight 
Of  your  perjuries  would  sink  you.     If  I  durst, 
I  had  told  you  this  before. 

Cor.  'Tis  strong  truth.  Carolo  : 


•  The  ladies  druccnd  from  the  state.]  i.  e.  from  the  r«i«e«l 
platform  on  which  the  chairs  were  placed.  See  The  Hand- 
man,  Act  I.,  ic.  lit. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE. 


S23 


And  yet,  what  was  necessity  in  us 
Cannot  free  them  from  treason. 

Char.  There's  your  error  ; 

The  prince,  in  cure  to  have  you  keep  your  vows 
Made  unto  heaven,  vouchsafed  to  love  my  daughter*. 

Lid.  He  told  me  so,  indeed,  sir. 

Fior.  And  the  count 
Averr'd  as  much  to  me. 

Cos.   You  all  conspire 
To  force  our  mercy  from  us. 

Char.  Which  given  up, 
To  aftertimes  preserves  you  un forsworn  : 
An  honour,  which  will  live  upon  your  tomb, 
When  Nour  greatness  is  forgotten. 

Coj.  Though  we  knovvf 
All  this  is  practice,  and  that  both  are  false ; 
Such  reverence  we  will  pay  to  dead  Clarinda, 
And  to  our  serious  oaths,  that  we  ar«  pleased 
With  our  own  hand  to  blind  our  eyes,  and  not 
Know  what  we  understand.     Here,  Giovanni, 
We  pardon  thee ;  and  take  from  us,  in  this, 
More  than  our  dukedom  :  love  her.     As  1  part 
With  her,  all  thoughts  of  women  fly  fast  from  us ! 
Sanazarro,  we  forgive  you  :  in  your  service 
To  this  princess  merit  it.     Yet,  let  not  others 
That  are  in  trust  and  grace,  as  you  have  been, 
By  the  example  of  our  lenity 
Presume  upon  their  sovereign's  clemency. 

Enter  CALANDIUNO  and  PEIRONELLA. 

All.  Long  live  great  Cozimo  ! 

Cat.  Surb  the  duke  is 
In  the  giving  vein,  they  are  so  loud.     Come  on, 

spouse. — 
We  have  heard  all.  and  we  will  have  our  boon  too. 

Coz.  What  is  it? 

Cal.  That  your  grace,  in  remembrance  of 
My  share  in  a  dance,  and  that  1  play'd  yo'ir  part, 
When  you  should  have  drunk  hard,  would  get  this 

signior's  grant 

To  give  this  damsel  to  me  in  the  church, 
For  we  are  contracted.     In  it  you  shall  do 
Your  dukedom  pleasure. 

Cos.  How? 

Cal.  Why,  the  whole  race 
Of  such  as  can  act  naturally  fools'  parts, 
Are  quite  worn  out;  and  they  that  do  survive, 
Do  only  zany  us :  and  we  will  bring  you, 


*  The  prince,  in  care  to  have  you  keep  your  vowi 

Made  unto  heaven,  vouchsafed  to  lone  my  tlauyhffr.] 
This  attempt  to  impose  upon  the  great  duke  is  mure  deplor- 
able than  the  former.  It  has  falsehood  and  improbability 
written  on  its  face:  the  duke  indeed  is  not  deceived  by  it  ; 
but  surely  the  author  showed  a  strange  want  of  judgment 
in  this  gratuitous  degradation  of  three  of  his  most  estimable 
characters. 

t  Coz.  Though  we  know 

All  this  it  practice,]  i.  e.  artifice,  or  insidious  design.     So 
in  Shakspeare : 

«'  This  act  persuades  me 

That  this  remotion  of  the  duke  and  her 

1*  practice  only."  King  Lear. 


If  we  die  not  without  issue,  of  botl   sexes. 
Such  chopping  mirth-makers,  as  shnll  preserve 
Perpetual  cause  of  sport,  both  to  vour  grace 
Am!  your  posterity,  that  sad  fi.ela  iclioly 
Shall  ne'er  approach  you. 

Coz.  We  are  pleased  in  it, 
And  will  pay  her  portion.  [  Comes  forward. 

May  the  passage  prove, 
Of  what's  presented,  worthy  of  your  /ore 
And  favour,  a^  was  aim'd  ;  and  u:e  have  all 
That  can  iu  compass  if  our  wishes  Jail.  [Exeunt* 


*  It  is  impossible-  not  to  be  charmed  with  the  manner  in 
which  this  play  is  written.  The  st>!e  is  worthy  of  the  most 
polished  stage.  It  neither  descend*  to  meanness,  nora!t'ect.« 
H  blustering  magnificence,  but  preserves  an  easy  elevation 
ami  a  mild  dignity  ;  and  affords  an  excellt.nl  model  for  the 
transaction  of  drain  itie  Imsiuesf  between  person*  of  liinh 
rank  and  refined  education.  As  to  the  subject,  it  is,  in  itself, 
of  no  great  importance  :  but  tlii-  is  somewhat  compensated 
by  the  interest  which  the  principil  characters  take  in  it, 
ami  the  connection  ot  luvc  with  the  views  of  state. — The 
scenes  bet  ween  Giovanni  and  Lidi  i  pit-sent  a  most  beautiful 
picture  of  artless  attachment,  anil  of  that  unreserved  inno- 
cence and  tender  simplicity  which  Massinger  describe;  in  a 
manner  so  eminently  happy. 

li  is  to  be.  wished  that  this  were  all;  for  the  impression 
on  the  mind  of  the  reader  makes  H.u  more  than  usually 
fearful  of  any  disturbance  of  his  feelings.  But  in  the  drama, 
as  in  life  itself,  something  will  ever  be  amiss.  The  very 
attractive  m.tuner  in  which  the  characters  and  their  con- 
cerns ate  announced  is  made  to  change  as  the  plot  advances 
to  its  conclusion  ;  and  in  the  fourth  act  we  are  grieved  to 
see  them 

In  pejus  rupjv,  ac  retro  tubtapsa  referri. 

The  charm  of  Lidia  is  dissolved  by  the  substitution  of  Petro 
nella,— a  contrivance  which  is  at  once  mean  and  clumsy, 
and  is  conceived  in  utter  defiance  of  the  general  character  of 
Cozimo.  The  only  way  of  removing  this  objection  was  to 
altt-r  Co/iii.o  himself,  together  with  the  delicacy  of  the  sub- 
jco:.  This  is  done  for  the  sake  of  maintaining  an  unlnppy 
consistency.  The  duke  is  compelled  to  forego  his  usual 
dignity  anil  sagacity.  He  loses  the  very  remembrance  of  his 
own  motives  of  action,  and  is  played  upon  by  those  who  are 
themselves  sunk  in  our  esteem. 

The  connection  of  the  plot  with  an  event  in  the  life  of 
Edgar  has  been  mentioned  by  the  Editor.  As  to  Cozimo, 
some  circumstances  seem  to  point  him  out  as  the  first  grand 
duke.  Pisa  and  Sienna  are  alluded  to  as  recrrit  acquisitions; 
though  C'ontarino  is  too  complaisant  in  attributing  the  con 
quest  to  the  arms  of  his  masttr.  There  are  some  personal 
points  which  may  assist  this  conjecture.  Co/.irno  is  addressed 
in  a  submissive  manner,  and  seems  to  be  conscious  that  his 
resentment  is  feared  by  those  around  him  :  and  this  reminds 
us  of  the  man  who  coveted  the  tiile  of  King,  and  executed 
summary  justice  on  a  son  with  his  own  hand.  However, 
oiher  circumstances  rather  allude  to  a  peiiod  not  mn-h 
earlier  than  the  date  of  ihis  very  play;  viz.  some  attempt  at 
independence  by  the  Pisans,  which  Sanazarro  might  have 
checked  ;  and  some  benefit  derived  to  Florence  (though  not 
of  the  kind  here  mentioned;  from  the  duchy  of  U'rbino. 
But  why  a  nephew  was  called  in,  when  a  son  was  not 
wanring  to  either  of  the  Cosmos,  or  why  the  state  of  a  child- 
less widower  was  invented  for  the  great  duke,  is  not  so  easy 
to  guess  :  nor  is  it  woilh  our  while.— The  dramatist  rejects 
or  invents  as  he  pleases ;  and  what  he  chooses  to  adopt  may 
be  divided  between  distant  ages  or  countries.  The  incidents 
of  his  arbitrary  story  are  widely  dispersed,  like  the  limbi 
wantonly  scattered  by  Medea  ;  and,  if  ever  to  be  found, 
must  be  searched  for  in  places  remote  and  unexpected  : 
Dixtipat  in  multit  invenienda  loci*. 

DR.  IRELAND. 


THE   MAID   OF   HONOUJR, 


THE  MAID  or  HONOUR.] — This  "  Tragi-comedy"  does  not  appear,  under  the  present  title,  in  the  Office- 
book  of  Sir  H.  Herbert:  but  a  play  called  The  Honour  of  Women  was  entered  there  May  6th,  1628,  which 
Mr.  Malone  conjectures  to  be  the  piece  before  us.  He  speaks,  however,  with  some  hesitation  on  the  subject, 
as  a  play  of  Massinger's,  called  The  Spanish  Viceroy,  or  The  Honour  of  Women,  was  entered  at  Stationers' Hall, 
for  Humphrey  Mosely,  in  1653.  If  this  double  title  be  correct,  of  which  we  may  reasonably  entertain  a 
Uoubt,  the  plays  cannot  he  the  same  ;  for  among  the  dramatis  persona?  of  the  present,  no  such  character  as 
a  Spanish  viceroy  is  to  be  found.  Sicily,  intleed,  was  long  governed  by  viceroys  from  Spain  ;  but  Roberto 
is  here  styled  King,  and  constantly  acts  from  himself. 

Mr.  Malone  says,  that  The  Moid  of'  Honour  was  printed  in  1631.  All  the  copies  which  I  have  seen  (foj 
there  is  but  one  edition)  are  dated  163;:',  which  was  probably  the  earliest  period  of  its  appearance  :  as  we 
learn  from  the  commendatory  verses  prefixed  to  it  by  Sir  Aston  Cockayne,  that  it  was  printed  after  Tht 
Emperor  of  the  East,  which  was  not  given  to  the  press  till  this  year. 

This  play  was  always  a  favourite,  and,  indeed,  with  strict  justice ;  for  it  has  a  thousand  claims  to  admira- 
tion and  applause.  It  was  frequently  acted,  the  old  title-page  tells  us,  "  at  the  Phoenix  in  Drurie-lane, 
with  good  allowance,  by  the  Queen's  Majesties  servants."  An  attempt  was  made  some  years  since  to  revive 
it,  by  Mr.  Kemble,  but,  as  I  have  been  informed,  without  success. 


TO  MY  MOST  HONOURED  FRIENDS, 

SIR  FRANCIS  FOUAMBE,  KOT,  k  BART,, 

AND 

SIR  THOMAS  BLAND,  KNT, 

THAT  you  have  been,  and  continued  so  for  many  years,  since  you  vouchsafed  to  own  me,  patrons  to  me 
and  my  despised  studies.  I  cannot  but  with  all  humble  thankfulness  acknowledge  ;  and  living  as  you  have 
done,  inseparable  in  your  friendship  (notwithstanding  all  differences,  and  suits  in  law  arising  between  you*), 
1  held  it  as  impertinent  as  absurd,  in  the  presentment  of  my  service  in  this  kind,  to  divide  you.  A  free 
confession  of  a  debt  in  a  meaner  man.  is  the  amplest  satisfaction  to  his  superiors  ;  and  I  htartily  wish  that 
the  world  may  take  notice,  and  from  myself,  that  J  had  not  to  this  time  subsisted,  but  that  I  was  supported 
by  your  frequent  courtesies  arid  favour-.  When  your  more  serious  occasions  will  give  you  leave,  you  may 
please  to  peruse  this  trifle,  and  peradventure  find  something  in  it  that  may  appear  worthy' of  your  protection 
Receive  it,  1  beseech  you,  as  a  testimony  of  his  duty  who,  while  he  livcs  resolves  to  be 
Truly  and  sincerely  devoted  to  your  service. 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


*  \otwitl.i?andiny  all  differrn.rs.  and  mits  in  law  arising  btitceen  you.'    The  suits  in  law— between  these  true  frWndl 
cf  Mwitafpri  uiigiiiu  ed  iu  »  question  as  to  the  right  ot  working  some  coal  mines.— Cilchritt. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


ROBERTO,  king  of  Sicily. 

FERDINAND,  duke  of  Urbin. 

BERTOLDO,  the  king's  natural  brother,  a  knight  of  Malta. 

GONZAGA,  a  knight  of  Malta,  general  to  the  duchess  of 

Sienna. 

ASTUTIO,  a  counsellor  of  state. 
FULOENTIO,  the  minion  of  Roberto. 
ADORNI,  a  follower  of  Camiola's  father. 
SIGNIOR  SVLLI,  a  foolish  self -lover. 
ANTONIO,    >     , 

GASPARO,  \     tu'°  rlch  hetr>'  •<**•* 
PIERIO,  a  colonel  to  Gonzaga. 


RODERIGO,     -,       ,- 

JACOMO,         japtoi 

DRUSO,    £          .      .     .  ,    „     ..        . 

LIVIO       *  captains  to  duke  Ferdinand. 

Father  PAVLO,  a  priest,  Camiola's  confeuar. 

Ambassador  from  the  duke  of  Urbin. 

A  bishop. 

A  page. 

AURELIA,  duchess  of  Sienna. 

CAMIOLA,  the  MAID  OF  HONOUR, 

CLARINDA,  her  woman. 

Scout,  Soldiers,  Gaoler,  Attendants,  Servants, 


SCENE,  partly  in  Sicily,  and  partly  in  the  Siennese. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — Palermo.     A  State-room  in  the  palace. 
Enter  ASTUTIO  and  ADORXI. 

Ador.  Good  day  to  your  lordship. 

Ast    Thanks,  Adorni. 

Ador.  May  I  presume  to  ask  if  the  ambassador 
Employ %d  by  Ferdinand,  the  duke  of  Urbin, 
Hath  audience  this  morning  ? 

Enter  FULGENTIO. 

Ast.  'Tis  uncertain ; 

For,  though  a  counsellor  of  state,  I  am  not 
Of  the  cabinet  council :  but  here's  one,  if  he  please, 
That  may  resolve  you. 

Ador.  I  will  move  him. — Sir  ! 

Ful.  If  you've  a  suit,  shew  water*,  I  am  blind 
else. 

Ador.  A  suit;  yet  of  a  nnture  not  to  prove 
The  quarry  that  ysu  hawk  for  :  if  your  words 
Are  not  like  Indian  wares,  and  every  scruple 
To  be  weigh'd  and  rated,  one  poor  syllable, 
Vouchsafed  in  answer  of  a  fair  demand, 
Cannot  deserve  a  fee. 

Ful.  It  seems  you  are  ignorant, 
I  neither  speak  nor  hold  my  peace  for  nothing1 ; 
And  yet,  for  once,  I  care  not  if  I  answer 
One  single  question,  gratis. 

Adur.  I  much  thank  you. 
Hath  the  ambassador  audience,  sir,  to-day  ? 

Ful.  Yes. 

Ador.  At  what  hour? 

Ful.  I  promised  not  so  much. 
A  syllable  you  begg'd,  my  charity  gave  it ; 
Move  me  no  further.  [Exit. 

Ast.  This  you  wonder  at: 
With  me,  'tis  usual. 

Adar.  Pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he? 


•  Shew  water.'}  i.  e.  to  clear  his  tight. — This  was  a  pro- 
verbial periphrasis  for  bribe,  which  in  MasMiiger'%  days 
(though  happily  not  since  f)  was  t'uuml  to  be  the  only  tolly- 
riaui  for  tlie  eyes  of  a  courtier. 


Ast.  A  gentleman,  yet  no  lord*.     He  hath  some 

drops 

Of  the  king's  blood  running  in  his  veins,  derived 
Some  ten  degrees  off.     His  revenue  lies 
In  a  narrow  compass,  ihe  king's  ear  ;  and  yields  him 
Every  hour  a  fruitful  harvest.     Men  may  talk 
Of  three  crops  in  a  year  in  the  Fortunate  Islands, 
Or  profit   made   by    wool ;    but,   while   there   are 

suitors, 

His  sheepshearing,  nay,  shaving  to  the  quick, 
Is  in  every  quarter  of  the  moon,  and  constant. 
In  the  time  of  trussing  a  point,  he  can  undo 
Or  make  a  man :  his  play  or  recreation 
Is  to  raise  this  up,  or  pull  down  that ;  and,  though 
He  never  yet  took  orders,  makes  more  bishops 
In  Sicily,  than  the  pope  himself. 

Enter  BERTOLDO,  GASPARO,  ANTONIO,  and  a  Servant. 

Ador.  Most  strange  ! 

Ast.  The  presence  fills.  He  in  the  Malta  habit 
Is  the  natural  brother  of  the  king — a  by-blow. 

Ador.  I  understand  you. 

Gasp.  Morrow  to  my  uncle. 

Ant.  And  my  late  guardian: — but  at  length  I 

have 
The  reins  in  my  own  hands. 

Ast.  Pray  you,  use  them  well, 
Or  you'll  too  late  repent  it. 

Bert.  With  this  jewel 

Presented  to  Camiola,  prepare,  [have 

This  night,  a  visit  for  me.  [Exit  Servant.']     1  shall 
Your  company,  gallants,  I  perceive,  if  that 
The  king  will  hear  of  war. 

Ant.  Sir,  I  have  horses 
Of  the  best  breed  in  Naples,  fitter  far 
To  break  a  rank  than  crack  a  lance  ;  and  are, 
In  their  career,  of  such  incredible  swiftness, 
They  outstrip  swallows. 

*  Ast.  A  gentleman,  yet  no  lord.)  Would  not  the  Mtire 
be  more  apparent,  if  the  sentence  were  reversed  ?  As  it 
stands  now,  it  is  scarcely  intelligible. 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR 


ACT  I,} 


Bert.  And  such  may  be  useful 
To  run  away  with,  should  we  be  defeated  • 
You  are  well  provided,  signior. 

Ant.  Sir,  excuse  me  ; 

Ml  of  their  r:ic<',  by  instinct,  know  a  coward, 
And  scorn  the  burthen :   they  come  on  like  light- 
ning; ; 
Founder'd  in  a  retreat. 

Bert.  By  no  mentis  back  them  ; 
Unless  you  know  your  courage  sympathize 
With  the  daring  of  your  horse. 
A nt.  My  lord,  this  is  bitter. 
Gasp.  I  will  nii.se  me  a  company  of  foot; 
And,  when  at  push  of  pike  I  am  to  enter 
A  breach,  to  show  my  valour  1  have  bought*  me 
An  armour  cannon-proof. 

Bert.   You  will  not  leap,  then, 
O'er  an  outwork,  in  your  shirt  1 

Gasit.  I  do  not  like 
Activity  that  way. 

Bert'.  You  had  rather  stand 
A  m,\rk  to  try  their  muskets  on  ? 

Gasp.  If  I  <io 
No  good,  I'll  do  no  hurt. 

Bert    'Tis  in  you,  signior, 
A  Christian  rt solution,  and  becomes  you  ' 
But  I  will  not  discourage  you. 

Ant.   You  iiro,  sir, 

A  knight  of  Malta,  and,  as  I  have  heard, 
Have  served  against  the  Turk. 
Bert.   'Tis  true. 
Ant.  Pray  you,  show  us 
The  difference  between  the  city  valour, 
And  service  in  the  field. 

Bert.  'Tis  somewhat  more 
Than  roaring  in  a  tavern  or  a  brothel, 
Or  to  steal  a  constablef  from  a  sleeping  watch, 
Then  burn  their  halbetds  ;  or,  sale  guarded  by 
Your  tenants'  sons,  to  carry  away  a  may-pole 
From  a  neighbour  village.     You  will  not  find  there, 
Your  masters  of  dependencies}  to  take  up 


* to  than-  my  valour,  I  have  bought  me] 

Coxcter  and  M.  Mason  read,  1  have  brought  inu  :  ihe  old 
copy  U  surely  right. 

»  Or  to  steal  a  constable  from  a  sleeping  trafi.'A,]  For  this 
expression,  so  e.v,iui.-iu.-ly  hn>norous,  the  modern  editors 
give  us, 

Or  to  steal  a  lan'horn  from  a  sleeping  watch  ! 
It  is  scarcely  possible  u>  mark  these  wanton  deviations  from 
the  original,  u  i  limn  some  decree  of  warmth,  liy  no  pro- 
cess in  blundering  could  lanthorn  be  written  for  constable: 
the  editor*,  thru-tore,  must  have  graluitoiirly  taken  upon 
themselves  the  reformation  of  ti>e  language.  Pity  for  the 
author  nui-t  be  mixed  with  our  indignation  at  their  per- 
verse temerity,  when  we  ilui-  find  them  banishing  his  most 
witly  cxpresMons  from  the  text,  under  the  bold  idea  of 
improving  it ! 

It  i*  the  more  sineuhr  that  they  should  do  this  in  Ihe 
present  case,  as  the  same  thought,  in  nearly  the  s.une  words, 
is  to  be  found  in  The  Renryado. 

* you  will  not  find  there 

Your  masters  of  dependencies,  &c.]  Masters  of  de- 
pendencies were  a  set  of  needy  bravoes,  who  umtertook  to 
ascertain  the  authentic  grounds  of  a  quarrel,  and,  in  some 
eases,  t»  settle  it  for  the  timorous  or  unskilful.  Thus  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher:— 

• "  Your  high  offer, 

"  Taught  by  the  masters  of  dependencies, 
That,  by  compounding  differences  'tween  others, 
Supply  their  own  necessities,  with  me 
Will  never  carry  it."  The  Elder  Brother. 

In  this  punctilious  age,  all  matters  relative  to  duelling  were 
arranged,  in  set  treatises,  with  a  gravity  that,  in  a  business 
less  serioiiB,  would  be  infinitely  ridiculous.  Troop*  of  dis- 
banded toldieri,  or  rather  of  such  as  pretended  to  be  so, 


A  drunken  brawl,  or,  to  get  you  the  names 

Of  valiant  cheviiliers,  fellows  that  will  be. 

For  a  cl.>ak  with  tlirice-died  velvet,  and  a  cast  suit, 

Kick'd  down  the  stairs.    A  knave  with  half  a  breech 

there, 

And  no  shirt  (being  a  thing  superfluous, 
And  worn  out  of  his  memory),  if  you  bear  not 
Yourselves   both  in,  and  upright,  with  a  provan 

sword* 

\Vill  slash  your  scarlets  and  your  plush  a  new  way  ; 
Or  with  the  hilts  thunder  about  your  ears 
Such  music  as  will  make  your  worships  dance 
To  the  doleful  tune  of  L«c/irt/m<et. 

Gimp.  I  must  tell  you 
In  private,  as  you  are  my  princely  friend, 
I  do  not  like  such  fiddlers. 

Bert.  No  !  they  are  useful 
For  your  imitation}  ;  1  remember  you, 
When   you  came  first  to  the  court,  and   talk'd  of 

nothing 

But  your  rents  and  your  entradas,  ever  chiming 
The  golden  bells  in  your  pockets  ;  you  believed 
The  taking  of  the  wall  as  a  tribute  due  to 
Your  gaudy  clothes  ;  and  could  not  walk  at  mid- 
night 

Without  a  causeless  quarrel,  as  if  men 
Of  coarser  outsides  were  in  duty  bound 
To  suffer  your  affronts  :  but  when  you  had  been 
Cudgell'd  well  twice  or  thrice,  and  from  thedoctrine§ 
Made  profitable  uses,  you  concluded 
The  sovereign  means  to  teach  irregular  heirs 
Civility,  with  conformity  of  manners, 
Were  two  or  three  sound  beatings. 

Ant.  1  confess 
They  did  much  good  upon  me. 

Gas/'.  And  on  me  : 
The  principles  that  they  read  were  sound. 

Bert.  You'll  find 

The  like  instructions  in  the  camp. 
Ast.  The  king ! 

took  up  the  "  noble  science  of  arms,"  and,  with  the  n»e  of 
the  small  sword  (then  a  novelty),  taught  a  jargon  respecting 
the  various  mod.  s  of  "honourable  quarrelling,"  which, 
though  seemingly  calculated  to  battle  alike  the  patience  and 
the  understanding,  WHS  a  fashionable  object  of  study.  The 
dramatic  poets,  faithful  to  the  moial  end  of  their  high  art, 
combated  this  contagious  folly  with  tht  united  powers  of 
wit  and  humour;  and,  after  a  long  ami  well  conducted 
struggle,  succeeded  in  rendering  it  as  contemptible  as  it  was 
odious,  and  finally  supressed  it. 

*  with  a  provant  sword,  &c.]   A 

provant  sivord  is  a  plain,  nnornainented  sword,  such  as 
soldiers  are  supplied  with  by  Ihe  state.  Thus,  in  /.Very 
Man  in  his  Humour,  when  Master  Stephen  produces  hit 
"  pure  Toledo,"  Bobadil  exrl.iitns, 

"  This  a  Toledo  I  pish! 

"  fiteph.  Why  do  you  pish  T 

"  Hob.  A  Fleming,  by  heaven  !  I'll  buy  them  for  a  guilder 

a-piecc.  an   I  would  have  a  thousand  of  them  : a  pool 

provant  rapier ;   no  better." 

Properly  speaking,  provant  mean*  provisions:  thai 
Petillius,  in  the  tragedy  of  litmiiuca  ; 

"  All  my  company 

Are  now  in  love;   ne'er  think  of  meat,  nor  talk 
Of  whal  provant  is." 

But  our  old  « riu-rs  extend  it  to  all  the  articles  which  make 
up  the  maga/ines  of  an  army. 

It  appears,  from  the  pointing  of  the  fomer  editors,  that 
they  had  not  the  slightest  notion  of  what  their  author  was 
saying. 

+  To  the  doleful  tune  of  l.acHrymae.]  Sec  the  Picture. 

J  For  your  imitation;]  Thus  the  quarto:  Mr.  M.  Mason 
reads,  For  your  initiation;  an  alteration  as  void  of  mean- 
ing as  ol  harmony. 

4 and  from  the  doctrine 

Made  profitable  uses,  &c.]   See  The  Emperor  of  the  East* 


SCTNE  I.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


str 


A  Jlonrish.  Enter  ROBERTO,  FULGENTIO,  Ambassador, 
and  Attendants. 

Rob.  (Ascends  the  throne.)  We  sit  prepared  to  hear. 

Amb.  Your  majesty 

Hath  been  lung  since  familiar,  I  doubt  not, 
With  the  desperate  fortunes  of  my  lord  ;  and  pity 
Of  the  much  that  your  confederate  hath  suft'er'd, 
You  being;  his  last  refuge,  may  persuade  you 
Not  alone  to  compassionate,  but  to  lend 
Your  royal  aids  to  stay  him  in  his  fall 
To  certain  ruin.     He,  too  late,  is  conscious 
That  his  ambition  to  encroach  upon 
His  neighbour's  territories,  with  the  danger  of 
His  liberty,  nay,  his  life,  hath  brought  in  question 
His  own  inheritance  :  but  youth,  and  heat 
Of  blood,  in  your  interpretation,  may 
Both  plead  and  mediate  for  him.     I  must  grant  it 
An  error  in  him,  being  denied  the  favours 
Of  the  fair  princess  of  Sienna  (though 
He  sought  her  in  a  noble  way),  to  endeavour 
To  force  affection  by  surprisal  of 
Her  principal  seat,  Sienna. 

Rob.  Which  now  proves 
The  seat  of  his  captivity,  not  triumph  : 
Heaven  is  still  just. 

Amb.  And  yet  that  justice  is 

To  be  with  mercy  temper'd,  which  heaven's  deputies 
Stand  bound  to  minister.     The  injured  duchess, 
By  reason  taught,  as  nature,  could  not,  with 
The  reparation  of  her  wrongs,  but  aim  at 
A  brave  revenge  ;  and  my  lord  feels,  too  late. 
That  innocence  will  find  friends.  The  great  Gonzaga, 
The  honour  of  his  order  (I  must  praise 
Virtue,  though  in  an  enemy),  he  whose  fights 
And  conquests  hold  one  number,  rallying  up 
Her  scatter'd  troops,  before  we  could  get  time 
To  victual  or  to  man  the  conquer'd  ciry, 
Sat  d.;wn  before  it;  and.  presuming  that 
Tis  not  to  be  relieved,  admits  no  parley, 
Our  flags  of  truce  hung  out  in  vain  :  nor  will  he 
Lend  an  ear  to  composition,  but  exacts, 
With  the  rendering  up  the  town,  the  goods  and  lives 
Of  all  within  the  walls,  and  of  all  sexes, 
To  be  at  his  discretion. 

Rob    Since  injustice 

In  your  duke  meets  this  correction,  can  you  press  us, 
W:ith  anv  seeming  argument  of  reason, 
In  foolish  pity  to  decline*  his  dangers, 
To  dr*iw  them  on  ourself  ?     Shall  we  not  be 
Warn'd  bv  his  harms  ?     The  league  proclaimed  be- 
tween us 

Bound  neither  of  us  further  than  to  aid 
Kacli  other,  if  by  foreign  force  invaded; 
And  so  far  in  my  honour  I  was  tied. 
But  since,  without  our  counsel,  or  allowance, 
He  hath  ta'en  arms;  with  his  good  leave,  he  must 
Excuse  us  if  we  steer  not  on  a  rock 
We  see,  and  may  avoid.     Let  other  monarchs 
Contend  to  be  made  glorious  by  proud  war, 


•  In  fooluh  pity  to  decline  hit  danger*, 

To  dratc  them  on  ourtelf!}  To  declitif,  here  means  to 
divert  from  linn  couise;  in  «liicli  sense  it  is  frequently 
met  with  in  our  old  poets.  Thus  Jonson : 

•' who  declining 

Their  way,  not  able,  fur  the  throng,  to  follow, 
Shut  down  (lie  Geinonies."  Sfjanui. 

Again,  in  his  f-'orett  : 

"  Thi<  make*,  that  wi«ely  you  dfdine  your  life 
Far  from  the  maze  of  ciutoin,  errour,  tlril'e." 


And.  with  the  blood  of  their  poor  subjects,  purchase 

Increase  of  empire,  and  augment  their  cares 

In  keeping  that  which  was  by"  wrongs  extorted, 

Gilding  unjust  invasions  with  the  trim 

Of  glorious  conquests  ;  we,  that  would  be  known 

The  lather  of  our  people,  in  our  study 

And  vigilance  for  their  safety,  must  not  change 

Their  ploughshares  into  swords,   and    force   them 

from 

The  secure  shade  of  their  own  vines,  to  be 
Scorched  with  the  flames  of  war;  or,  for  our  sport, 
L'xpose  their  lives  to  ruin. 

Amb.   Will  you.-then, 
In  his  extremity,  forsake  your  friend  ? 

Rob.  No  ;  but  preserve  ourself. 

Bert.  Cannot  the  beams 
Of  honour  thaw  your  icy  fears? 

hob.  U'ho's  that? 

Bert.  A  kind  of  brother,  sir,  howe'er  your  subject ; 
Your  father's  son,  and  one  who  blushes  that 
You  are  not  heir  to  his  brave  spirit  and  vigour, 
As  to  his  kingdom. 

Rob.  How's  this ! 

Bert.  Sir,  to  be 

His  living  chronicle,  and  to  speak  his  praise, 
Cannot  deserve  your  anger. 

Rtik.  Where's  your  warrant 
For  this  presumption? 

Bert.  Here,  sir,  in  my  heart : 
Let  sycophants,  that  feed  upon  your  favours, 
Style  coldness  in  you  caution,  and  prefer 
Your  ease  before  your  honour;  and  conclude, 
To  eat  and  sleep  supinely  is  the  end 
Of  human  blessings:   1  must  tell  you,  sir, 
Virtue,  if  not  in  action,  is  a  vice  ; 
And,  when  we  move  not  forward,  we  go  backward*  : 
Nor  is  this  peace,  the  nurse  of  drones  and  cowards, 
Our  health,  but  a  disease. 

Gasp.  Well  urged,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Perfect  what  is  so  well  begun. 

Amb.  And  bind 
My  lord  your  servant. 

Rob.   Hair-brain'd  fool !  what  reason 
Canst  thou  infer,  to  make  this  good  ? 

Bert.  A  thousand, 

Not  to  be  contradicted.     But  consider 
Where  your  command  liesf  :  'tis  not,  in  France, 


-  J  must  tell  you,  sir, 


Virtue,  if  not  in  action,  in  a  vice  ; 
And  vhen  uv  more  not  forward,  u-e  go  backward  :]  Tliu 
is  a  beautiful  improvement  on  Horace  : 

Paulum  tepultte  dittat  inertia: 
.    Celata  virtu*. 

It  is,  however,  surpassed  by  the  spirited  apostrophe  of  Jon- 
son  to  hidiself: 

"  Where  do.«t  thou  careless  lie 
K  ii  i  ied  in  ease  and  sloth  '. 
Know  ledge,  that  sleeps,  doth  die  ; 
And  ihis  security, 

It  is  the  common  moth 
That  eats  on  wit  and  arts,  and  to  destroy?  them  both. 

L 'ndertrond*. 

The  Inst  line  of  the  text  alludes  to  the  Latin  adage :  -Von 
proyredi  ett  reyredi. 

— But  contider 

Where  your  command  lift:  &c.|  l)avie»,  I  tliink,  tay% 
th.u  here  is  an  allusion  to  (he  affairs  of  this  country  under 
James. 

However  that  may  be,  it  i«,  at  lea«t,  certain  that  (lie 
author,  in  this  anim.ited  description,  wa*  thinking  of  Ent.- 
land  only.  He  could  scarcely  be  so  ignorant  <'(  the  natural 
liisi.ir\  at  Sicily  as  not  to  know  how  little  of  his  description 
applied  to  ih  it  island  ;  while  every  word  of  it  was  perfectly 
applicable  (o  this. 


8*8 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[Act  I. 


Spain,  Germany,  Portugal,  but  in  Sicily  ; 

An  island,  sir.     Here  are  no  mines  of  gold 

Or  silver  to  enrich  you  ;  no  worm  spins 

Silk  in  her  womb,  to  make  distinction 

Between  you  and  a  peasant  in  your  habits  ; 

No  fish  lives  near  our  shores,  whose  blood  can  die 

Scarlet  or  purple  ;  all  that  we  possess, 

With  beasts  we  have  in  common  :  nature  did 

Design  us  to  be  warriors,  and  to  break  through 

Our  ring,  the  sea,  by  which  we  are  environed  ; 

And  we  by  force  must  fetch  in  what  is  wanting 

Or  precious  to  us.     Add  to  this,  we  are 

A  populous  nation,  and  increase  so  fast, 

That,  if  we  by  our  providence  are  not  sent 

Abroad  in  colonies,  or  fall  by  the  sword, 

Not  Sicily,  though  now  it  were  more  fruitful 

That  when  'twas  styled  the  granary  of  great  Rome, 

Can  yield  our  numerous  fry  biead  :  we  must  starve, 

Or  eat  up  one  another. 

Ador.  The  king  hears 
With  much  attention. 

Ast.  And  seems  moved  with  what 
Bertoldo  hath  deliver'd. 

Bert.  May  you  live  long,  sir. 
The  king  of  peace,  so  you  deny  not  us 
The  glory  of  the  war  ;  let  not  our  nerves 
Shrink  up  with  sloth,  nor,  for  want  of  employment, 
Make  younger  brothers  thieves  :  it  is  their  swords, 

sir, 

Must  *ow  and  reap  their  harvest.     If  examples 
May  move  you  more  than  arguments,  look  on  Eng- 
land, 

The  empress  of  the  European  isles, 
And  unto  whom  alone  ours  yields  precedence : 
When  did  she  flourish  so,  as  when  she  was 
The  mistress  of  the  ocean,  her  navies 
Putting  a  girdle  round  about  the  world  ; 
When  the  Iberian  quaked,  her  worthies  named  ; 
And  the  fair  flower-de-luce  grew  pale,  set  by 
The  red  rose  and  the  white?     Let  not  our  armour 
Hung  up,  or  our  unrigg'd  armada,  make  us 
Ridiculous  to  the  late  poor  snakes  our  neighbours, 
Warm'd  in  our  bosoms,  and  to  whom  again 
We  may  be  terrible ;  while  we  spend  our  hours 
Without  variety,  confined  to  drink, 
Dice,  cards,  or  whores.  Rouse  us,  sir,  from  the  sleep 
Of  idleness,  and  redeem  our  mortgaged  honours. 
Your  birth,  and  justly,  claims  my  father's  kingdom  ; 
But  his  heroic  mind  descends  to  me  : 
I  will  confirm  so  much. 

Ador.  In  his  looks  he  seems 
To  break  ope  Janus'  temple. 

Ast;  I  low  these  younglings 
Take  fire  from  him  ! 

Ador.  It  works  an  alteration 
Upon  the  kin^. 

Ant.  I  can  forbear  no  longer : 
War,  war,  my  sovereign  ! 

Ful.  The  king  appears 
Resolved,  arid  does  prepare  to  speak. 

Rob.  Think  not 

Our  counsel's  built  upon  so  weak  a  base, 
As  to  be  overturn'd,  or  shaken,  with 
Tempestuous  winds  of  words.     As  I,  my  lord, 
Before  resolved  you,  I  will  not  engage 
My  person  in  this  quarrel  ;  neither  press 
JNly  subjects  to  maintain  it :  yet,  to  show 
My  rule  is  gentle,  and  that  I  have  feeling       [weary 
O'  your  master's  sufferings,  since    these   gallants, 


Of  the  happiness  of  peace,  desire  to  taste 
The  bitter  sweets  of  war,  we  do  consent 
That,  as  adventurers  and  volunteers, 
No  way  compell'd  by  us,  they  may  make  trial 
Of  their  boasted  valours. 

Bert.  We  desire  no  more. 

Rob.  'Tis  well ;  an-1,  but  my  grant  in  this,  expect 

not 

Assistance  from  me.     Govern  as  you  please 
The  province  you  make  choice  of ;  for  I  vow 
By  all  things  sacred,  if  that  thou  miscarry 
In  this  rash  undertaking,  I  will  hear  it 
No  otherwise  than  as  a  sad  disaster, 
Fallen  on  a  stranger  ;  nor  will  I  esteem 
That  man  my  subject,  who,  in  thy  extremes, 
In  purse  or  person  aids  thee.     Take  your  fortune  ; 
You  know  me  ;  I  have  said  it.     So,  my  lord, 
You  have  my  absolute*  answer. 

Amb.  My  prince  pays 
In  me  his  duty. 

Rob.  Follow  me,  Fulgentio. 
And  you,  Astutio. 

[Flourish.    Exeunt  Roberto,  Fulgentio,  Astutio, 
and  Attendants. 

Gasp.  What  a  frown  he  threw, 
At  his  departure,  on  you  ! 

Bert.  Let  him  keep 
His  smiles  for  his  state  catamite,  I  care  not. 

Ant.  Shall  we  aboard  to-niyht  ? 

Amb.  Your  speed,  my  lord, 
Doubles  the  benefit. 

Bert.  I  have  a  business 

Requires  dispatch  ;  some  two  hours  hence  I'll  meet 
you.  [Eieant. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.  A  Room  in  Camiola's  House. 

Enter  Signior  SYLLI,  walking  fantasticnlly,  followed  by 
CAMIOLA  and  CLAUINDA. 

Cam.  Nay,  signior,  this  is  too  much  ceremony 
In  my  own  house. 

Syl.  What's  gracious  abroad, 
Must  be  in  private  practised. 

Clar.  For  your  mirth's  sake 
Let  him  alone  ;  he  has  been  all  this  morning 
In  practice  with  a  peruked  gentleman-usher, 
To  teach  him  his  true  amble  and  his  postures, 

[6'i///i  walking  by,  and  practising  his  postunt 
When  he  walks  before  a  lady. 

Syl.  You  may,  madam, 
Perhaps,  believe  that  I  in  this  use  art, 
To  make  you  dote  upon  me,  by  exposing 
My  more  than  most  rare  features  to  your  view  ; 
But  I,  as  I  have  ever  done,  deal  simply  ; 
A  mark  of  sweet  simplicity,  ever  noted 
In  the  family  of  the  Syllis.    'J  herefure,  lady, 
Look  not  with  too  much  contemplation  on  me ; 
If  you  do,  you  are  in  the  suds. 

Cam.  You  are  no  barber?  [drawn 

Syl.  Fie,  no !    not   1  ;   but  my  good    parts   have 
More  loving  hearts  out  of  fair  ladies'  bellies, 
Than  the  whole  trade  have  done  teeth. 

Cam.  Is't  possible  ? 


-.Vo,  my  lord. 


You  have  my  absolute  answer.}  Thus  tlie  quarto :  Coxetei 
and  Mr.  M.  Mason,  veiy  correctly  as  well  as  metrically, 
read,  You  have  my  wliuk  answer!  How  little  li.u  hitherto 
been  seen  of  Massinger! 


II.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


829 


SyL  Yes,  and  they  live  too ;  marry,  much  con- 
doling 

The  scorn  of  their  Narcissus,  as  they  call  me 
Because  1  love  myself 

Cam.   Without  a  rival. 
\\  hat  philters  or  love  powders  do  you  use, 
To  force  affection  ?  I  see  nothing  in 
Your  person  but  1  dare  look  on,  yet  keep 
My  own  poor  heart  still. 

'Syl.   You  are  warn'd — be  arin'd  ; 
And  do  not  lose  the  hope  of  such  a  husband, 
In  being  too  soon  enamour'd. 

Clur.   Hold  in  your  head, 
Or  \  ou  must  have  a  martingal. 

Si,/.  I  have  sworn 
Never  to  take  a  wife,  but  such  a  one, 

0  may  your  ladyship  prove  so  strong  ?  as  can 
Hold  out  a  month  against  me. 

Cam.   Never  fear  it ; 

Though   your  best  taking  part,   your  wealth,  were 
trebled, 

1  would  not  woo  you.     But  since  in  your  pity 
You  please  to  give  me  caution,  tell  me  what 
Temptations  I  must  fly  from. 

Syl.   The  first  is, 

That  you  never  hear  me  sing,  for  I'm  a  syren  : 
If  you  observe,  when  1  warble,  the  dogs  howl, 
As  ravish'd  with  my  ditties  ;  and  you  will 
Run  mad  to  hear  me. 

Cum    I  will  stop  my  ears, 
And  keep  my  little  wits. 

Syl.  Next,  when  I  dance, 
And  come  aloft  thus,  cast  not  a  sheep's  eye 
Upon  the  quivering  of  my  calf. 

Cam.  Proceed,  sir.  '  [not 

Syl    Hut  on  no  terms,  for  'tis  a  main  point,  dream 
O'  th'  strength  of  my  back,  though  it  will  bear  a 

burthen 
With  any  porter. 

Cam.  I  mean  not  to  ride  you. 

Syl.  Nor  I  your  little  ladyship,  till  you  have 
Perform 'd  the  covenants,     lie  not  taken  with 
My  pretty  spider-fingers,  nor  my  eyes, 
That  twinkle  on  both  sides. 

Com.  Was  there  ever  such 

A  piece  of  motley  heard  of!         [A  knocking  within. 
Who's  that  ?  [Eiit  Clarinda.\   You  may  spare 
The  catalogue  of  my  dangers. 

Syl.  No,  good  madam  ; 
I  have  not  told  you  half. 

Cam.  Enough,  good  signior; 
If  I  eat  more  of  such  sweetmeats,  I  shall  surfeit. 

Re-enter  CI.ARIXDA. 
Whois't? 

Clar.  The  brother  of  the  king. 

Si//.  Nay  start  not. 

The  brother  of  the  king  !  is  be  no  more  ? 
Were  it  the  king  himself,  I'd  give  him  leave 
To  speak  his  mind  to  you,  for  I  am  not  jealous ; 
And,  to  assure  your  ladyship  of  so  much, 
I'll  usher  him  in,  and  that  done — hide  mvself. 

[Exit. 

Cam.  Camiola,  if  ever,  now  be  constant : 
This  is,  indeed,  a  suitor,  whose  sweet  presence 
Courtship,  and  loving  language,  would  have  stag- 

ger'd 

The  chaste  Penelope ;  and  to  increase 
The  wonder,  did  not  modesty  forbid  it, 

18 


I  should  ask  that  from  him  he  sues  to  me  for : 
And  yet  my  reason,  like  a  tyrant,  tells  me 
I  must  nor  give  nor  take  it*. 

Re-enter  SYLLI  uith  BERTOLDO. 

Syl.  I  must  tell  you, 

You  lose  your  labour.     'Tis  enough  to  prove  it, 
Signior  Sylli  came  before  you;  and  you  know, 
First   come    first  served :  yet   you  shall   have   my 

countenance, 

To  parley  with  her,  and  I'll  take  special  care 
That  none  shall  interrupt  you. 
Bert.  Your  are  courteous. 
SuL  Come,  wench,  wilt  thou  hear  wisdom  ? 
Cliir.   Yes,  from  you,  sir.         [They  comerse  aside. 
Bert.  If   forcing  this    sweet    favour    from  your 
lips,  [Kiisesher. 

Fair  madam,  argue  me  of  too  much  boldness, 
When  you  are  pleased  to  understand  1  take 
A  parting  kiss,  if  not  excuse,  at  least 
'Twill  qualify  the  offence. 

Cam.  A  parting  kiss,  sir  ! 
What  nation,  envious  of  the  happiness 
Which  Sicily  enjoys  in  your  sweet  presence, 
Can  buy  you  from  her  1  or  wiiat  climate  yield 
Pleasures  transcending  those  which  you  enjoy  here, 
Being  both  beloved  and  honour'd  ;  the  north-star 
And  guider  of  all  hearts  ;  and,  to  sum  up 
Your  full  account  of  happiness  in  a  word, 
The  brother  of  the  king  } 

Bert.  Do  you,  alone, 
And  with  an  unexampled  cruelty, 
Enforce  my  absence,  and  deprive  me  of 
Those  blessings  which  you,  with  a  polish'd  phrase, 
Seem  to  insinuate  that  1  do  possess, 
And  yet  tax  me  as  being  guilty  of 
My  wilful  exile  ?   What  are  titles  to  me, 
Or  popular  suffrage,  or  my  nearness  to 
The  king  in  blood,  or  fruitful  Sicily, 
Though  it  confess'd  no  sovereign  but  myself, 
\\  hen  you,  that  are  the  essence  of  my  being, 
The  anchor  of  my  hopes,  the  real  substance 
Of  my  felicity,  in  your  disdain 
Turn  all  to  fading  and  deceiving  shadows  ? 
Com.  You  tax  me  without  cause. 
Bert.  You  must  confess  it. 

But  answer  love  with  love,  and  seal  the  contract 
In  the  uniting  of  our  souls,  how  gladly 
(Though  now  I  were  in  action,  and  assured, 
Following  my  fortune,  that  plumed  Victory 
Would  make  her  glorious  stand  upon  my  tent) 
Would  1  put  off  my  armour,  in  my  heat 
Of  conquest,  and,  like  Antony,  pursue 
My  Cleopatra'   Will  you  yet  look  on  me 
With  an  eye  of  favour? 

Cam.  Truth  bear  witness  for  me, 
That,  in  the  judgment  of  my  soul,  you  are 
A  man  so  absolute,  and  circular 
In  all  those  wish'd-for  rarities  that  may  take 
A  virgin  captive,  that,  though  at  this  instant 
All  sceptr'd  monarchs  of  our  western  world 
Wrere  rivals  with  you,  and  Camiola  worthy 
Of  such  a  competition,  you  alone 
Should  wear  the  garland. 


•  /  mutt  nor  give  nor  take  t'M  This  mode  of  expression 
which  is  very  frequent  ill  Massinger,  is  almost  as  frequently 
changed  by  Mr.  M.  Mason  into  1  mvtt  nut  yi*t,  6cc. 


230 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


f  ACT  T. 


Bwt.  If  so,  what  diverts 
Your  favour  from  me? 

Cum.    No  mulct  in  yourself, 
Or  in  your  person,  mind,  or  fortune. 

Bert.  What  then?  [sir, 

Cam.  '1  lie  consciousness  of  mine  own  wants  :  alas! 
We  are  not  parallels  ;  but.  like  lines  divided  *, 
Can  ne'er  meet  in  one  centre.      Your  birth,  sir, 
Without  addition,  were  an  ample  dowry 
For  one  of  fairer  fortunes ;  and  this  shape, 
Were  you  ignoble,  far  above  all  value  : 
To  this  so  clear  a  mind,  so  furnish *d  with 
Harmonious  faculties  moulded  from  heaven, 
Th.it  though  you  were  Thersites  in  your  features, 
Of  no  descent,  and  Irusin  your  fortunes, 
Ulysses-like  you'd  force  all  eyes  and  ears 
To  love,  but  seen  ;  and,  when  heard,  wonder  at 
Your  matchless  stOTv  :  but  all  these  bound  up 
Together  in  one  volume! — give  me  leave, 
With  admiration  to  look  upon  them  ; 
But  not  presume,  in  my  own  flattering  hopes, 
I  may  or  can  enjoy  them. 

Bert.   How  you  ruin 

What  you  would  seem  to  build  up  !  I  know  no 
Disparity  between  us  :  you're  an  heir 
Sprung  from  a  noble  family  ;  fair,  rich,  young, 
And  every  way  my  equal. 

Cam.  Sir,  excuse  me  ; 
One  aerie  with  proportion  ne'er  discloses 
1  he  eagle  and  the  wrenf  : — tissue  and  frieze 


— alas,  sirt 


Wr  are  not  parallels;  but.  like  lines  divided, 
Can  ne'er  meet  in  one  centre.]   This  stems  badly  ex- 
pressed.     I'.ir.illi  N  are  tin-  only  lines  that  cannot  meet  in  a 
centre;  for  all   lines  divided  with  any  angle  toward*  each 
other,    must    meet    somewhere,    if   continued    both    ways. 

CoXKTKR. 

B\  li.,es  divided,  Massinger  does  not  mean,  as  the  editor 
inp^o-fg,  lines  inclined  to  each  other  in  any  angle;  but  the 
divided  parts  of  the  same  right  line,  which  never  can  meet 
in  tint-  c.  nire.  M.  MASON. 

If  Mr  M.  Mason  understands  liis  own  meaning,  it  is  well ; 
that  of  his  author,  I  apprehend,  he  has  not  altogether  made 
out.  Our  old  writers  were  not,  generally  speaking,  very 
expert  mathematicians,  anil  therefore  frequently  confounded 
the  properties  of  lines  and  figures*  Not  only  Massinger, 
but  iii.iny  other*  who  had  good  means  of  information,  use 
parallel*  (as  it  seems  to  me)  for  radii.  I)r.  Sacheverell  was 
«ccu»ed  by  the  win,  or  rattier  whigs,  of  his  day,  for  speak- 
ing, in  his  famous  University  Sermon,  of  parallel  linrs  that 
met  in  a  centre.  The  charge  appears  to  be  just,  tor,  t hough 
he  changed  the  expression  «hen  the  sermon  was  commit  tod 
to  the  press,  he  retained  his  conviction  of  its  prop]  iety  : 
"  They"  (temptations),  he  says  "  are  the  centre  in  which. 
all  our  passions  termiinte  and  join,  though  never  to  much 
repvynant  to  each  other." 

In  the  Proeitic  to  Herbert'*  Travel*,  which  were  printed 
not  Ions'  after  The  Maid  of  Honour,  a  similar  expression  is 
found  :  "  Great  Briuine— contains  the  snmine  and  abridged 
of  all  ,-orls  of  excellencies,  met  here  like  parallel*  in  their 
prttper  centrt." 

In  the  life  of  Dr.  H.  More  (1710'  there  is  a  letter  to  a 
correspondent  who  had  sent  him  a  pious  treatise,  in  which 
the  same  expression  occurs,  aud  is  thus  noticed  by  the 
doctor:  "  Ther»-  is  but  one  passage  that  I  remember,  which 
will  attord  tht-m  (the  profane  and  atheistical  rout  of  the  age) 
•  di-ingeniion;  vitiM action ;  which  is  in  p.  4*0,  where  you 
•ay  that  ttratyht  line*  drawn  from  the  centre  run  parallel 
together.  To  a  candid  reader  your  intended  sense  can  be  no 
other  th.m  that  thry  run  Trap  aXXqXaf  that  is,  by  one 
Hnother;  which  they  may  do,  though  they  do  not  run  all 
•long  equidistautly  one  by  another,  which  is  the  mathe. 
matical  »en»e  of  the  word  parallel."  See  Gent.  Mag.  May, 
17*2.  The  good  doctor  in.  1  think,  the  hest  critic  on  the 
subject  that  has  jet  appeared,  and  sufficiently  explains 
Mas«inger. 

t  Cam.  .Sir,  excuse  mt ; 

On*  aerie  with  proportion  ne'tr  discloses 


In  the  same  garment,  monstrous !   But  suppose 
That  what's  in  you  excessive  were  diminish'd. 
And  my  desert  supplied,  the  stronger  bar, 
Religion,  stops  our  entrance  :  you  are,  sir, 
A  knight  of  Malts,  by  your  order  bound 
To  a  single  life  ;  you  cannot  marry  me ; 
And,  I  assure  myself,  you  are  too  noble 
To  seek  me,  though  my  frailty  should  consent. 
In  a  base  path. 

Bert.  A  dispensation,  lady, 
Will  easily  absolve  me. 

Cam.  O  take  heed,  sir! 

When  what  is  vow'd  to  heaven  is  dispensed  with, 
To  serve  our  ends  on  earth,  a  curse  must  follow, 
And  not  a  blessing. 

Bert.  Is  there  no  hope  left  me  ? 

Cam.  Nor  to  myself,  but  is  a  neighbour  to 
Impossibility.     True  love  should  walk 
On  equal  feet;  in  us  it  does  riot,  sir  ; 
But  rest  assured,  excepting  this,  1  shall  be 
Devoted  to  your  service. 

Bert.  And  this  is  your 
Determinate  sentence? 

Cam.  Not  to  be  revoked. 

Bert.  Farewell  then,  fairest  cruel !    all  thoughts 

in  me 

Of  women  perish.     Let  the  glorious  light 
Of  noble  war  extinguish  Love's  dim  taper*, 
That  only  lends  me  light  to  see  my  folly : 
Honour,  be  thou  my  ever-living  mistress. 
And  fond  affection,  as  thy  bond-slave,  serve  thee ! 

[Exit. 

Cam.  How  soon  my  sun  is  set,  he  being  absent, 
Never  to  rise  a-ain  !   What  a  fierce  battle 
Is  fought  between  my  passions  ! — met  Links 
We  should  have  kiss'd  at  parting. 

Syl.  I  perceive 

He  has  his  answer :  now  must  I  step  in 
To  comfort  her..     You  have  found,  I  hope,  sweet 

lady, 

Some  difference  between  a  youth  of  my  pitch, 
And  this  bugbe>tr  Bertoldo  ;  men  are  men, 


The  eagle  and  the  wren  :—]  The  modern  editors  read  One 
airy  with  proportion,  &c.  Upon  which  Coxeier  observes, 
that  "the  passage  is  somewhat  diflictilt."  It  means,  how- 
ever, he  adds,  "that  ont;  who  is  putted  up  with  an  high  opi- 
nion of  his  birth  (i.e.  airy  with  proportion),  will  never  stoop 
so  low  as  Bertoldo  must,  to  marry  Camiola!"  To  this  Mr. 
M.  Mason  subjoins,  that  for  discloses  we  should  read  encloses, 
and  that  the  meaning  is,  "  n.e  air)  that  is  tit  for  an  eagle 
cannot  be  equally  fit  for  a  wren  !"  Poor  Coxeter's  blunder 
is  sufficiently  ridiculous  :  but  did  not  Mr.  M.  Mason,  who 
tells  us,  in  a  note,  of  the  absolute  neces-ity  of  consulting  and 
comparing  contemporary  authors,  recollect  those  beautiful 
lines  of  Shakspeare  >. 

"  Anon,  us  patient  as  the  female  dove, 
Ere  that  her  golden  couplets  are  disclosed, 
Hi*  silence  will  sit  drooping."  Hamlet. 

Disclose,  in  short,  is  const. intly  used  bv  our  old  writers  for 
hatch,  as  aerie  is,  for  the  nest  of  any  bird  of  prey :  and  the 
meaning  of  this  •'  somewhat  dirticnlt  passage"  nothing  more, 
than  that  eagles  and  wrens  are  too  disproportionate  in  bulk 
to  be  hatched  in  the  same  nat. 

*  • Let  the  glorious  Hyht 

Of  nob/e  war  extinguish  Love's  dim  taj-er,]  So  the  quarto : 
for  which  fine  line  the  modern  cdiiois  give  us, 

—   Let  the  ylorimn  liyht 

Of  noble  war  extinguish  Love*  divine  taper! 
It  seems  strange  thai  no  want  of  harmony  in  the  metre,  no 
defect  of  sense  in  t  e  expression,  could  ever  rouse  them  into 
a  suspicion  of  their  inaccuracy.  I  have  not,  however, 
pointed  out  every  error  to  the  reader:  in  what  has  already 
past  of  this  act,  the  old  reading  has  been  silently  lestored  'ii 
numerous  instances. 


StesE  II.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HOVOl'R. 


231 


The  kind's  brotlier  is  no  more  ;  -rood  parts  will  do  it, 
When  titles  fail.     Despair  not ;  1  may  be 
In  time  entreated. 

Cam.   He  so  now,  to  leave  me. 
Lights  for  mv  chamber.     O  my  heart! 

[Exeunt  CaminUi  and  Clarinda. 


Syl.  She  now, 

I  know,  is  going  to  bed  to  ruminate 
Which  way  to  glut  herself  upon  my  person  ; 
Hut,  for  my  oath's  sake,  I  will  keep  her  hungry  . 
And,  to  grow  full  myself,  I'll  straight — to  supper. 

[Exit. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— The  same.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  ROBERTO,  FULGENTIO,  and  ASTUTIO, 

Rub.  Embark'd  to  night,  do  you  say  ? 

Ful.  1  saw  him  aboard,  sir. 

Hob.   And  without  taking  of  his  leave? 

Ait.  'T was  strange! 

Huh.  Are  we  grown  so  contemptible  ? 

Ful.  'Tis  far 

From  me.  sir,  to  add  fuel  to  your  anger, 
That   in  yiur  ill  opinion  of  him,  burns 
Too  hot  already  ;  else  I  should  affirm 
It  was  a  gross  neglect. 

Rob.  A  wilful  scorn 
Of  du'y  and  allegiance;  you  give  it 
Too  fair  a  name.     But  we  shall  think  on't:  can  you 
Uuess  what  the  numbers  were  that  follow'd  him, 
In  his  desperate  action  ? 

Ful.  More  than  you  think,  sir. 
All  ill-affected  spirits  in  Palermo, 
Or  to  your  government,  or  person,  with 
The   turbulent    swordsmen,    such    whose    poverty 

forced  them 

To  wi-h  11  change,  are  gone  along  with  him  ; 
Creatures  devoted  to  his  undertakings. 
In  right  or  wrong  :  and  to  express  their  zeal 
And  readiness  t>>  serve  him,  ere  they  went, 
Profanely  took  the  sacrament  ou  their  knees, 
To  live  and  die  VN  i'h  him. 

R<A.  O  most  impious  ! 
Their  loyalty  to  us  forgot? 

Ful.  I  fear  so. 

Ast.  Unthankful  as  they  are  ' 

Ful.    Vet  this  deserves  not 

One  troubled  thought  in  you,  sir  ;  with  your  pardon, 
I  hold  that  their  remove  from  hence  makes  more 
For  your  security  tluu  danger. 

Roh.  True  ; 

And,  as  I'll  fashion  it,  they  shall  feel  it  too. 
Astntio,  you  shall  presently  be  dispatch 'd 
With  letters  writ  and  sign'd  with  our  own  hand, 
To  the  duchess  of  Sienna,  in  excuse 
Of  these  forces  sent  against  her.     If  you  spare 
An  oath,  to  give  it  credit*,  that  we  never 
Consented  to  it ;  swearing  lor  the  king, 
Though  false,  it  is  no  perjury. 


-If  you  tpare 


An  oath,  to  give  it  credit,  &c.]  This  detestable  doctrine 
is  iintvuiihy  of  tlic  kitig,uho  IMS  hitherto  conducted  himself 
with  propriety,  and  preserved  some  degree  of  interest  with 
the  reader.  MasMiiger,  however,  has  taken  sufficient  care 
10  di-.-luM'  his  o\vn  ideas  of  such  pe rnick'iis  tenets,  which,  I 
hope,  were  never  fashionable,  hy  the  ridicule  which  be 
dexterously  flings  over  them  in  the  subsequent  speeches. 


Ast.  I  know  it. 

They  are  not  fit  to  be  state  agents,  sir, 
'1  hat,  without  scruple  of  their  conscience,  cannot 
Be  prodigal  in  such  trifles. 

Ful.  Right,  Astutio. 

Rub.  You  must,  beside,  from   us   take  some    in- 
structions, 

To  be  imparted,  as  you  judge  them  useful, 
To  the  general  Gonzaga.     Instantly 
Prepare  you  for  vour  journey. 

Ast.   With  the  wings 
Of  loyalty  and  duty.  [Exit. 

Fitl.  1  am  bold 
To  put  your  majesty  in  mind 

Rob.  Of  my  promise, 

And  aids,  to  further  you  in  your  amorous  project 
To  the  fair  and  rich  Camiola  :  there's  my  ring  ; 
Whatever  you  shall  say  that  I  entreat, 
Or  can  command  by  power,  I  will  make  good. 

Ful.  Ever  your  majesty's  creature. 

Rob.  Venus  prove 
Propitious  to  you  !  [Exit. 

Ful.  All  sorts  to  my  wishes  ; 
Bertnldo  was  my  hindrance  :  he  removed, 
I  now  will  court  her  in  the  conqueror's  style  ; 
Come,  see,  and  overcome.     Boy  ! 

Enter  Page. 

Page.  Sir  ;  yonr  pleasure  ? 

Ful.  Haste  to  Camiola  ;  bid  her  prepare 
An  entertainment  suitable  to  a  fortune 
She  could  not  hope  for.     Tell  her,  I  vouchsafe 
To  honour  her  with  a  visit. 

I3"ge.  'Tis  a  favour 
Will  make  her  proud. 

Ful.  I  know  it. 

P'ige.  I  am  gone,  sir,  [Eitt. 

Ful.  Entreaties  fit  not  me  ;  a  man  in  grace 
May  challenge  awe  and  privilege,  by  his  place. 

[EiU 


SCENE  II. — The  same.   A  Room  in  Camiola's  Hmte 

Enter  ADORNI,  SYLLT,  and  CLARINDA. 

Ador.  So  melancholy,  say  you  ' 

Cl"r.  Never  given 
To  such  retirement. 

Ador.  Can  you  guess  the  cause  ? 

Clar.  If  it  liHtli  not  its  birth  and  being  from 
The  brave  Bertoldo's  absence,  1  confess 
'Tis  past  my  apprehension. 

Syl.  You  are  wide, 


232 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[ACT  II. 


The  whole  field  wide*.     I,  in  my  understanding, 
Pity  your  ignorance  ; — yet,  if  you  will 
Swear  to  conceal  it,  I  will  let  you  know 
Where  her  shoe  wrings  her. 

Clur.  I  vow,  signior, 
By  my  virginity. 

Sijt.  A  perilous  oath, 

In  a  waitingwornan  of  fifteen  !  and  is,  indeed, 
A  kind  of  nothing. 

Ador.   I'll  take  one  of  something, 
If  you  please  to  minister  it. 

Syl.  Nay,  you  shull  not  swear : 
I  had  rather  take  your  word  ;  for,  should  you  vow, 
D — n  me,  I'll  do  this  !  — you  are  sure  to  break. 

Ador.  I  thank  you,  signior  ;  but  resolve  us. 

SyL  Know,  then, 

Here  walks  the  cause.   She  dares  not  look  upon  me  ; 
My  beauties  are  so  terrible  and  enchanting, 
She  cannot  endure  my  sight. 

Ador.  There  1  believe  you. 

SyL  But  the  time  will  come,  be  comforted,  when 

I  will 

Put  off  this  vizor  of  unkindness  to  her, 
And  show  an  amorous  and  yielding  face  : 
And,  until  then,  though  Hercules  himself 
Desire  to  see  her,  he  had  better  eat 
His  club,  than  pass  her  threshold  ;  for  I  will  be 
Her  Cerberus  to  guard  her. 

Ador.  A  good  dog  ! 

Clar.  Worth  twenty  porters. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.  Keep  you  open  house  here  ? 
No  groom  to  attend  a  gentleman  !     O,  I  spy  one. 

Si/l.  He  means  not  me,  I  am  sure. 

Page.  You,  sirrah  sheep's-head, 
With  a  face  cut  on  a  cat-stick,  do  you  hear? 
You  yeoman  fewtererf.  conduct  me  to 
The  lady  of  the  mansion,  or  my  poniard 
Shall  disembogue  thy  soul. 

Syl.  O  terrible ! 

Disembogue !  I  talk'd  of  Hercules,  and  here  is  one 
Bound  up  in  decimo  se.r/nj. 

Page.  Answer,  wretch. 

SyL  Pray  you,  little  gentleman,  be  not  so  furious  ; 
The  l»dy  keeps  her  chamber. 

Page.  And  we  present ! 
Sent  in  an  embassy  to  her !  but  here  is 
Her  gentlewoman :  sirrah  !  hold  my  cloak, 
While  1  take  a  leap  at  her  lips  ;  do  it,  and  neatly  ; 
Or,  having  first  tripp'd  up  thy  heels,  I'll  make 
Thy  back  my  footstool.  [Kisi>et  Clarinda. 

Syl.  Tamberlane  in  little  ! 
Am  1  turn'd  Turk$  !    What  an  office  am  I  put  to  ! 

Clar.  My  lady,  gentle  youth,  is  indisposed. 


*  The  whole  field  wide.]  This  hemistich  is  dropt  by  Mr. 
M<  Mason  :  it  signifies  little  tint  the  measure  of  two  lines  is 
spotliMi  by  his  negligence,  for,  as  he  modestly  says  of  his 
edition,  "  correctness  is  the  only  merit  it  pretend*  to."  The 
expression,  however  Signior  Sjlli  picked  it  up,  is  a  Latin- 
ism  :  Errus,  tola  via  aberrai. 

+  t'ou  yeoman  fewterer,]    See  The  Picture. 

}  — 1  talk'd  of  Hercules,  and  here  is  one 

Bound  up  in  decimo  sexto.]  We  have  already  had  this 
expression  applied  to  a  page  in  The  Unnatural  Combat,  Act 
111.,  M1.  ii.  Indeed,  no  author,  with  whom  I  am  acquainted, 
repeats  himself  so  frequently,  and  with  so  little  ceremony) 
as  Massinger. 

j  Am  1  turn'd  Tmk!]  Alluding  to  the  story  of  Tamber- 
lane, who  is  said  to  have  mounted  his  horse  from  the  back 
of  Ltaj.izct,  the  Turkish  Emperor.  To  turn  Turk  is  an  ex- 


Page.  Though  she  were  dead  and  buried,  only  tell 

her, 

The  great  man  in  the  court,  the  brave  Fulgentio, 
Descends  to  visit  her,  and  it  will  raise  her 
Out  of  the  grave  for  joy. 

Enter  FULGENTIO. 

Syl.  Here  comes  another  ! 
The  devil,  1  fear,  in  his  holiday  clothes. 

Page.  So  soon  ! 

My  part  is  at  an  end  then.     Cover  my  shoulders  ; 
When  1  grow  great,  thou  shall  serve  me. 

Ful.  Are  you,  sirrah,  [To  Sylli. 

An  implement  of  the  house  ? 

Syl.  Sure  he  will  make 
A  joint  stool  of  me  ! 

Ful.  Or,  if  you  belong  [To  Adortti. 

To  the  lady  of  the  place,  command  her  hither. 

Ador.  1  do  not  wear  her  livery,  yet  acknowledge 
A  duty  to  her  ;  and  as  little  bound 
To  serve  your  peremptory  will,  as  she  is 
To  obey  your  summons.     'Twill  become  you,  sir, 
To  wait  her  leisure  ;  then,  her  pleasure  known, 
You  may  present  your  duty. 

Fid.  Duty  !  Slave, 
I'll  teach  you  manners. 

Ador.  I'm  past  learning  ;  make  not 
A  tumult  in  the  house. 

Ful.  Shall  I  be  brav'd  thus  ?  [They  draw. 

SyL  O,  I  am  dead  !  and  now  I  swoon. 

[Falls  on  hisjace. 

Clar.  Help  !  murder  ! 

Page.  Recover,  sirrah  ;  the  lady's  here. 

Enter  CAMIOLA. 

Syl.  Nay,  then 
I  am  alive  again,  and  I'll  be  valiant.  [Kiset. 

Cam.  What  insolence  is  this?     Adorni,  hold, 
Hold,  I  command  you. 

Ful.  Saucy  groom  ! 

Cam.  Not  so,  sir  ; 

However,  in  his  life,  he  had  dependence 
Upon  my  father,  he's  a  gentleman 
As  well  born  as  yourself*.     Put  on  your  hat. 

Ful.  In  my  presence  without  leave  ! 

SyL  He  has  mine,  madam.  [guage, 

Cam.  And  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  and  in  plain  lan- 
Howe'er  your  glittering  outside  promise  gentry, 
The  rudeness  of  your  carriage  and  behaviour 
Speaks  you  a  courser  thing. 

Syl.  She  means  a  clown,  sir  ; 
I  am  her  interpreter,  for  want  of  a  better.          [you 

Cam.  I  am  a  queen  in  mine  own  house  ;  nor  must 
Expect  an  empire  here. 

Syl.  Sure  I  must  love  her 
Before  the  day,  the  pretty  soul's  so  valiant.      [me  ? 

Cam.  What  are  you?  and  what  would  you  with 

Ful.  Proud  one, 

When  you  know  what  I  am,  and  what  I  came  for, 
And  may  on  your  submission,  proceed  to, 
You  in  your  reason  must  repent  the  coarseness 
Of  my  entertainment. 

pressinn  frequently  u»cd  to  imply  a  change  of  situation,  oc- 
cupation, mode  of  thought  or  action.  See  The  fieneaado 
Act  V.,  sc.  iii. 

He's  »  gentleman 

At  well  born  as  yourself. \  This  is  the  second  passage,  in 
the  compass  of  little  more  than  a  page,  which  i»  wholly 
omitted  by  Mr.  M.  Masonl 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


233 


Cam.  Why,  fine  man  ?  what  are  you  ? 
Fill,  A  kinsman  of  the  king's. 
Cam.  I  cry  you  mercy, 

For  his  sake,  not  your  own.    But,  grant  you  are  so, 
'Tis  not  impossible  but  a  king  may  have 
A  fool  to  his  kinsman, — no  way  meaning  you,  sir. 
Ful.  You  have  heard  of  Fulgentio  1 
Cam.  Long  since,  sir ; 
A  suit-broker  in  court.     He  has  the  worst 
Report  among  good  men,  I  ever  heard  of, 
For  bribery  and  extortion  :  in  their  prayers, 
Widows  and  orphans  curse  him  for  a  canker 
And  caterpillar  in  the  state.     I  hope,  sir. 
You  are  not  the  man  ;  much  less  employ 'd  by  him, 
As  a  smock  agent  to  me. 

Ful.  I  reply  not 

As  you  deserve,  being  assured  you  know  me  ; 
Pretending  ignorance  of  my  person,  only    [courtly  ; 
To    give  me  a  taste    of  your   wit :  'tis  well,   and 
I  like  a  sharp  wit  well. 

Syt.  I  cannot  endure  it ; 
Nor  any  of  the  Syllis. 

Ful.  More  ;  I  know  too, 
This  harsh  induction  must  serve  as  a  foil 
To  the  well-tuned  observance  and  respect 
You  will  hereafter  pay  me,  being  made 
Familiar  with  my  credit  with  the  king, 
And  that  (contain  your  joy)  I  deign  to  love  you 
Cam.  Love  me  !  1  am  not  rapt  with  it. 
Ful.  Hear't  again : 
I  love  you  honestly  :  now  you  admire  me. 

Cam.   I  do,  indeed  :  it  being  a  word  so  seldom 
Heard  from  a  courtier's  mouth.      But,  pray  you, 

deal  plainly, 

Since  you  find   me  simple  ;what  might  be  the  motives 
Inducing  you  to  leave  the  freedom  of 
A  bachelor's  life,  on  your  soft  neck  to  wear 
The  stubborn  yoke  of  marriage  ;  and,  of  all 
The  beauties  in  Palermo,  to  choose  me, 
Poor  me  ?  that  is  the  main  point  you  must  treat  of. 

Ful.  Why,  I  will  tell  you.     Of  a  little  thing, 
You  are  a  pretty  peat*,  indifferent  fair,  too ; 
And,  like  a  new-rigg'd  ship,  both  tight  and  yare, 
Well  truss'd  to  bear  :  virgins  of  giant  size 
Are  sluggards  at  the  sport ;  but  for  my  pleasure, 
Give  me  a  neat  well-timber'd  gamester  like  you  ; 
Such  need  no  spurs, — the  quickness  of  your  eye 
Assures  an  active  spirit. 

Cam.   You  are  pleasant,  sir  ; 
Yet  I  presume  that  there  was  one  thing  in  me 
Unmention'd  yet,  that  took  you  more  than  all 
Those  parts  vou  have  remember'd. 
Ful.  What? 
Cam.  My  wealth,  sir, 

Ful.  You  are  in  the  right ;  without  that  beauty  is 
A  flower  worn  in  the  morning,  at  night  trod  on  : 
But  beauty,  youth,  and  fortune,  meeting  in  you, 
I  will  vouchsafe  to  marry  you. 

Cam.   You  speak  well ; 
And,  in  return,  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I 
Deliver  reasons  why,  upon  no  terms, 
I'll  marry  you  ;  I  fable  not. 

Syl.  I  am  glad 

To  hear  this  ;  I  began  to  have  an  ague 
Ful.  Come,  your  wise  reasons. 


•  You  are  a  pretty  peat,]  For  peat  the  modern  editors 
are  pleased  to  give  us  piece;  a  colloquial  barbarism  of  our 
own  timei. 


Cam.  Such  as  they  are,  pray  you  take  them : 
First,  I  am  doubtful  whether  you  are  a  man, 
Since,  for  your  shape,  trimm'd  up  in  a  lady's  dressing, 
You  might  pass  for  a  woman  ;  now  I  love 
To  deal  on  certainties  :  and,  for  the  fairness 
Of  your  complexion,  which  you  think  will  take  me, 
The  colour,  I  must  te;l  you,  in  a  man 
Is  weak  and  faint,  and  never  will  hold  out, 
If  put  to  labour :  give  me  the  lovely  brown, 
A  thick  curl'd  hair  of  the  same  die, broad  shoulders, 
A  brawny  arm  full  of  veins,  a  leg  without 
An  artificial  calf; — I  suspect  yours ; 
But  let  that  pass. 

Si//.  She  means  me  all  this  while, 
For  I  have  every  one  of  those  good  parts , 

0  Sylli !  fortunate  Sylli ! 
Cam.   You  are  moved,  sir. 
Ful.  Fie  !  no  ;  go  on. 

Cam.  Then,  as  you  are  a  courtier, 
A  graced  one  too,  I  fear  you  have  been  too  forward  ; 
And  so  much  for  your  person.     Rich  you  are, 
Devilish  rich,  as  tis  reported,  and  sure  have 
The  aids  of  .Satan's  little  fientls  to  get  it ; 
And  what  is  got  upon  his  back,  must  be 
Spent  you  know  where  ; — the  proverb's  stale. 

One  word  more, 
And  I  have  done. 

Ful.  I'll  ease  vou  of  the  trouble, 
Coy  and  disdainful ! 

Cam.  Save  me,  or  else  he'll  beat  me.          [put  me 

Ful.  No,  your  own    folly  shall ;  and,  since  you 
To  my  last  charm,  look  upon  this,  and  tremble. 

[Shows  the  king's  ring 

Cam.  At  the  sight  of  a  fair  ring  !   The  king's,  I 
take  it  ? 

1  have  seen  him  wear  the  like  :  if  he  hath  sent  it 
As  a  favour  to  me 

Ful.  Yes,  'tis  very  likely ; 
His  dying  mother's  gift,  prized  at  his  crown: 
By  this  he  does  command  you  to  be  mine; 
By  his  gift  you  are  so : — you  may  yet  redeem  all. 

Cam.  You  are  in  a  wrong  account  still.      Though 

the  king  may 

Dispose  of  my  life  and  goods,  my  mind's  mine  own, 
And  never  shall  be  your's.     The  king  heaven  bless 
Is  good  and  gracious,  and.  being  in  himself       [him 
Abstemious  from  base  and  goatish  looseness, 
Will  not  compel,  against  their  wills,  chaste  maidens 
To  dance  in  his  minion's  circles^     1  believe, 
Forgetting  it  when  he  wash'd  his  hands,  you  stole  it 
With  an  intent  to  awe  me.     But  you  are  cozen'd ; 
1  am  still  myself,  and  will  be. 

Ful.  A  proud  haggard, 

And  not  to  be  reclann'd  !  which  of  your  grooms, 
Your  coachman,  fool,  or  footman,  ministers 
N  ight-physic  to  you  ? 

Cam.  You  are  foul-mouth'd. 

Ful.  Much  fairer 
Than  thy  black  soul ;  and  so  I  will  proclaim  thee. 

Cam.  Were  I  a  man,  thou  durst  not  speak  this. 

Ful.  Heaven 

So  prosper  me,  as  I  resolve  to  do  it 
To  all  men,  and  in  every  place  ; — scorn'd  by 
A  tit  of  ten-pence !          [Exeunt  Fulgent io  and  Page, 

Syt.  Now  1  begin  to  be  valiant: 
Nay,  I  will  draw  my  sword.  O  fora  brother*! 


O  for  a  butcher! 


Do  a  friend'*  part,  &c. ,    This  ii  a  true  picture  of  a  fop. 


234 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[Acr  II 


Do  a  friend's  part;  pray  you,  carry  Lim  the  length, 

oft. 

I  give  him  three  years  and  a  day  to  match  my  Toledo 
And  tncn  we'll  fight  like  dragons. 

A  dor.  Pray,  have  patience. 

Cam.  I  may  live  to  have  vengeance:  my  Bertoldo 
Would  not  have  heard  this. 

Ador.  Madam, 

Cam.  Pray  you,  spare 
Your  language.     Prithee  fool,  and  make  me  merry*. 

5(//.  That  is  my  office  ever. 

Ador.  I  must  do. 

Not  talk  ;  this  glorious  gallant  shall  hear' from  me. 

[Eacurrt. 

SCENE  III.  -The  Sienneset.    A   Camp  before  the 

Walls  of'  Sienna. 
Chambers  shot  off':   a  Flourish  as  to  an  Assault:  after 

which,  enter  GONZAGA,  PIERIO,  RODEUIGO,  JACOMO, 

and  Soldiers. 

Cons.  Ts  the  breach  made  assaultable  ? 

Pier.  Yes,  and  the  moat 

Fill'd  up  ;  the  cannoneer  hath  done  his  parts  ; 
We  may  enter  six  abreast. 

Pod.  There's  not  a  man 
Dares  show  himself  upon  the  wall. 

Jac.  Defeat  not 
The  soldiers'  hoped-for  spoil. 

Pier.  If  you,  sir, 
Delay  the  assault,  and  the  city  be  given  up 

Nothing  could  be  more  abjectly  fearful  than  this  our 
bravado,  when  in  danger:  but,  now  his  enemy  is  gone,  he 
swaggers  about  mo>t  courageously.  Now  I  beyln  to  be 
valiant :  nay,  I  wilt  draw  my  sword.  (>  for  a  butcher! 
The  bloody  cruel  temper  of  one — COXKTKI:. 

0  for  a  butcher!]    It  is  impossible  that  the  words  should 
convey  the  sense  that  the  editor  attributes  to  them.     It  is  a 
difficult  passage,  and  my  conjecture  may  possibly  be  errone- 
ous, but  1  should  read  it  thus : — 

A'ay,  /  will  draw  my  sword :  O  for  a.  bout !  Here, 
Do  a  friend'*  part,  &c.— M.  MASON. 

Sylli  is  no  fop.  but  a  fool :  one  of  those  characters  which 
the  audiences  of  Massinger's  time  looked  for  in  every  piece 
that  came  before  them.  By  fool,  I  do  not  moan  such  a*  are 
found  in  Shakspeare,  compounds  of  archness,  knavery, 
petulance,  and  licentiousness,  infinitely  diversitied  (for  to 
•lie  production  of  suoh  our  poet  was  not  equal),  but  a  harm- 
less simpleton,  whose  vanity  it  too  puerile  and  cowardice 
too  abject,  to  excite  in  our  times  either  interest  or  mirth  :  — 
for  the  rest,  nothing  can  be  more  contemptible  than  the 
jargon  of  Coxeter  on  his  own  erroneous  reading.  I  have 
consulted  all  the  copies  to  which  1  had  wrcess,  and  they 
concur  in  reading,  O  for  a  brother !  (with  the  single  excep- 
tion, indeed,  of  Mr.  Malone's,  which  reads  liutcher),  i.  e.  a 
brother  in  arm*  (I  suppose  to  do  what  he  immediately  after 
requests  Adorni  to  do  tor  him),  a  common  expression  at  the 
time,  and  well  understood  by  Massinger's  audience.  The 
erave  remark  of  Mr.  M.  Mason  on  the  spurious  readinv  of 
Coxeter  is  truly  ridiculous.  Why  did  he  not  examine'the 
old  copies? 

*  (lam.  Pray  you,  tpare 

Your  language.  Prithee,  fool,  and  malte  me  merry  ]  I.  c. 
play  the  fool.  An  explanation  that  would  have  been  wholly 
unnecessary,  if  the  modern  editors  had  not  mistaken  the 
sense,  and  therefore  altered  the  passage.  They  read,  in 
despite  of  the  metre, 

Pray  you  spare 

Your  lanyuayf.  Prithtefool,  and  make  me  merry. 

1  Tlie  Sienne.«e,  &c.]    Here,  as  in  The  Duke  of  Milan, 
Coxeter  attempted  to  particularize  the  place  of  action,  but 
with   as  little  success  as  before.     He   reads,  The  Cattle  at 
Sienna  :    this,  uowever,   was  in  the  hands  of  the   duke   of 
Urbin  ;  while  On/  t<j,:t  and  his  army  are  described  as  Ijing 
encamped  before  the  walls   of  the  town  :    which   they   are 
now  preparing  to  assa'dt.     The  cattle  of  Sienna,  if  castle  it 
mnst    be,  should  be    placed  at  the  head  of  the   next  scene. 
Mr.  M.  Mason  copies  all  there  absurdities,  as  usual. 


To  your  discretion,  you  in  honour  cannot 
Use  the  extremity  of  war, — but,  in 
Compassion  to  them,  you  to  us  prove  cruel. 

Jac.  And  an  enemy  to  yourself. 

Hod.  A  hindrance  to 
The  brave  revenge  you  have  vow'd. 

Gonz.  Temper  your  heat, 
And  lose  not,  by  too  sudden  rashness,  that 
Which,  be  but  patient,  will  be  offer'd  to  you. 
Security  ushers  ruin;  proud  contempt 
Of  an  enemy  three  parts  vanquish 'cl,  with  desire 
And  greediness  of  spoil,  have  often  wrested 
A  certain  victory  from  the  conqueror's  gripe. 
Discretion  is  the  tutor  of  the  war, 
Valour  the  pupil ;  and,  when  \ve  command 
With  lenity,  and  our  direction's  follow 'd 
With  cheerfulness,  a  prosperous  end  must  crowc 
Our  works  well  undertaken. 

Pod.  Ours  are  finish'd 

Pier.  If  we  make  use  of  fortune. 

Gonz.  Her  false  smiles 

Deprive  you  of  your  judgments.     The  condition 
Of  our  affairs  exacts  a  double  care, 
And,  like  bii'ronted  Janus,  we  must  look 
Backward,  as  forward  :  though  a  flattering  calm 
Bids  us  urge  on,  a  sudden  tempest  raised, 
Not  feared,  much  less  expected,  in  our  rear 
May  foully  fall  upon  us,  and  distract  us 
To  our  confusion. 

Enter  a  Scout. 

Our  scout!  what  brings 
Thy  ghastly  looks,  and  sudden  speed  ? 

Scout.  The  assurance 
Of  a  new  enemy. 

Gonz.  This  I  foresaw  and  fear'd. 
What  are  they,  know'st  thou? 

Scout.  They  are,  by  their  colours, 
Sicilians,  bravely  mounted,  and  the  brightness 
Of  their  rich  armours  doubly  gilded  with 
Reflection  of  the  sun. 

Gonz.   From  Sicily? 

The  king  in  league  !  no  war  proclaimed  !  'tis  foul  • 
But  this  must  be  prevented,  not  disputed 
Ha!  how  is  this?  your  estridge*  plumes,  that  but 
Even  now,   like    quills   of    porcupines,  seem'd   to 

threaten 

The  stars,  drop  at  the  rumour  of  a  shower, 
And,  like  to  captive  colours,  sweep  the  earth  ! 
Bear  up  ;  but  in  great  dangers,  greater  minds 
Are    never  proud.     Shall  a  few  loose  troops,  un- 
But  in  a  customary  ostentation,  [trained 

Presented  as  a  sacrifice  to  your  valours, 
Cause  a  dejection  in  you  ? 

Pier.  No  dejection.  [low. 

Hod.  However  startled,  where  you  lead  we'll  fol- 

Gonz.  'Tis  bravely  said.     We  will  not  stay  their 

.    charge, 

But  meet  them  man  to  man,  and  horse  to  horse. 
Pierio,  in  our  absence  hold  our  place, 
And  with  our  foot  men,  and  those  sickly  troops, 
Prerent  a  sally.     T  in  mine  own  person, 
With  part  of  the  cavalleryf.  will  bid 

your  esi  ridge  plumes,  &c.  1    For 

estridyc  the  modern  editions  reail  ostrich: — bin  this  is  not 
the  only  capricious  alteration  which  they  have  introduced 
into  this  beautiful  speech.  - 

t    tl  ith  part  of  the  cavallcry,]  So  it  must  be  spelt,  an'l  MI 
the  quarto    spells  it :    the   modern   editions   have  cavalry, 


SCENE  V.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


These  hunters  welcome  to  a  bloody  breakfast : 
But  I  lose  time. 

Pier.  I'll  to  my  charge.  [Exit. 

Gonz.  And  we 
To  ours  :  I'll  bring  you  on. 

Jac.  If  we  come  off, 
It's  not  amiss ;  if  not,  my  state  is  settled. 

[Eieunt.     Alarum  within. 


SCENE  IV.— The  same.     The  Citadel  of  Sienna. 
Enter  FERDINAND,  Dnuso,  and  LIVIO,  on  the  H'n//s. 

Per.  No  aids  from  Sicily  !   Hath  hope  forsook  us  ; 
And  tlmt  vain  comfort  to  affliction,  pity, 
Hy  our  vow'd  friend  denied  us  1  we  can  nor  live 
Nor  die  with  honour  :   like  beasts  in  a  toil, 
We  wait  the  leisure  of  the  bloody  hunter, 
Who  is  not  so  far  reconcil'd  unto  us, 
As  in  one  death  to  give  a  period 
To  our  calamities  ;  but  in  delaying 
The  fate  we  cannot  fly  from,  starved  with  wants, 
We  die  this  night,  to 'live  again  to-morrow, 
And  suffer  greater  torments. 

Dm.  There  is  not 

Three  days'  provision  for  every  soldier, 
At  an  ounce  of  bread  a  day,  left  in  the  city. 

Lh\  To  die  the  beggar's  death,  with  hunger  made 
Anatomies  while  we  live,  cannot  but  crack 
Our  heart-strings  with  vexation. 

Per.   Would  they  would  break, 
Bre:ik  altogether!     How  willingly,  like  Cato, 
Could  I  tear  out  my  bowels,  rather  than 
Look  on  the  conqueror's  ini-ulting  face  ; 
But  that  religion  ',  and  the  horrid  dream 
To  be  suffcr'd  in  the  other  world,  denies  it ! 

Enter  a  Soldier. 

What  news  with  thee  1 

Sol.  From  the  turret  of  the  fort, 
By  the  rising  clouds  of  dust,  through  which,  like 

lightning, 
The  splendour  of  bright  arms  sometimes  brake  t 

through, 

I  did  descry  some  forces  making  towards  us  ; 
And,  from  the  camp,  as  emulous  of  their  t;lory, 
The  general  (for  I  know  him  by  his  borse), 
And  bravely  seconded,  encounter'd  them. 
Their  greetings  were  too  rough  for  friends ;  their 

swords, 

And  not  their  tongues,  exchanging  courtesies. 
By  this  the  main  battalias  are  join'd  ; 
And,  if  you  please  to  be  spectators  of 
The  horrid  issue,  I  will  bring  you  where, 
As  in  a  theatre,  you  may  see  their  i'ates 
In  purple  gore  presented. 

Per.  Heaven,  if  yet 

Thou  art  appeased  for  my  wronsj  done  to  Aurelia, 
"~ake  pity  of  my  miseries  !     Lead  the  way,  friend. 

[Exeunt. 


\vhich  is  not  metre,  nor  any  thins;  like  metre.  The  old 
expression  is  neither  incorrect,  nor  uncommon,  as  I  could 
easily  show,  it'  it  were  at  all  necessary. 

*  J?uf  that  re!i(jiim]  Here  Malinger  had  Hamlet  in 
view— but  has  improved  his  sentiments. 

+  The  splendour  of  briyftt  arms  soicetimei  brake  through,} 
Both  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  corrupt  brake  into  break, 
though  it  be  arrant  nonsense  1 


SCENE  V.     The  tame.     A  Plain  near  the  Camp. 

A  Ion?  Charge:  after  which,  a  Flourish  for  victory  ; 
then  enter  GOSZAGA,  JACOMO,  and  Konr.nioo, 
wounded ;  BERTOLDO,  GASPAUO,  and  ANTONIO, 

Prisoners. 

Gonz.     We  hare  them  yet,  though  they  cost  u» 

dear.     This  was  [selves 

Charged  home,  and  bravely  follow'd.     Be  to  your- 

[To  Jacomo  and  Rodertgo. 

True  mirrors  to  each  other's  worth  ;  and  looking 
Witli  noble  emulation  on  his  wounds, 
The  glorious  livery  of  triumphant  war, 
Imagine  these  with  equal  grace  appear 
Uyon  yourselves.     The  bloody  sweat  you  have  suf- 

fer'd 

In  this  laborious,  nay,  toilsome  harvest, 
Yields  a  rich  crop  of  conquest :  and  the  spoil, 
Most  precious  balsam  to  a  soldier's  hurts, 
Will  ease  and  cure  them.     Let  me  look  upon 

[Gasparo  and  Antonio  brought  forward. 
The  prisoners'  fnces.     Oh,  how  much  tninsform'd 
From  what  they  were  '.     O  Mars  !  were  these  toy» 

fashion'd 

To  undergo  the  burthen  of  thy  service  ? 
The  weight  of  their  defensive  armour  bruised 
Their  weak  effeminate  limbs,  and  would  have  forced 

them, 
In  a  hot  day,  without  a  blow  to  yield. 

A nt.  This  instillation  shows  not  manly  in  you. 

GOHZ.  To  men  1  had  forborne  it;  you  are  women, 
Or,  at  the  best,  loose  carpet-knights*.     What  fury 
Sfduced  you  to  exchange  your  ease  in  court 
Fcr  labour  in  the  field  ?  perhaps,  you  thought 
To  charge,  through  dust  and  blood,  an  armed  foe, 
U  as  but  like  graceful  running  at  tlie  ring 
For  a  wanton  mistress'  glove  ;  and  the  encounter, 
A  soft  impression  on  her  lips  :  but  you 
Are  gaudy  butterflies,  and  I  wrong  myself 
In  parting  with  you. 

Gai-p.  Vte  victis!  now  we  prove  it. 

RixL  But  here's  one  fashion'd  in  another  mould, 
And  made  of  tougher  metal. 


yon  are  women, 

Or,  at  the  best,  loone  carpel-Knights.]    Carpet -kn'yhtt,  a 
term  of  contempt   very  frequently    u«eil   by  our  old  writer* 
were  such  as  were   made  on   orcasion  of  public  festivities, 
marriages,   births,  &c.in  contrartUlinclion  to  those  that  were 
created   on  the   field    of  battle  after  a  victory.     Tliey  weic 
naturally  little   regarded   by  the  l.oter;  and,'  indeed,  their 
title  had   long  been  given,  in  scoin,  to  ett'eminate  courliera, 
fnvoniiles,  &c.    To  confine,  as  some  do,  (he  expression  to 
|    the    knights    made   by   James    I.    is   evidently    i-rnmeons ; 
since  it  was  in  use,  aivl  in  the  opprubiious  sen-c  of  the  text, 
before  he  was  born.     I  hope  it  will  not  be  thought  that  I 
have  loaded  the  page  with  superfluous  quotations,  which   it 
has  been  my  chief  study  to   avoid  :  — there  N,  however,  ro 
beautiful   a    passage   in    Fletcher's  fair  Afaid   of  the.   Inn, 
thai,  as  it  is   not  altogether  irrelevant  to  the  subject,  1  cau- 
not  resist  the  pleasure  of  transcribing  it : 
"  Oh  the  brave  dames 
Of  warlike  Genoa  !  they  had  eyes  to  see 
The  inward  man;  and  only  from  his  worth, 
f'ourage  and  cmiquetts,  the  blind  archer  knew 
To  he-:d  his  shifts,  or  light  his  quenched  torch  ; 
They  were  proof  against  him  else !      o  carpet-hn'.yht, 
That  spent  Ins  youth  in  groves  or  ple-tsunt  bowers, 
Or  stretching  on  a  couch  his  la/.y  limbs, 
Snug  to  his  inte  such  solt  and  pleading  i.otes 
As  Ovi  I  nor  Anacreon  ever  knew, 
C"iild  work  on  them,  nor  once  btuitch'ri  their  scnte, 
Though  he  came  so  perfumed,  as  he  had  rob!/d 
Sanea  or  Arabia  of  their  wealth, 
And  stored  it  in  one  suit" 


236 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[Aci  III. 


Gonz.  True  ;  I  owe  him 
For  this  wound  bravely  given. 

Bert.  O  that  mountains 
Were  heap'd  upon  me,  that  I  might  expire 
A  wretch  no  more  remember'd  ! 

Gonz.   Look  up,  sir  ; 

To  be  o'ercome  deserves  no  shame.     If  you 
Had  fallen  ingloriously,  or  could  accuse 
Your  want  of  courage  in  resistance,  'twere 
To  be  lamented  :  but,  since  you  perform'd 
As  much  as  could  be  hoped  for  from  a  man 
(Fortune  his  enemy),  you  wrong  yourself 
In  this  dejection.     I  am  honour'd  in 
My  victory  over  you  ;  but  to  have  these 
My  prisoners,  is,  in  my  true  judgment,  rather 
Captivity  than  a  triumph  :  you  shall  find 
Fair  quarter  from  me,  and  your  many  wounds, 
Which  I  hope  are  not  mortal,  with  such  care 
Look'cl  to  and  cured,  as  if  your  nearest  friend 
Attended  on  you. 

Bert.  When  you  know  me  better, 
You  will  make  void  this  promise  :  can  you  call  me 
Into  your  memory  ? 

Gonz.  The  brave  Bertoldo  ! 
A  brother  of  our  order  !   By  St.  John, 
Our  holy  patron,  1  am  more  amazed, 
Nay,  thunderstruck  with  thy  apostacy, 
And  precipice  from  the  most  solemn  vows 
Made  unto  heaven,  when  this,  the  glorious  badge 
Of  our  Redeemer,  was  conferr'd  upon  thee 
By  the  great  master,  than  if  I  had  seen 
A  reprobate  Jew,  an  atheist,  Turk,  or  Tartar, 
Baptized  in  our  religion  ! 

Bert.  This  I  look'd  for  ; 
And  am  resolved  to  suffer. 

Gonz.  Fellow-soldiers, 

Behold  this  man,  and,  taught  by  bis  example, 
Know  that  'tis  safer  far  to  play  with  lightining, 


Than  trifle  in  things  sacred.     In  my  rage      [Weepi 
1  shed  these  at  the  funeral  of  his  virtue, 
Faith,  and  religion  : — Why,  I  will  lell  you  ; 
He  was  a  gentleman  so  train'd  up  and  fashion 'd 
For  noble  uses,  and  his  youth  did  promise 
Such  certainties,  inure  than  hopes,  of  great  achieve- 
ments, 

As — if  the  Christian  world  had  stood  opposed 
Against  the  Othoman  race,  to  try  the  fortune 
Of  one  encounter,  this  Bertoldo  had  been, 
For  his  knowledge  to  direct,  and  matchless  couraye 
To  execute,  without  a  rival,  by 
The  votes  of  good  men,  chosen  general, 
As  the  prime  soldier,  and  most  deserving 
Of  all  that  wear  the  cross  ;  which  now,  injustice, 
I  thus  tear  from  him. 

Bert.  Lf-t  me  die  with  it 
Upon  my  breast. 

Gonz.  No  ;  by  this  thou  wert  sworn, 
On  all  occasions,  as  a  knight,  to  guard 
Weak  ladies  from  oppression,  and  never 
To  draw  thy  sword  against  them  ;  whereas  thou, 
In  hope  of  gain  or  glory,  when  a  princess, 
And  such  a  princess  as  Aureha  is, 
Was  dispossess'd  by  violence,  of  what  was 
Her  true  inheritance  ;  against  thine  oath 
Hast,  to  thy  uppermost,  labour'd  to  uphold 
Her  falling  enemy.     But  thou  shall  pay 
A  heavy  forfeiture,  and  learn  too  late, 
Valour  employ'd  in  an  ill  quarrel,  turns 
To  cowardice,  and  Virtue  then  puts  on 
Foul  Vice's  visor.     This  is  that  which  cancels 
All  friendship's  bands  between  us. — Bear  them  off; 
I  will  hear  no  reply:  and  let  theransome 
Of  these,  for  they  are  yours,  be  highly  rated. 
In  this  1  do  but  right,  and  let  it  be 
Styled  justice,  and  not  wilful  cruelty.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE!.— The  tame.     A  Camp  before  the    Walk  of 
Sienna. 

Enter  GONZAGA,  ASTVTIO,  RODERIGO,  and  JACOMO. 

Gtmi.  What  I  have  done,  sir,  by  the  law  of  arms 
I  can  and  will  make  good. 

Att.  I  have  no  commission 
To  expostulate  the  act.     These  letters  speak 
The  king  my  master's  love  to  you,  and  his 
Vow'd  service  to  the  duchess,  on  whose  person 
I  aui  to  give  attendance. 

Gang.  At  this  instant, 

She's  at  Fienza*  :  you  may  spare  the  trouble 
Of  riding  thither  ;  I  Lave  advertised  her 
Of  our  success,  and  on  what  humble  terms 
Sienna  stands  :  though  presently  I  can 
Possess  it,  I  defer  it,  that  she  may 


•  A'A«'*af  Fienia:]  So  the  old  copies.    The  modern  edi 
tor*  read  Pitnza. 


Enter  her  own,  and,  as  she  please,  dispose  of 
The  prisoners  and  the  spoil. 

Ast.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

In  the  mean  time,  if  I  may  have  your  license, 
1  have  a  nephew,  and  one  once  my  ward, 
For  whose  liberties  and  ransoms  1  would  gladly 
Make  composition. 

Goni.  They  are,  as  I  take  it, 
Call'd  Gasparo  and  Antonio. 

Ast.  The  same,  sir. 

Gonz.  For  them,  you  must  treat  with  these :  but, 

for  Bertoldo, 

He  is  mine  own :  if  the  king  will  ransome  him, 
He  pays  down  fifty  thousand  crowns ;  if  not 
He  lives  and  dies  my  slave. 

Ast.  Pray  you,  a  word  : 

The  king  will  rather  thank  you  to  detain  him, 
Than  give  one  crown  to  free  him. 

Gnnz.  At  his  pleasure. 

I'll  send  the  prisoners  under  guard  :  my  business 
Calls  me  auother  wav.  [Exit 


ST.ENE  I.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


Ast.  My  service  waits  you. 
Now,  gentlemen,  do  not  deal  like  merchants  with 

me, 

But  noble  captains  ;  you  know,  in  great  minds 
Posse  et  nolle,  nobile. 

Rod.  Pray  you,  speak 
Our  language. 

Jac.  I  6nd  not,  in  my  commission, 
An  officer's  bound  to  speak  or  understand 
Wore  than  his  mother-tongue. 

Hod.  If  he  speak  that 
After  midnight,  'tis  remarkable. 

Ast.  IP  plain  terms,  then, 
Antonio  is  your  prisoner ;  Gasparo,  yours. 

Jac.  You  are  in  the  right. 

Asi.  At  what  sum  do  you  rate 
Their  several  ransomes? 

Rod.  I  must  make  my  market 
As  the  commodity  cost  me. 

Ast.  As  it  cost  you  ! 

You  did  not  buy  your  captainship?  your  desert, 
I  hope,  advanced  you. 

Rod.  How!   It  well  appears 
You  are  no  soldier.     Desert  in  these  days ' 
Desert  mav  make  a  Serjeant  to  a  colonel, 
And  it  may  hinder  him  from  rising  higher; 
But,  if  it  evtr  get  a  company, 
A  company,  pray  you  mark  me,  without  money, 
Or  private  service  done  for  the  general's  mistress, 
With  a  commendatory  epistle  from  her, 
I  will  turn  lanceprezado*  ? 

Jac.  Pray  you  observe,  sir  : 
I  served 'two  prenticeships,  just  fourteen  years, 
Trailing  the  puissant  pike,  and  half  so  long 
Had  the  right-hand  file;  and  I  fought  well,  'twas 
said,  too:  [till  doomsday, 

But  1  might  have  served,  and  fought,  and  served 
And  ne'er  have  carried  a  flag,  but  for  the  legacy 
A  buck-some  widow  of  threescore  bequeath 'd  me  ; 
And  that  too,  my  back  knows,  I  labour'd  hard  for, 
But  was  better  paid. 

Ast.  You  are  merry  with  yourselves ; 
But  this  is  from  the  purpose. 

Rod.  To  the  point  then, 

Prisoners  are  not  ta'en  every  day;  and,  when 
We  have  them,  we  must  make  the  best  use  of  them. 
Our  pay  is  little  to  the  part  we  should  bear, 
And  that  so  long  a  coming,  that  'tis  spent 
Before  we  have  it,  and  hardly  wipes  oft'  scores 
At  the  tavern  and  the  ordinary. 

Jac.  You  may  add,  too, 
Our  sport  ta'en  up  on  trust. 

Rod.  Peace,  thou  smock-vermin  ! 
Discover  commanders'  secrets  ! — In  a  word,  sir, 
We  have  enquired,  and  find  our  prisoners  rich  : 
Two  thousand  crowns  a-piece  our  companies  cost  us ; 
And  so  much  each  of  us  will  have,  and  that 
In  present  pay. 

Jac.  It  is  too  little :  yet, 
Since  you  have  said  the  word,  I  am  content, 
But  will  not  go  a  gazet  lessf. 


*  /  will  turn  lanceprezado.]  "  The  lowest  range  and 
meanest  otticur  in  an  army  is  called  the  lance^csado  or  pre- 
zado,  who  is  the  leader  or  governor  of  half  a  file  ;  and 
therefore  is  commonly  called  a  middle  man,  or  captain  over 
lour." 

The  Soldier's  Accidence,  p.  1. 

+  But  will  not  go  a  gszet  less.]  A  yazet  (gasetta)  is  a 
Venetian  com,  worth  about  three-farthings  of  our  money. 


Att.  Since  you  are  not 
To  be  brought  lower,  there  is  no  evading ; 
I'll  be  your  paymaster. 

Rod.  We  desire  no  better. 

Ast.  But  not  a  word  of  what's  agreed  between  us, 
Till  I  have  school'd  my  gallants. 

Jac.  1  ain  dumb,  sir. 

Enter  a  Guard  with  BEtiroLoo,  ANTONIO,  and  GAS- 
PERO,  in  irons. 

Pert.  And  where  removed  now  ?    hath  the  tyiatit 
Worse  usage  for  us  ?  [found  out 

Ant.  Worse  it  cannot  be.  [kennel ; 

My  greyhound  has  fresh  straw,  and  scraps,  in  his 
But  we  have  neither. 

Gits.  Did  I  ever  think 

To  wear  such  garters  on  silk  stockings :  or 
That  my  too  curious  appetite,  that  turn'd 
At  the  sight  of  godwits,  pheasant,  partridge,  quails, 
Larks,  woodcocks,  calver'd  salmon*,  as  coarse  diet, 
Would  leap  at  a  mouldy  crust  ? 

Ant.  And  go  without  it, 
So  oft  as  I  do  ?  Oh  !  how  have  I  jeer'd 
The  city  entertainment !     A  huge  shoulder 
Of  glorious  fat  ram-muttou,  seconded 
With  a  pair  of  tame  cats  or  conies,  a  crab-tart, 
With  a  worthy  loin  of  veal,  and  valiant  capon 
Mortified  to  grow  tender! — these  1  sc.irn'd 
From   their   plentiful   horn   of  abundance,  though 

invited : 

But  now  1  could  carry  my  own  stool  to  a  tripe, 
And  call  their   chitterlings   charity,  and  bless  the 
founder. 

Bert.  O  i hat  I  were  no  further  sensible 
Of  my  miseries  than  you  are  !  you,  like  beasts, 
Feel  only  stings  of  hunger,  and  complain  not 
But  when  you're  empty  :   but  your  nairow  souls 
(If  you  have  any)  cannot  comprehend 
How  insupportable  the  torments  are, 
Which  a  free  and  noble  soul,  made  captive,  suffers. 
Most  miserable  men  !  and  what  am  I,  then, 
That  envy  you  ?  Fetters,  though  made  of  gold, 
Express  base  thraldom  ;  and  all  delicates 
Prepared  by  Median  cooks  for  epicures, 
When  not  our  own,  are  bitter;  quilts  fill'd  high 
\Viih  gossamere  and  roses  cannot  yield 
The  body  soft  repose,  the  mind  kept  waking 
With  anguish  and  affliction. 

Ast.  My  good  lord 

Bert.  This  is  no  time  nor  place  for  flattery,  sir  • 
Pray  you,  style  me  I  am,  a  wretch  forsaken 
Of  the  world  as  myself. 

The  petty  Italian  courant  (fosjio  d'avvi&i)  was  originally 
sold  for  tiiis  sum;  hence  it  derived  the  name,  \\liidi  is  now 
common  to  all  the  newspapers  of  Europe. 

• calver'd  salmon.]  For  calver'd 

sahnon,  Mr.  M.  Mason,  who  hart  not  yet  discovered  the 
necessity  "  of  reading  with  attention  the  dramatic  produc 
tions  or  the  lime;  gives  us  collar' d  salmon !  The  old  ex- 
pression, however,  is  not  uncommon:  iudeed  it  occuri 
again  in  the  follow  int;  pages  : 

"  great  lords  sometimes, 

For  change,  leave  calver'd  salmon,  and  eat  sprats." 
The  Guardian. 

"  My  footboy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calver'd  salmon, 
Knot,  godwits,  &c."  The  Alchemist. 

This  dish  was  not  out  of  request  in  Shadwell's  time  :  Tope 
(in  the  ficowrers)  says,  "  I  came  here  to  venture  for  a 
good  stomach  to  my  calver'd  salmon  and  turbot."  It  ap- 
pears to  have  differed  but  little  from  wh^t  is  novr  called 
pickled  salmon  ;  as  the  directions  for  preparing  it  are — "  to 
boil  it  in  vinegar  with  oil  and  tpictt." 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[Acr.  IIL 


Ait.  I  would  it  were 
1^  me  to  help  yon. 

Jiert.  If  that  you  want  power,  sir, 
Lip-comfort  cannot  cure  me.      Pray  you,  leave  me 
To  mine  own  private  thoughts.  [If'u//>s  bit. 

/•st.  My  valiant  nephew  !  [you, 

AnJ  my  more   than  warlike  ward  !   I  am  wind  to  see 
After  your  glorious  conquests.     Are  these  chains 
Rewards  fur  your  good  service?  if  they  are. 
You  should  wear  them  on  your  necks,  since  they  are 
Like  aldermen  of  the  war.  [massy, 

Ant    Y<'U  jeer  us  too! 

Gasp.  Good  uncle,   name  not,  as  you  are  a  man 

of  honour. 

That  fatal  word  of  war  ,  the  very  sound  of  it 
Is  more  dreadful  than  <i  cannon. 

Ant.   Hut  redeem  us 

From  this  captivity,  and  I'll  vow  hereafter 
Never  to  wear  a  sword,  or  cut.  my  meat  [first. 

With  a  knife  that  has  an  edge  or  point ;  I'll  starve 

Gasp.    I    will    cry     brooms,      or   cat's-meat,     in 

Palermo  ; 

Turn  porter,  carry  burthens,  any  thing, 
Rather  than  live  a  soldier. 

Att.  This  should  have  r.vou> 

Been  thought    upon  before.     At  what  price,  think 
Your  two  wise  heads  are  rated? 

Ant.  A  calf's  head  is  [in't 

More  worth  than  mine  ;  I'm  sure  it  has  more  brains 
Or  I  had  ne'er  come  here. 

Ktid.  And  I  will  eat  it 
With  bacon,  if  I  have  not  speedy  ransome.        [sir  : 

Ant.  And  a  little  garlic  too,  for  your  own  sake, 
'Twill  boil  in  your  stomach  else. 

Gasp,   llewiire  of  mine, 
Or  the  horns  may  clioak  you  ;  I  am  married,  sir. 

Ant,  \  ou  sliail  have  my  row  of  houses  near  the 
pakce. 

Gasp.  And  my  villa  ;  all 

Ant.  All  that  we  have. 

Ast.  Well,  have  more  wit  hereafter  :  for  this  time, 
You  are  ransomed. 

Jae    Off' with  their  irons. 

Rod.   Do,  do  : 
If  you  are  ours  again,  you  know  your  price. 

Anl.  Pray  you  dispatch  us:   1  shall  ne'er  believe 
I  am  a  free  man,  till  I  set  my  foot 
In  Sicily  again,  and  drink  Palermo, 
And  in  Palermo  too. 

Att.  The  wind  sits  fair, 

You  shall  aboard  to  night ;  with  the  rising  sun, 
You   may  touch   upon  the  coast.     But  take  your 
Of  the  late  general  first.  [leaves 

Cusp.  1  will  be  brief. 

Ant.  And  I.     My  lord,  heaven  keep  you  ! 

Gasp.  Yours,  to  use 
In  the  way  of  peace  ;  but  as  your  soldiers,  never. 

Ant.  A  pox  of  war  !  no  more  of  war. 

[L'reunt  Rod.  Jac.  Ant.  and  Gasp. 

Bert.  Have  you 

Authority  to  loose  their  bonds,  yet  leave 
The  brother  of  your  king,  whose  worth  disdains 
Comparison  with  such  as  these,  in  irons? 
If  ransome  may  redeem  them,  I  have  lands, 
A  patrimony  of  m>n«  own   assign'd  me 
By  my  deceased  sire,  to  satisfy 
Whate'er  can  be  demanded  for  my  freedom. 

Ait.   I  wi.sh  you  had,  sir  ;  but  the  king,  who  yields 
No  reason  for  his  will,  in  his  displeasure 


Hath  seized  on  all  you  had  ;  nor  will  Gcnzaga, 
Whose  pri>oner  now  you  are,  accept  of  less 
Tl'.nn  fiftv  thousand  crowns. 

ttrrt.  I  find  it  now. 

That  misery  never  comes  alone.     But,  grant 
The  king  i?-  yet  inexorable,  time 
Mav  work  him  to  a  fe-.-ling  of  my  sufferings. 
I  have  friends  that  swore  their  lives  and  fortunes 

were 

At  my  devotion,  find,  among  the  rest, 
Yourself,  mv  lord,  when  forfeited  to  the  law 
For  a  foul  murder  and  in  cold  blood  done, 
I  made  your  life  my  gift,  and  reconciled  you 
To  this  incensed  king,  and  got  your  pardon. 
—  Beware  ingratitude.     1  know  you  are  rich, 
And  may  pay  down  the  sum. 

A*t.  I  might,  my  lord. 
But  paviion  me. 

Bert.  And  will  Astufio  prove,  then, 
To  please  a  passionate  man  (the  king's  no  more), 
False  to  his  maker,  and  his  reason,  which 
Command*  more  than  1  ask?  O  summer- friendship, 
Whose  flattering  leaves,  that  shadow'd  us  in  our 
Prosperity,  with  tin-  least  gust  drop  off 
In  the  auiinun  of  adversity  !      How  like 
A  prison  is  to  a  grave  !   when  dead,  we  are 
With  solemn  pom))  brought,  thither,  and  our  heirs, 
Masking  their  joy  in  false,  dissembled  tears, 
Weep  o'er  the  hearse  ;  hut  earth  no  sooner  covers 
The  earth  brought  thither,  but  they  turn  away 
With  inward  smiles,  the  tiead  no  more  remember'd  ; 
So,  enter'd  in  a  prison 

Ast.  My  occasions 
Command  me  hence,  my  lord. 

Ben.  Pray  you,  leave  me,  do  ; 
And  tell  the  cruel  king,  that  I  will  wear 
These  fetters  tillnu  flesh  and  they  are  one 
Incorporated  substance.     [Eiit  Aaliiti".}    In  myself, 
As  in  a  gluss,  I'll  look  on  human  frailty, 
And  curse  the  height  of  royal  blood  :  since  I, 
In  being-  born  near  to  Jove,  am  near  his  thunder*. 
Cedars  once  shaken  with  a  storm,  their  own 
Weight  grubs  their  roots  out  — Lead  me  where  you 

please  ; 

I  am  his,  not  fortune's  martyr,  and  will  die 
The  great  example  of  his  cruelty.         [Exit  guarded. 


SCENE  II.— Palermo.     A  Grove  near  the  Palace. 
Enter  ADORNI. 

Ador.  He  undergoes  my  challenge,  and  contemns 

ir, 

And  threatens  me  with  the  late  edict  made 
'CJainst  duellists,  the  altar  rewards  fly  to. 
But  I,  that  am  engaged,  and  nourish  in  me 
A  higher  aim  than  fair  Camiola  dreams  of, 
Must  not  sit  down  thus.     In  the  court  I  dare  not 
Attempt  him  ;  and  in  public  he's  so  guarded 
With  a  herd  of  parasites,  clients,  fools,  and  suitors, 
That  a  musket  cannon  reach   him  :  —  mv  designs 
Admit  of  no  delay.     This  is  her  birthday, 
Which,  with  a  tit  and  due  solemnity, 
Camiola  celebrates  ;  and  on  it,  all  such 
As  love  or  serve  her  usually  present 

*  In  buhi'j,  burn  near  to  Jove,  am  war  his  thunder.] 
Tlopptii  AlOf,  KO.I  7-£  7T00OUI  KlptlVVS.  We  hav<! 
alivdily  ha. I  an  .illusiou  lu'  iliis  proverb,  i"  Tin-  Vir^iu 
M.iri)r,  Act.  I.  So.  1. 


SI:EXB  III.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


239 


A  tributary  duty.     I'll  have  something 

To  give,  if  my  intelligence  prove  true, 

Shull  find  acceptance.     I  am  tolrl,  near  this  grove 

Fulgentio.  every  morning,  makes  nis  markets 

With  his  petitioners  ;   1  may  present  him 

With  a  sharp  petition  ! Ha  !   'tis  he  :  my  fate 

Be  ever  bless'd  for't ! 

Enter  FULGF.NTIO  and  Page. 

Ful.  Command  such  as  wait  me 
Not  to  presume,  at  the  least  for  half  an  hour, 
To  press  on  my  retirements. 

I'ngf.  I  will  sav,  sir, 
You  are  at  your  prayers. 

Ful    That  will  not  find  belief; 
Courtiers  have  something  else  to  do  : — begone,  sir. 

[Exit  P.,ge. 

Challenged  !  'tis  well ;  and  by  a  groom  !  still  better. 
Was  this  shape  made  to  fight?   1  have  a  tongue  yet, 
Howe'er  no  sword,  to  kill  him  ;  and  what  way, 
This  morning  I'll  resolve  of.  [Eaif. 

Ador    1  shall  cross 
Your  resolution,  or  suffer  for  you. 

[EcU,  following  him. 


SCENE  ri.—The  same.     A  R«om  in  Camiola's 
House. 

Enter  CAMIOLA,  fnUmced  hi/  Servants  with  Presents; 
SYI.LI  and  CLARINDA. 

S'jl.  What  are  all  these  ? 

Cltir.  Servants  witli  several  presents, 
And  rich  ones  too. 

1  Serv.  With  her  best  wishes,  madam, 
Of  many  such  days  to  you,  the  lady  i'etula 
Presents  you  with  this  fan. 

t  Serv.   This  diamond 
From  your  aunt.  Honoria. 

3  $erv.    1  his  pi<rce  of  plate 
From  sour  uncle,  old  Vicentio,  with  your  arms 
Graven  upon  it. 

Cam.  Good  friends,  they  are  too 
Munificent  in  their  love  and  favour  to  me. 
Out  of  my  cabinet  return  such  jewels 
As    this   directs   you: — [To    Clarinda."]  —  for  your 

pains  ;  and  your's  ; 
Nor  must  you  be  forgotten.  [dies  them  money.] 

Honour  me 

Wi'h  the  drinking  of  a  health. 
1  Serv.  Gold,  on  my  life  ! 

#  Serv.  She  scorns  to  give  base  silver. 

3  Serv.  Would  she  had  been 
Born  every  month  in  the  year ! 

1  Serv.  Month  !  every  day. 

2  Sens.  Show  such  another  maid. 

3  .S"ry    All  happiness  wait  you  ! 
Clur.  I'll  see  your  will  done. 

[Ejeimt  Stflli,  Clarinda,  and  Servants. 

Enter  ADORNI  wounded. 
Cam.  How,  Adorni  wounded  ! 
Ador.  A    scratch  got  in   your  service,   else   not 

worth 

Your  observation  :  I  bring  not,  madam, 
In  honour  of  vour  birthday,  antique  plate, 
Or  pearl,  for  which  the  savage  Indian  dives 
Into  the  bottom  of  the  sea  ;  nor  diamonds 
Ilewu  from  steep  rocks  with  danger.     Such  as  give 


To   those  that  have,   what   they  themselves   want, 

aim  at 

A  glad  return  with  profit :  yet,  despise  not 
.My  offering  at  the  altar  of  your  favour; 
Nor  let  the  lowness  of  the  giver  lessen 
The  height  of  what's  presented  :  since  it  is 
A  precious  jewel,  almost  forfeited, 
And  dimm'd  with  clouds  of  infamy,  redeem'd. 
And,  in  its  natural  splendour,  with  addition 
Restored  to  tho  true  owner. 
Cam,  How  is  this  1 
Ador.  Not  to  hold  you  in  suspense,  I  bring  you, 

madam, 

Your  wounded  reputation  cured,  the  sting 
Of  virulent  malice,  festering  your  fair  name, 
Pluck 'd  out  and  trod  on.     That  proud  man,  that  was 
Denied  the  honour  of  your  bed,  yet  durst. 
With  his  untrue  reports,  strumpet  your  fame, 
Compell'd  by  me,  hath  given  himselfthe  lie. 
And  in  his  own  blood  wrote  it : — you  may  read 
Fulgentio  subscribed.  [Offering  a  paper. 

Cum.  1  am  amazed  ! 
Ada*-.  It   does    deserve    it,   madam.       Common 

service 

Is  fit  for  hinds  and  the  reward  proportion'd 
To  their  conditions  :  therefore,  look  not  on  me 
As  a  follower  of  your  father's  fortunes,  or 
One  that  subsists  on  yours  ; — you  frown !  my  service 
Merits  not  this  aspect 

Cam.  Which  ol  my  favours, 
I  might  say  bounties,  hath  begot  and  nourished 
This  more  than  rude  presumption  ?     Since  you  had 
An  itch  to  try  your  desperate  valour,  wherefore 
Went  you  not  to  the  war  ?  couldst  thou  suppose 
My  innocence  could  ever  fall  so  low- 
As  to  have  need  of  thy  rash  sword  to  guard  it 
Against  malicious  slander?     O  how  much 
Those  ladies  are  deceived  and  cheated,  when 
The  clearness  and  integrity  of  their  actions 
Do  not  defend  themselves,  and  stand  secure 
On  their  own  bases !     Such  as  in  a  colour 
Of  seeming  service  give  protection  to  them,       [out 
Betray  their  own  strengths.     Malice  scorn'd,  puts 
Itself;  but  argued,  gives  a  kind  of  credit 
To  a  false  accusation.     In  this,  this  your 
Most  memorable  service,  you  believed 
You  did  me  right ;   but  you  have  wrong'd  me  more 
In  your  defence  of  my  undoubted  honour. 
Than  false  Fulgentio  could. 

Ador.  I  am  sorry  what  was 
So  well  intended  is  so  ill  received  ; 

Re-enter  CI.AIUNDA. 

Yet,  under  your  correction,  you  wish'd 
Bertoldo  had  been  present. 

Cam.  True,  I  did  : 

But  he  and  you,  sir,  are  not  parallels, 
Nor  must  you  think  yourself  so. 

Ador.  I  am  what 
You'll  please  to  have  me. 

Cam.  If  Bertoldo  had 

Punish'd  Fulgentio's  insolence,  it  had  shown 
His  love  to  her  whom,  in  his  judgment,  he 
Vouchsafed  to  make  his  wife  ;  a  height,  1  hope. 
Which  you  dare  not  aspire  to.     The  same  actions 
Suit  not  all  men  alike  ; — but  I  perceive 
Repentance  in  your  looks.    For  this  time,  leave  me. 
I  may  forgive,  perhaps  forget,  your  folly : 
Conceal  yourself  till  this  storm  be  blown  over. 


S49 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[Acr  III. 


You  will  be  sought  for  ;  yet,  if  my  estate 

[Gives  him  her  hand  to  kiss. 
Can  hinder  it,  shall  not  sufi'er  in  my  service. 

Ador.  This  is  something  yet,  though  1  miss'd  the 
mark  I  shot  at.  [Eiit. 

Cam.  This  gentleman  is  of  a  noble  temper; 
And  I  too  harsh,  perhaps,  in  my  reproof: 
Was  I  not,  Clarinda? 

CLir.  I  am  not  10  censure 

Your  iictions,  madam  ;  hut  there  are  a  thousand 
Ladies,  and  of  good  fame,  in  such  a  cause 
Would  he  proud  of  such  a  servant. 

Caw.  It  may  be  ; 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Let  me  offend  in  this  kind.     Whv,  uncall'd  for? 

Sero.    I  he  signiors,  madam,  Gasparo  and  Antonio, 
Selected  friends  of  the  renowu'd  Bertoldo, 
Put  ashore  this  morning. 

C./m.   Wit  hour  him? 

i>erv.  I  think  so. 

Cam.  Never  tl>ink  more  then. 

Serv.  T  hey  have  heen  nt  court, 
Ki.ss'd  the  kino's  hand  ;  and,  their  first  duties  done 
To  him,  appear  ambitious  to  tender 
To  you  their  second  service. 

Com.   Wait  them  hither.  [Exit  Servant. 

Fear,  do  not  rack  me!   Reason,  now,  if  ever, 
Haste  with  thy  aids,  and  tell  me,  such  a  wonder 
As  my  Bertoldo  is,  with  such  care  fashi  ,n'd, 
Must  not,  nay,  cannot,  in  heaven's  providence, 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  GASPERO. 

So  soon  miscarry!  —  pray  you,  forbear;  ere  you  tale 
The  privilege,  as  strangers,  to  salute  me 
(Kxcusemy  manners),  make  me  first  understand 
How  it  is  wi'h  Bertoldo. 

Gasp.  The  relation 
Will  not,  I  tear,  deserve  your  thanks. 

Ant.  I  wish 
Some  other  should  inform  you. 

Com.  Ish.-d.ad? 
You  see,  though  with  some  fear,  I  dare  enquire  it. 

Gasp.  Dead  !  Would  that  were  the  worse,  a  debt 

were  paid  then, 
Kin^s  in  their  birth  owe  nature. 

Cam.  Is  there  au.uht 
More  terrible  than  death? 

Ant.  Yes,  to  a  spirit 
Like  his ;  cruel  imprisonment,  and  that 
Without  the  hope  of  freedom. 

C«m.  You  abuse  me*: 
The  royal  king  cannot,  in  love  to  virtue 
(Though  all  springs  of  affection  were  dried  up) 
But  pay  his  ransome. 

Gay.  \\  hen  you  know  what  'tis, 
You  will  think  otherwise  :  no  less  will  do  it 
Than  fifty  thousand  crowns. 

Cum.  A  petty  sumf,  [sand  , 

1  lie  price  weigh  d  with  the  purchase ;  fifty  thou- 
To  the  king  'tis  nothing.     He  that  can  spare  more 
To  his  minion  for  a  mask,  cannot  bui  ransome 
Such  a  hrother  at  a  million.     You  wrong 
The  king's  magnificence 

•  Cam.  You  abuse  me:]  i.e.  practise  on  my  credulity 
with  a  forg<-<)  tHf :  the  word  olten  occurs  in  this  sense.  ' 

t  A  petty  turn,]  The  old  copies  read  a  pretty  sum  •  and 
»ie  probably  ritjlil ;  pretty  is  often  used  in  ihe  si-use  of 
trifling,  incu'isidtrablt^istc.,  bj  our  annum  writers. 


Ant.  In  your  opinion; 
But  'tis  most  certain  :  he  does  not  alone 
In  himself  refuse  to  pay  it,  but  forbids 
All  other  men. 

Cam.  Are  you  sure  of  this? 

Gasp.   You  may  read 

The  edict  to  that  purpose,  published  by  him  j 
That  will  resolve  you. 

Cam.  Possible  !  pray  you,  stand  off; 
If  I  do  not  mutter  treason  to  myself, 
My  heart  will  break  ;  and  yet  1  will  not  curse  him  ; 
He  is  my  king.     The  news  you  have  deliver'd 
Makes  me  weary  of  your  company  ;  we'll  salute 
When  we  meet  next.     I'll   bring  you  to  the  door. 
Nay,  pray  you,  no  more  compliments. 

Gasp.  One  thing  more, 
And  that's  substantial :  let  your  Adorni 
Look  to  himself. 

Ant.  The  king  is  much  incensed 
Against  him  for  Fulgentio. 

Com.  As  I  am, 
For  your  slowness  to  depart. 

Both.  Farewell,  sweet  lady. 

[Exeunt  Gaspero  and  Antonio. 

Cam.  O    more   than   impious  times  !    when  not 

alone 

Subordinate  ministers  of  justice  are 
Corrupted  and  seduced,  but  kings  themselves, 
The  greater  wheels  by  which  the  lesser  move, 
Are  broken,  or  •  disjointed  !  could  it  be,  else, 
A  king,  to  soothe  his  politic  ends,  should  so  far 
Forsake  his  honour,  as  at  once  to  break 
The  adamant  chains  of  nature  and  religion, 
To  bind  upatheismf,  as  a  defence 
To  his  dark  counsel  ?   Will  it  ever  be, 
That  to  deserve  too  much  is  dangerous, 
And  virtue,  when  too  eminent,  a  crime? 
Must  she  serve  fortune  still,  or,  when  stripp'd  of 
Her  gay  and  glorious  favours,  lose  the  beauties 
Of  her  own  natural  shape?  O,  my  Bertoldo, 
Thou  only  sun  in  honour's  sphere,  how  soon 
Art  thou  eclipsed  and  darken 'd  !  not  the  nearness 
Of  blood  prevailing  on  the  king  ;  nor  all 
The  benefits  to  the  general  good  dispensed, 
Gaining  a  retribution  !   But  that 
I    To  owe  a  courtesy  to  a  simple  virgin 
Would  take  from  the$  deserving,  I  find  in  me 
Some  sparks  of'  fire,  which,  fann'd  with  honour's 

breath,  » 

Might  rise  into  a  flame,  and  in  men  darken 
Their  usurp 'd  splendour.     Ha  !  my  aim  is  high, 
And,  for  the  honour  of  my  sex,  to  fall  so, 
Can  never  prove  inglorious. — 'Tis  resolved  : 
Call  in  Adorni. 

Clar.  I  am  happy  in 
Such  an  employment,  madam.  [Exit. 

Cam.  He's  a  man, 


•  Are  broken,  or  disjointed !]    So  all  the  editors  till  Mr. 
M.   Mason,  who   chooses    to   read  — Are  broken    and   dis- 
jointed.    If  the   wheels    were    once    broken,    tile  state  of 
their  joints  was  a  matter  of  no  great  conquenre. 

*  'I'o  bind  up    atheism,]  Our  old   writers   seem  to  have 
used  such  Hoids  as  profantness,  blasphemy,   atheism,  &c. 
with    a    laxity   which   modern   practice  does  not  acknow- 
ledge.    They  applied   them   to  any  extraordinary  violation 
of  moral  or  natural  decorum. 

J  H'ould  take  from  the  deserving.]  The  modern  edi- 
tors read,  thy  deserving.  I  have  followed  the  quarto.  The 
observation  is  general,  not  limited  ti>  her  lovi-r.  I  need 
not  obseiveon  ihe  uncommon  beauty  of  this  spirited  tpeech 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


I  know,  that  at  a  reverent  distance  loves  me  ; 

And  such  are  ever  faithful.     What  a  sea 

Of  melting  ice  I  walk  on  !  what  strange  censures        [ 

Am  I  to  undergo !  but  good  intents 

Deride  all  future  rumours. 

lie-enter  CLARINDA  uith  ADORNI. 

Ador.  I  obey 
Your  summons,  madam. 

Cam.  Leave  the  place,  Clarirxla ; 
One  woman,  in  a  secret  of  such  weight, 
Wise  men   may  think   loo  much :  [£.rif  Clarinda.'] 

nearer,  Adorni, 
I  warrant  it  with  a  smile. 

Ador.  I  cannot  ask 
Safer  protection  ;  what's  your  will  ? 

Cam.  To  doubt 

Your  ready  desire  to  serve  me,  or  prepare  you 
With  the  repetition  of  former  merits, 
Would,  in  my  diffidence,  wrong  you  :  but  I  will, 
And  without  circumstance,  in  the  trust  that  1 
Impose  upon  you,  free  you  from  suspicion. 

Ador.  I  foster  none  of  you. 

Cam.  I  know  you  do  not. 
You  are,  Adorni,  by  the  love  you  owe  me 

Ador.  The  surest  conjuration. 

Cam.  Take  me  with  you*, — 
Love  born  of  duty ;  but  advance  no  further. 
You  are,  sir,  as  1  said,  to  do  me  service, 
To  undertake  a  task,  in  which  your  faith, 
Judgment,  discretion — in  a  word,  your  all 
That's  good,  must  be  engaged  ;  nor  must  you  study, 
In  the  execution,  but  what  may  make 
For  the  ends  I  aim  at. 

Ador.  They  admit  no  rivals.  [toldo's 

Cam.  You  answer  well.     You  have  heard  of  Ber- 
Captivity,  and  the  king's  neglect ;  the  greatness 


O.f"  his  ransome  •,  fifty  thousand  crowns,  Adorni ; 
Two  paits  of  rny  estate  ! 

/Ir/or.  To  what  tends  this? 

Cum.  Yet  1  so  love  (he  gentleman,  for  to  you 
I  will  confess  my  weakness,  that  1  purpose 
Now,  when  he  is  forsaken  by  the  king, 
And  his  own  hopes,  to  ransome  him.  and  receive  him 
Into  my  bosom,  as  my  lawful  husband — 
Why  change  you  colour? 

Ador.  'Tis  in  wonder  of 
Your  virtue,  madam. 

Cum.  Y'ou  must,  therefore,  to 
Sienna  for  me,  and  pay  to  Gonzaga 
This  ransome  for  his  liberty  ;  you  shall 
Have  bills  of  exchange  along  with   you.     Let  him 

swear 
A  solemn  contract  to  me,  for  you  must  be 

My  principal  witness   if  lie  should but  why 

Do  I  entertain  these  jealousies  ?   You  will  do  this? 

Ador.     Faithfully,    madam — but    not    live    long 
after.  [Aside. 

Cam.    One    thing     I    had    forgot :    besides   his 

freedom, 

He  may  want  accommodations  ;  furnish  him 
According  to  his  birth  :  and  from  Camiola 
Deliver  this  kiss,  printed  on  your  lips,     [A'i'sses  him. 
Seal'd  on  his  hand.     You  shall  not  see  my  blushes  : 
I'll  instantly  dispatch  you.  [£jiu 

Ador.  I  am  half 

Hang'd  out  o'  the  way  already. — Was  there  ever 
Poor  lover  so  employ 'd  against  himself 
To  make  way  for  his  rival  ?  I  must  do  it, 
Nay,  more,  1  will.     ]f  loyalty  can  find 
Recompense  beyond  hope  or  imagination, 
Let  it  fall  on  me  in  the  other  world, 
As  a  reward,  for  in  this  I  dare  not  hope  it.       [Exit. 


ACT  I :. 


SCENE    I.— The  Siennese.     A    Camp  before  the 

Walls  of  Sienna. 
Enter  GONZAGA,  PIERIO,  RODERIGO,  and  JACOMO. 

Gem:.  Y'ou  have  seized  upon  the  citadel,  and  dis- 

arm'd 
All  that  could  make  resistance? 

Pier.  Hunger  had 

Done  that,  before  we  came  ;  nor  was  the  soldier 
Compel  I'd  to  seek  for  prey  :  the  faniish'd  wretches, 
In  hope  of  mercy,  as  a  sacrifice  offer 'd 
All  that  was  worth  the  taking. 

Con:.  Y'ou  proclaim'd, 

On  pain  of  death,  no  violence  should  be  offer'd 
To  any  woman  ? 

Hod.  But  it  needed  not ; 

For  famine  had  so  humbled  them,  and  ta'en  off 
The  care  of  their  sex's  honour,  that  there  was  not 
So  coy  a  beauty  in  the  town,  but  would, 

•  Take  me  with  you.]    See  The  Great  Duke  of  Florence. 
— Act.  II.  Sc.  2. 


For  half  a  mouldy  biscuit,  sell  herself 

To  a  poor  bisognion*,  and  without  shrieking1. 

Gonz.  Where  is  the  duke  of  Urbin? 

Jac.  Under  guard, 
As  you  directed. 

Gonz.   See  the  soldiers  set 
In  rank  and  file,  and,  as  the  duchess  passes. 
Bid  them  vail  their  ensignsf  :  and  charge  them,  on 
Not  to  cry  Whores.  [their  lives, 

*  To  a  poor  bisognion,]  Bitogni,  in   Italian,  signifies    a 
recruit.     M.  MASON. 

Mr.  M.  Mason's  Italian  is  nearly  as  correct  as  his  Eng- 
lish. Bisoyno  is  sometimes,  ii.dved,  used  for  a  soMier  in 
his  first  campaign  (a  tyro,)  but  for  a  recruit,  in  our  sense 
ol  the  word,  I  believe  never.  A  bisoynion  (from  bitoy- 
iMso,)  is  a  necessitous  person,  a  beggar,  &c.  lu  our  old 
writ-  rs  it  frequently  occurs  as  a  term  of  contempt. 

*  Bid  them    vail    their  m'siyna ;  ]  i.e.    lower    them,  in 
token  of  superior  authority  : 

"  Ni>w  the  time  is  cuine 

That  France  must  vail  her  lofty-plumed  crest, 
And  let  her  head  fall  into  England's  lap." 

"  firtt  Part  of  Kiny  Henry  VI 


24* 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[AcrlV 


Jac.  The  devil  cannot  fright  them 
From  their  military  license.     Though  they  know 
They  are  her  subjects,  and  will  part  with  being 
To  do  her  service  ;  yet,  since  she's  a  woman, 
They  will  touch  at  her  breevh  with  their  tongues; 

and  that  is  all 
That  they  can  hope  for. 

[A  shout,  and  a  general  cry  within,  Whores  ! 

whorts ! 

Gonz.  O  the  devil !  they  are  at  it. 
Hell  stop  their  brawling  throats.     Again  !  make  up, 
And  cudgel  them  into  jelly. 

Pod.  To  no  purpose, 

Though  their  mothers  were  there,  they  wonld  have 
the  same  name  for  them.  [  J.'.uwif. 


SCENE  II. — The  same.    Another  Part  (f  the  Camp. 

Loud  Music.  Enter  RODERIGO,  JACOMO,  PIF.RIO, 
GONZAGA,  and  AURELIA  under  a  Canopy.  ASTUTIO 
presents  her  with  letters. 

Gonz.  I  do  beseech  your  highness  not  to  ascribe 
To  the  want  of  discipline  the  barbarous  rudeness 
Of  the  soldier,  in  his  profanation  of 
Your  sacred  name  and  virtues. 

Auret.  No,  lord  general ; 
I've  heard  my  father  say  oft,  'twas  a  custom 
Usual  in  the  camp ;  nor  are  they  to  be  punish 'd 
For  words,  that  have,  in  fact,  deserved  so  well : 
Let  the  one  excuse  the  other. 

All.  Excellent  princess  !  [us, 

Aurel    But  for  these  aids  from  Sicily  sent  against 
To  blast  our  spring  of  conquest  in  the  bud  ; 
I  cannot  find,  my  lord  ambassador, 
How  we  should  entertain't  but  as  a  wrong, 
A\  ith  purpose  to  detain  us  from  our  own, 
However  the  king  endeavours,  in  his  letters, 
To  mitigate  the  affront. 

Att.   Your  grace  hereafter 
May  hear  from  me  such  strong  assurances 
Ot  his  unlimited  desires  to  swerve  you, 
As  will,  I  hope,  drown  in  forgetfulness 
The  memory  of  what's  past. 

Auret.  We  shall  take  time 
To  search  the  depth  oft  further,  and  proceed 
As  our  council  slmll  direct  us. 

Gnnz.    We  present  you 

With  the  keys  of  the  city,  all  lets  are  removed  ; 
Your  way  is  smooth  and  easy  ;  at  your  feet 
Your  proudest  enemy  falls. 

Aurel,   We  thank  your  valours  : 
A  victory  without  blood  is  twice  achieved, 
And  the  disposure  of  it,  to  us  tender'd, 
The  greatest  honour.     Worthy  captains,  thanks! 
My  love  extends  itself  to  all. 

Gonz.  Make  way  there. 

[A  Guard  drown  up;   Aurelia  passes  through 
them.     Loud  music.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Sienna.     A  Boom  in  the  Prison. 
BEBTOI.DO  if  discovered  in  fetters,  reading. 

Btrt.  Tis  here  determined  (great  examples  arm'd 
With  arguments,  produced  to  make  it  good), 
That  neither  tvrants,  nor  the  wrested  laws, 
TLe  people's  frantic  rage,  sad  exile,  want, 


Nor  that  which  I  endure,  captivity, 

Can  do  a  wise  man  any  injury. 

Thus  Seneca,  when  he  wrore  it,  thought. — But  then 

Felicity  courted  him  ;  his  wealth  exceeding 

A  private  mini's  ;  happy  in  the  embraces 

Of  his  chaste  wife  Paulina  ;  his  house  full 

Of  children,  clients,  servants,  Hartering  friends, 

Soothing  his  lip-positions  ;  and  created 

Prince  of  the  senate,  by  the  general  voice, 

At  his  new  pupil's  suffrage:   then,  no  doubt, 

He  held,  and  did  believe,  this,     liut  no  sooner 

The  prince's  frowns  und  jealousies  had  thrown  him 

Out  of  security's  lap,  and  a  centurion 

Had  offer'd  him  what  choice  of  death  he  pleased, 

But   told   him,   die  lie   must ;    when    .-.-trai^ht   the 

armour 
Of  his  so  boasted  fortitude  fell  off, 

[Throws  away  the  book. 
Complaining  of  hi*  frailty.      Can  it  then 
Be  censured  womanish  weakness  in  me,  if, 
Thus  clogg'd  with  irons,  and  ihe  period 
To  close  up  all  calamities  denied  me, 
Which  was  presented  Seneca.  1  wish 
I  ne'er  had  being  ;  at  least,  never  knew  [tice 

What  happiness  was:  or  argue  with  heaven's  jua- 
Tearing  my  locks,  and,  in  defiance,  throwing 
Dust  in  the  air  :  or,  falling  on  the  ground,  thus 
With  my  nails  and  teeth  to  dig  a  g.ave  or  rend 
The  bowels  of  the  earth,  my  step-mother. 
And  not  a  natural  parent?  or  thus  practise 
To  die,  and,  as  1  we're  insensible, 
Believe  1  had  no  motion  ?  [Fa Us  an  hisfaei 

Enter  GONZAGA,  ADORNI,  and  Gaoler. 

Gonz.  There  he  is  : 

I'll  not  enquire  by  whom  his  ransome's  paid, 
I'm  satisfied  that  I  have  it ;  nor  allege 
One  leason  to  excuse  his  truel  usage, 
As  you  may  interpret  it ;  let  it  suffice 
It  was  my  will  to  have  it  so.     lie  is  yours  now. 
Dispose  of  him  us  you  please.  [t'n'J. 

Ador.   Jlowe'er  1  hate  him, 
As  one  preferr'd  before  me,  being  a  man, 
He  does  deserve  my  pity.     Sir ! — he  sleeps  : — 
Or  is  he  dead  ?  would  he  were  :i  saint  in  lit aven  ! 
'Tis  all  the  hurt  I  wish  him.     Bui,  1  was  not 
Born  to  such  happiness — [Kneels  by  him.] — no,  he 

breathes — come  near, 
And,  if  t  be  possible,  without  his  feeling, 
Take  off  his  irons. — [His  irons  taken  ojf.] — So;  now 

leave  us  private.  [Da it  Gaolsr. 

He  does  begin  to  stir ;  and,  as  transported 
With  a  joyful  dream,  how  he  stares !  and  feels  his 

legs, 

As  jet  uncertain  whether  it  can  be 
True  or  fantastical. 

Bert,  [rising.]  Ministers  of  mercy, 
Mock  not  calamity.     Ha !  'tis  no  vision  ! 
Or,  if  it  be,  the  happiest  that  ever 
Appear'd  to  sinful  flesh!     Who's  here?  his  face 
Speaks  him  Auorui ; — but  some  glorious  angel. 
Concealing  its  divinity  in  his  shape, 
Hath  done  this  miracle,  it  being  not  an  act 
For  wolfish  man.     Resolve  me,  it  thou  look'st  fof 
Bent  knees  in  adoration  ? 

Ador.  O  forbear,  sir  ! 
I  am  Adorni,  and  the  instrument 
Of  your  deliverance;  but  the  benefit 
You  owe  auoiher. 


SCENE  IV.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


943 


Bert.  If  he  has  a  name, 
As  soon  as  spoken,  'tis  writ  on  my  heart 
1  am  his  bondman. 

Ador.  To  tne  shame  of  men, 
This  great  act  is  a  woman's. 

Bert.  The  whole  sex 

For  her  sake  must  be  deified.     How  I  wander 
In  my  imagination,  yet  cannot 
Guess  who  this  phoenix  should  be  ! 

Ador.  'Us  Camiola. 

Bert.  Pray  you,  speak't  again  :  there  s  music  in 

her  name. 
Once  more,  I  pray  you,  sir. 

Ador.  Camiola, 
The  MAID  or  HONOUR. 

Bert.  Curs'd  atheist  that  I  was. 
Only  to  doubt  it  could  be  any  other ; 
Since  she  alone,  in  the  abstract  of  herself, 
That  small,  but  ravishing  substance,  comprehends 
Whatever  is,  or  can  be  wi>h'd,  in  the 
Idea  of  a  woman!   Owhat  service, 
Or  sacrifice  of  duty   can  1  pay  her, 
If  not  to  live  and  die  her  charity's  slave, 
Which  is  resolved  already  ! 

Ador.  She  expects  not 
Such  :i  dominion  o'er  you  :  yet,  ere  I 
Deliver  her  demands,  give  me  your  hand  : 
On  this,  as  she  enjoin'd  me,  with  my  lips 
I  print  her  love  and  service, -by  me  sent  you. 

Bert.  1  am  overwhelmed  with  wonder  ! 

Ador,  You  must  now, 
Which  is  the  sum  of  all  that  she  desires, 
By  a  solemn  contract  bind  yourself,  wh-  n  she 
Requires  it,  as  a  debt  due  for  your  freedom, 
To  marry  her. 

Bert.  This  does  engage  me  further; 
A  payment!  an  increase  of  obligation. 
'1  o  marry  her  i — 'twas  my  ml  ultra  ever  : 
The  end  of  my  ambition.     O  that  now 
The  holy  man,  she  present,  were  prepared 
To  join  our  hands,  but  with  that  speed  my  heart 
Wishes  mine  e\  PS  might  see  her  ! 

Ador.   You  must  swenr  this.  [tions, 

Btrt.    Swear  it!   Collect  all   oaths   and   impreca- 
Whose  least  breach  is  damnation,  and  those 
Minister'd  to  me  in  a  form  more  dreadful  ; 
Set  heaven  an;l  hell  before  me,  I  will  take  them: 
False  to  Camiola  !  never. — Shall  I  now 
Begin  my  vows  to  you  ! 

Ador.   I  am  no  churchman  ; 
Such  a  one  must  Ire  it  on  record  :  you  are  free  ; 
And,  that  you  may  appear  like  to  yourself          [may 
C  For  so  she  wi.-,h'd),  here's   gold,  with  which   you 
Redeem  your  trunks  and  servants,  and  whatever 
Of  late  you  lost.     1  have  found  out  the  captain 
\\  hose  spoil  they  were  j  his  name  is  Roderigo. 

Bert.   1  know  him. 

Adur.  1  have  done  my  parts*. 

Bert.  So  much,  sir. 
As  1  am  ever  yours  for't.     Now,  methinks, 

I  walk  in  air  !      Divine  Camiola 

But  words  cannot  express  thee  :    I'll  build  to  thee 

An  altar  in  my  soul,  on  which  I'll  ofter 

A  still-increasing  sacrifice  of  duty.  [E.v?f. 

Ador,   What  will  become  of  me  now  is  apparent, 
W  hether  a  poniard  or  a  halter  be 

•*  Ador.  /  have  done  my  parts.]  There  is  no  expression 
more  l.nmlMr  to  our  old  »riu-r.«  th-in  ibis:  yet  MaMBfer'l 
editors,  in  liit-ir  bliml  r.eje  i»r  reformation,  pt.Tptlu.aly  cor- 
*uul  it  iulu — /  hate  done  my  part. 


The  nearest  way  to  hell  (for  I  must  thither, 

After  I've  kill'd  myself),  is  somewhat  doubtful. 

I  his  Roman  resolution  of  self-murder 

Will  not  hold  water  at  the  high  tribunal, 

\\  lien  it  comes  to  be  argued  ;  my  good  genius 

Pro. imts  me  to  this  consideration.      He 

That  kills  himself  to  avoid  misery,  fears  if, 

And,  at  the  best,  shews  but  a  baMard  valour. 

I'iiis  life's  a  fort  committed  to  mv  trust. 

Which  1  must  not  yield  up  till  it  he  forced  : 

N<  r  wi'l  1.     He's  not  valiant  that  dares  die, 

But  he  that  boldly  bears  calamity .  [Ea(f. 


SCENE    IV. —  The  snrne.       A  Stute-ro<>m  in  tht 
I'aL,ce. 

A    Flourish.      Enter     PIEHIO,    ROCKRIGO,    JAC»M<>, 

G<»/AGA,       AuilKLIA,       rEHDINAND,    AsiVHO,    and 

Attendants. 

Anrel.  A  seat  here  for  the  duke.     Tt  is  our  glory 
To  overcome  with  courtesies,  n^it  riyour  ; 
The  lordly  Roman,  who  held  it  the  height 
Of  human  happiness  to  have  Lin^s  »nd  queens 
'Jo  wait  by  his  triumphant  chariot-wheels, 
In  his  insulting  pride  deprived  himself 
Of  drawing  near  the  nature  of  the  goiis, 
Best  known  for  such,  in  being  merciful. 
Yet,  give  me  leave,  but  still  wiih  gentle  language, 
And  with  the  freedom  of  a  friend,  to  lell  you, 
To  seek  by  force,  what  courtship  could  not  win, 
Was  harsh,  and  never  taught  in  Love's  miid  school. 
Wise  poets  feign  thai  Venus'  coach  is  drawn 
By  doves  and  .sparrows,  not  by  bears  and  timers. 
I  spare  the  application*. 

f'er.   In  my  fortune 

Heaven's  justice  hath  confirm 'd  it:  yet, -.Teat  lady, 
Since  my  oft'ence  grew  from  excess  ot  love, 
And  not  to  he  resisted,  bavins  paid,  too, 
U  ith  loss  of  liberty,  the  forfeiture 
Of  my  presumption,  in  your  clemency 
It  may  find  pardon. 

Aurel.  You  shall  have  just  cause 
To  say  it  hath.     The  charge  of  the  Ion?  siege 
Defray 'd,  and  the  loss  my  subjects  have  susiain'd 
Made  good,  since  so  far  1  must  deal  with  caution, 
Yt;u  have  your  libeity. 

Per.  I  could  not  hope  for 
Gentler  conditions. 

Aurel.  My  lord  Gonznga, 

Since  my  coming  to  Sienna,  I've  heard  much  of 
Your  prisoner,  brave  Bertoldo. 

on-.  Such  an  one, 
Ma'tam,  I  had. 

Att.  And  have  still,  sir,  I  hope. 

Gonz.  Your  hopes  deceive  you.     He  is  ransomed, 
madam. 

Ast.  By  \vhom,  I  pray  you,  sir? 

Gons.   You  had  best  enquire 
Of  your  intelligencer:  1  am  no  informer. 

A.-t.    I  like  not  this. 

Aurel.  He  is,  as  'tis  reported, 
A  goodly  gentleman,  and  ot  noble  parts  ; 
A  brother  of  your  order. 

•  1  spare  the  application  ]  COXI-IT  and  Mr.  M.  Mason 
give  thi-  hemistich  In  FVidin  -nd,  and  «i  united  does  my 
qnirto:  all  ihe  others  which  I  havt  eauiniued  make  * 
conclude  Aurelia's  speech,  to  which  it  evident!}  bttougt. 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


f  ACT  IV 


Gonz.  He  was,  madam, 

Till  lie,  against  his  oath,  wrong'd  you,  a  princess, 
Which  his  religion  bound'him  from. 

Aurel.  Grf-at  minds, 
For  trial  of  their  valours,  oft  maintain 
Quarrels  that  are  unjust,  yet  without  malice; 
And  such  a  fair  construction  I  make  of  him : 
I  would  see  that  brave  enemy. 

Gonz.  My  duty 
Commands  me  to  seek  for  him. 

Aurel.   Pray  you  do  ; 
And  bring  him  to  oar  presence.          [Exit  Gonzaga. 

Ast.  I  must  blast 

His  entertainment.     May  it  please  your  excellency, 
He  is  a  man  debauch'd,  and  for  his  riots, 
Cast  off  by  the  king  my  master  ;  and  that,  I  hope,  is 
A  crime  sufficient. 

Per.  To  you,  his  subjects, 
That  like  as  your  king  likes. 

Aurel.  But  not  to  us; 
We  must  weigh  with  our  own  scale. 

Re-enter  GONZAGA,  with  BERTOLDO  richly  habited,  and 
ADOKM. 

This  is  he,  sure. 

How  soon  mine  eye  had  found  him  !  what  a  port 
He  hears  !  how  well  his  bravery  becomes  him  ! 
A  prisoner  !  nay,  a  princely  suitor,  rather! 
But  I'm  too  sudden.  [Aside. 

Gonz.  Madam,  'twas  his  suit, 
Unsent  for  to  present  his  service  to  you, 
Ere  his  departure. 

Aurel.  With  what  majesty- 
He  bears  himself ! 

Ast.  The  devil,  I  think,  supplies  him. 
Ransomed,  and  thus  rich  too  ! 

Aurel.  You  ill  deserve 

[Bertnldo  kneeling,  kisses  her  hand. 

The  favour  of  our  hand we  are  not  well, 

Give  us  more  air.  [Rises  suddenly. 

Gonz.  What  sudden  qualm  is  this '} 

Aurel.  — That  lifted  yours  against  me. 

Bert.  Thus,  once  more, 
I  sue  for  pardon. 

Aurel.  Sure  his  iips  are  poison'd, 
And  through  these  veins  force  passage  to  my  heart, 
Which  is  already  seized  on.  [Aside. 

Btrt.  I  wait,  madam, 

To  know  what  your  commands  are  ;  my  designs 
Exact  me  in  another  place. 

Aurel.  Before 

You  have  our  license  to  depart !     If  manners, 
Civility  of  manners,  cannot  teach  you 
To  attend  our  leisure,  I  must  tell  you,  sir, 
That  you  are  still  our  prisoner ;  nor  had  you 
Commission  to  free  him. 

Gonz.  How's  this,  madam? 

Aurel.  You  were  my  substitute,  and  wanted  power 
Without  my  warrant,  to  dispose  of  him  : 
I  will  pay  back  his  ransome  ten  times  over, 
Rather  than  quit  my  interest. 

Bert.  This  is 
Against  the  law  of  arms. 

Aurel.  But  not  of  love.  [Aside. 

Why,  hath  your  entertainment,  sir,  been  such, 
In  your  restraint,  that,  with  the  wings  of  fear, 
You  would  fly  from  it  ? 

Bert    I  know  no  man,  madam, 
Cnamour'd  of  his  fetters,  or  delighting 
In  cold  or  hunger,  or  that  would  in  reason 


I    Prefer  straw  in  a  dungeon,  before 
A  down-bed  in  a  palace. 

Aurel.  How  ! — Come  nearer  : 
Was  his  usage  such  ? 

Gont.  Yes  ;  and  it  had  been  worse, 
Had  I  foreseen  this. 

Aurel.  ()  thou  mis-shaped  monster  ! 
In  thee  it  is  confirm'd,  that  such  as  have 
No  share  in  nature's  bounties,  know  no  pity 
To  such  as  have  them.     Look  on  him  with  my  eyes, 
And  answer,  then,  whether  ihis  were  a  man 
Whose  cheeks  of  lovely  fulness  should  be  made 
A  prey  to  meagre  famine?  or  these  eyes, 
Whose  every  glance  store  Cupid's  emptied  quiver, 
To  be  dimm'd  with  tedious  watching  ?  or  these  lips, 
These  ruddy  iips,  of  whose  fresh  colour  cherries 
And  roses  were  but  copies,  should  grow  pale 
For  want  of  nectar  ?  or  these  legs,  that  bear 
A  burthen  of  more  worth  than  is  supported 
By  Atlas'  wearied  shoulders,  should  be  cramp'd 
With  the  weight  of  iron  1     O,  I  could  dwell  ever 
On  this  description  ! 

Bert.  Is  this  in  derision, 
Or  pity  of  me  ? 

Aurel.  In  your  charity 

Believe  me  innocent.     Now  you  are  my  prisoner. 
You  shall  have  fairer  quarter  ;  you  w-ill  shame 
The  place  where  you  have  been,   should  you  now 

leave  it, 

Before  you  are  recover'd.     I'll  conduct  you 
To  more  convenient  lodgings,  and  it  shall  be 
My  care  to  cherish  you.     Repine  who  dare  ; 
It  is  our  will.     You'll  follow  me? 

Bert.  To  the  centre, 
Such  a  Sybilla  guiding  me. 

[Exeunt  Aurelia,  Bertoldo,  and  Attendants 

Gonz.  Who  speaks  first  ? 

Per.  We  stai.d  as  we  had  seen  Medusa's  head. 

Pier.  I  know  not  what  to  think,  I  am  so  amazed. 

Rod.  Amazed  !     I  am  thunderstruck. 

Jac.  We  are  enchanted 
And  this  is  some  illusion. 

Ador.   Heaven  forbid ! 
In  dark  despair  it  shows  a  beam  of  hope  : 
Contain  thy  joy,  Adorni. 

Ast.     Such  a  princess, 
And  of  so  long-experienced  reserv'dness, 
Break  forth,  and  on  the  sudden,  into  flashes 
Of  more  than  doubted  looseness  ! 

Gonz.  They  con.d  again, 

Smiling,  as  I  live  '  his  arm  circling  her  waist. 
I  shall  run  mad  : — Some  Jury  hath  possess'd  her. 
If  I  speak,  1  may  be  blasted.     Ha!  I'll  mumble 
A  prayer  or  two,  and  cross  myself,  and  then, 
Though  the  devil  f —  fire,  have  at  him. 

lie-enter  BERTOLDO  and  AUHELIA. 

Aurel.  Let  not,  sir, 

The  violence  of  my  passion  nourish  in  you 
An  ill-opinion  ;  or,  grant  my  carriage 
Out  of  the  road  and  garb  ot  private  women, 
'Tis  still  done  with  decorum.     As  1  am 
A  princess,  what  1  do  is  above  censure, 
And  to  be  imitated. 

Bert.  Gracious  madam, 
Vouchsafe  a  little  pause  ;  for  I  am  so  rapt 
Beyond  myself,  that,  till  1  have  collected 
My  scatter'd  faculties,  1  cannot  tender 
My  resolution. 


SCENE  V-] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


•45 


AureL  Consider  of  it, 
I  will  not  be  long  from  you. 

[Bertoldo  walks  by,  musing. 

Gonz.   Pray  I  cannot, 

This  cursed  object  struggles  my  devotion  : 
1  must  speak,  or  I  burst.     Pray  you,  lair  lady, 
If  you  can,  in  courtesy  direct  me  to 
The  chaste  Aurelia. 

Aurel.  Are  you  blind  ?  who  are  we? 

Gonz.  Another   kind  of  thing.     Her  blood  was 

govern'd 

By  her  discretion,  and  not  ruled  her  reason : 
The  reverence  and  majesty  of  Juno 
Shined  in  her  looks,  and,  coining  to  the  camp, 
Appear'd  a  second  Pallas.     1  can  see 
.No  such  divinities  in  you  :  if  I, 
Without  offence,  may  speak  my  thoughts,  you  are, 
As  'twere,  a  wanton  Helen. 

Autel.  Good  ;  ere  long 
You  shall  know  me  better. 

Giws.  Why,  if  you  are  Aurelia, 
How  shall  I  dispose  of  the  soldier  ? 

Ast.   Way  it  please  you 
To  hasten  my  dispatch  .' 

AureL  Prefer  your  suits 
Unto  Bertoldo ;  we  will  give  him  hearing, 
And  you'll  find  him  your  best  advocate.  [Exit. 

Ait.  This  is  rare  ! 

Gonz.  What  are  we  come  to  ? 

Rod.  Grown  up  in  a  moment 
A  favourite ! 

Ferd.  He  does  take  state  already. 

Bert.  No,  no  ;  it  cannot  be  : — yet,  but  Camiola, 
There  is  no  stop  between  me  and  a  crown. 
Then  my  ingratitude !  a  sin  in  which 
All  sins  are  comprehended  !  Aid  me,  virtue, 
Or  I  am  lost. 

Com.  May  it  please  your  excellence — 
Second  me,  sir. 

Bert.  Then  my  so  horrid  oaths, 
And  hell-deep  imprecations  made  against  it ! 

Ast.  The  king,  your  brother,  will  thank  you  for 

the  advancement 
Of  his  affairs. 

Bert.  And  yet  who  can  hold  out 
Against  such  batteries  as  her  power  and  greatness 
Raise  up  against  my  weak  defences  ! 

Gonz.  Sir, 

Re-enter  AUKELIA. 

Do  you  dream  waking  ?     'Slight,  she's  here  again  ! 
Walks  she  on  woollen  feet*! 

Aurel.  You  dwell  too  long 
In  your  deliberation,  and  come 
With  a  cripple's  pace  to  that  which  you  should  fly  to. 

Bert.  It  is  confess'd :  yet  why  should  I,  to  win 
From  you,  that  hazard  all  to  my  poor  nothing, 
By  false  play  send  you  off  a  loser  from  me  ? 
I  am  already  too,  too  much  engaged 
To  the  king  my  brother's  anger  ;  and  who  knows 
But  that  his  doubts  and  politic  fears,  should  you 
Make  me  his  equal,  may  draw  war  upon 
Your  territories  :     Were  that  breach  made  up, 
I  should  wiih  joy  embrace  what  now  I  fear 
To  touch  but  with  due  reverence. 


•  Hrallu  *he  on  woollen  feet!}  These  words  are  cer- 
tainly part  of  Gonzagl'l  sprech,  who  is  surprised  at  the 
sudden  return  of  AnrvlU ;  they  would  come  strangely  from 
Berioldo,  in  tlie  midst  of  his  meditations.  M.  MASON. 

I  h.ivc  adopted  Mr.  M.  Mason's  amendment.  The  old 
*°P*  *.vcs  t!ii=  hemistich  to  Bertoldo. 

19 


Aurel.  That  hindcrance 
Is  easily  removed.     I  owe  the  king 
For  a  royal  visit,  which  I  straight  will  pay  him ; 
And  having  first  reconciled  you  to  his  favour, 
A  dispensation  shall  meet  with  us. 

Bert.  I  am  wholly  yours. 

Aurel.  On  this  book  seal  it.  [gain's  sure. 

Gonz.    What,  hand  and    lip  too  !  then  the  bar- 
You  have  no  employment  for  me  1 

AureL  Yes,  Gonzaga, 
Provide  a  royal  ship. 

Gonz.  A  ship  !  St.  John ; 
Whither  are  we  bound  now? 

Aurel.  You  shall  know  hereafter. 
My  lord,  your  pardon,  for  my  too  much  trenching 
Upon  your  patience. 

Ador.   Camiola.  \_A*ide  to  Bertoldo. 

AureL  How  do  you  do? 

Bert.  Indisposed  ;  but  I  attend  you. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Adorni 

Ador.  The  heavy  curse  that  waits  on  perjury, 
And  foul  ingratitude,  pursue  thee  ever! 
Yet  why  from  me  this  ?  in  his  breach  of  faith 
My  loyalty  finds  reward  :  what  poisons  him, 
Proves  raithridate  to  me.     I  have  perform 'd 
All  she  commanded,  punctually  :  and  now, 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  my  truth,  she  may 
Behold  his  falsehood.     O  that  I  had  wings 
To  bear  me  to  Palermo !     This  once  known, 
Must  change  her  love  into  a  just  disdain, 
And  work  her  to  compassion  of  my  pain.          [Exit 

SCENE  V. — PALERMO.  A  Room  in  CAMIOLA'S  House. 

Enter   SVLLI,    CAMIOLA,   and  CLAHINDA,   at  several 

door$. 

Syl.  Undone!  undone!  poor  I,  that  whilome  was 
The  top  and  ridge  of  my  house,  am,  in  the  sudden, 
Turn'd  to  the  pitifullest  animal 
O'  the  lineage  of  the  Syllis  ! 

Cam.    What's  the  matter? 

Si//.  The  king — break  girdle,  break  ! 

Cam.   Why,  what  of  him? 

Syl.  Hearing  how  far  you  doated  on  my  person, 
Growing  envious  of  my  happiness,  and  knowing 
His  brother,  nor  his  favourite,  Fulgetitio, 
Could  get  a  sheep's  eye  from  you,  1  being  present, 
Is  come  himself  a  suitor,  with  the  awl 
Of  his  authority  to  bore  my  nose, 
And  take  you  from  me — Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Cain.  Do  not  roar  so  : 
The  king ! 

Syl.  The  king.  Yet  loving  Sylli  is  not 
So  sorry  for  his  own,  as  your  misfortune; 
If  the  king  should  carry  you,  or  you  bear  him, 
What  a  loser  should  you  be  !     lie  can  but  make  you 
A  queen,  and  what  a  simple  thing  is  that, 
To  the  being  my  lawful  spouse  !  the  world  can  never 
Afford  you  such  a  husband. 

Cam.  I  believe  you. 

But  how  are  you  sure  the  king  is  so  inclined  ? 
Did  not  you  dream  this  ? 

Syl.  With  these  eyes  I  saw  him 
Dismiss  his  train,  and  lighting  from  his  coach, 
Whispering  Fulgentio  in  the  ear. 

Cain.  If  so, 
I  guess  the  business. 

Syl.  It  can  be  no  other, 
But  to  give  me  the  bob,  that  being  a  matter 
i    Of  main  importance.    Yonder  they  are,  I  dare  not 


246 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[AcrV 


Enter  ROBERTO  and  FULGENT  10. 

Be  seen,  I  am  so  desperate  :  if  you  forsake  TOP, 
Send  me  word,  that  1  may  provide  a  willow  garland, 
To  wear  when  1  drown  myself.     O  Sylli,  Sylli ! 

[Ejif  trying. 

Ful.  It  will  be  worth  your  pains,  sir,  to  observe 
The  constancy  and  bravery  of  her  spirit. 
Though  great  men  tremble  at  your  frowns,  I  dare 
Hazard  my  head,  your  majesty,  set  off 
With  terror  cannot  fright  her. 

Roh.  May  she  answer 
My  expectauon ! 

Ful.   There  she  is  ! 

Cam.  My  knees  thus 

Bent  to  the  earth,  while  my  vows  are  sent  upward 
For  the  safety  of  my  sovereign,  pay  the  duty 
Due  for  so  great  an  honour,  in  this  favour 
Done  to  your  humblest  handmaid. 

Hob.  You  mistake  me  ; 
I  come  not,  lady,  that  you  may  report 
The  king,  to  do  you  honour,  made  your  bouse 
(He  being  there)  his  court ;  but  to  correct 
Your  stubborn  disobedience.     A  pardon 
For  that,  could  you  obtain  it,  were  well  purchased 
With  this  humility. 

Cam.  A  pardon,  sir  ! 
Till  1  am  conscious  of  an  offence, 
1  will  not  wrong  my  innocence  to  beg  one. 
What  is  my  crime,  sir? 

Rob.  Look  on  him  I  favour, 
By  you  scorn'd  and  neglected*. 

Cum.  Is  that  all,  sir  ? 

JRnft.  No,  minion  ;   though  that  were  too  much. 

How  can  you 

Answer  the  setting  on  your  desperate  bravo 
To  murder  him? 

Cam.  With  your  leave,  I  must  not  kneel,  sir, 
While  I  reply  to  this  :  hut  thus  rise  up 
In  my  defence,  and  tell  you,  as  a  man 
(Since,  when  you  are  unjust,  the  deity 
Which  you  may  challenge  as  a  king  parts  from  you), 
Twas  never  rend  in  holy  writ,  or  moral, 
That  subjects  on  their  loyalty  were  obliged 
To  love  their  sovereign's  vices ;  your  grace,  sir, 


To  such  an  undeserver  is  no  virtue. 

Ful.   What  think  you  now,  sir? 

Cam.  Say,  you  should  love  wine, 
\  ou  being  the  king,  and,  'cause  I  am  your  subject, 
Must  1  be  ever  drunk  ?     Tyrants,  not  kings, 
By  violence,  from  humhle  vassals  force 
The  liberty  of  their  souls.     I  could  not  love  him  ; 
And  to  compel  affection,  as  I  take  it, 
Is  not  found  in  vour  prerogative. 

Rob.  Excellent  virgin  ! 

How  I  admire  her  confidence  !  [Aridi. 

•    Cam.  He  complains 

Of  wrong  done  him  :  but.be  no  more  a  king, 
Unless  you  do  me  right.     Burn  your  decrees, 
And  of  your  laws  and  statutes  make  a  fire 
To  thaw  the  frozen  numbness  of  delinquents, 
If  he  escape  unpunish'd.     Do  your  edicts 
Call  it  death  in  any  man  that  breaks  into 
Another's  house,  to  rob  him,  though  of  trifles; 
And  shall  Fulgentio,  your  Fulgentio,  live, 
Who  hath  committed  more  than  sacrilege, 
In  the  pollution  of  my  clear  fame, 
By  his  malicious  slanders? 

Rob.  Have  you  done  this  ? 
Answer  truly,  on  your  life. 

Ful.  In  the  heat  of  blood, 
Some  such  thing  I  reported. 

Rob.  Out  of  my  sight! 

For  I  vow,  if  by  true  penitence  thou  win  not 
This  injured  virgin*  to  sue  out  thy  pardon, 
Thy  grave  is  digg'd  already. 

Ful.  By  my  own  folly 
I  have  made  a  fair  hand  oft.  [Eaif. 

Rob.  You  shall  know,  lady, 

While  I  wear  a  crown,  justice  shall  useber  sword 
1  o  cut  offenders  off,  though  nearest  to  us 

Cam.  Ay,  now  you  show  whose  deputy  you  are : 
If  now  I  bathe  your  feet  with  tears  it  cannot 
Be  censured  superstition. 

Rob.  You  must  rise  ; 
Rise  in  our  favour  and  protection  ever.  [Kisses  her. 

Cam.  Happy  are  subjects  when  the  prince  is  still 
Guided  by  justice,  not  his  passionate  will. 

[Exeunt, 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I — The  tone.    A  Room  in  CAMIOLA'S  House. 
Enter  CAMIOLA  and  SYLU. 

Cam.  You  see  how  tender  I  am  of  the  quiet 
And  peace  of  your  affection,  and  what  great  ones 
1  put  off  in  your  favour. 

Sifl.  You  do  wisely, 

Exceeding  wisely  ;  and  when  I  have  said, 
I  thank  you  for't,  he  happy. 

Cam.  And  good  reason. 
In  having  such  a  blessing. 


•  Bob.  Look  on  Mm  I  favour, 

By  }<>u  scorn'd   and   neglrcled.']      Coseter  and   Mr.  M. 
Mason,  iu  defiance  of  metre  mid  sense  : 

Hub.  J.im/t  on  him  I  favour, 

You  tcorn'd,  ^c. 


Syl.  When  you  have  it ; 
But  the  bait  is  not  yet  ready.     Stay  the  time, 
While  I  triumpb  by  myself.     King,  by  your  leave, 
I  have  wiped  your  royal  nose  without  a  napkin ; 
You  may  cry,  willow,  willow  !  for  your  brother, 
I'll  only  say,  go  byf !    for  my  fine  favourite, 


that  which  appears  the  least  objectionable. 


t  for  your  brolhrr, 

I'll  only  gay,  Go  by!]  This  is  an  allusion  (o  The.  .Spanish 
Trnyedy  ;  the  Constant  butt  of  all  writers  of  those  times', 
who  set-ni  to  be  a  liitle  uneasy,  notwithstanding  their  scotis, 
at  iu  popularity.  Old  Jcioiiin.o,  however,  kept  his  ground 


iCTNB  L] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


247 


He  may  graze  where  he  please  ;  his  lips  may  water 
Like  a  puppy's  o'er  a  furmenty  pot,  while  Sylli, 
Out   of  his   two-leavtd   cherry-stone  dish,    drinks 

nectar ! 

I  cannot  hold  out  any  longer  ;  Ixaven  forgive  me  ! 
'Tis  not  the  first  oath  I  have  broke ;  I  mu:>t  take 
A  little  for  a  preparative. 

[Offers  to  kiss  and  embrace  her. 

Cam.   Bv  no  means. 

If  you  forswear  yourself,  we  shall  not  prosper  : 
I'll  r.nher  lose  mv  longing. 

Syl.  Pretty  soul! 

How  careful  it  is  of  me  !  let  me  buss  yet 
Thy  little  dainty  foot  for't :  that,  I'm  sure  is 
Dut  of  my  oath. 

Cam.   Why,  if  thoa  canst  dispense  with't 
So  far,  I'll  not  be  suupulous  ;  such  a  favour 
My  ;imorous  shoemaker  steals. 

Svl.  O  most  rare  leather  !      [Kisses  her  shoe  often. 
I  do  begin  at  the  lowest,  but  in  time 
I  may  grow  higher. 

dim.   Kie  !  you  dwell  too  long  there  ; 
Rise,  prithee  rise. 

Syl.  O,  1  am  up  already. 

Enter  CLARINDA  hastily. 

Cam.  How  I  abuse  my  hours  ! — What  news  with 
thee,  now  ?  [promise  : 

Clar.  Off  with  that  gown,  'tis  mine  ;  mine  by  your 
Signer  Adorni  is  return'd  !  now  upon  entrance  ! 
Off  with  it,  off  with  it,  madam  ! 

Cant.   Be  not  so  hasty  : 
When  I  p.0  to  bed,  'tis  thine. 

SyL  You  have  my  grant  too  ; 
But,  do  you  hear,  lady,  though  I  give  way  to  this, 
You  must  hereafter  ask  my  leave,  before 
You  part  with  things  of  moment. 

Cum.  Very  good  ; 
When  I'm  yours,  I'll  be  govern'd. 

Syl.  Sweet  obedience ! 

Enter  ADORNI. 

Cam.  You  are  well  returnM. 

Ador.   1  wish  that  the  success 
Of  mv  service  had  deserved  it. 

Cam.   Lives  Bertoldo? 

Ador.  Yes  :  and  return'd  with  safety. 

Cum.  'Tis  not  then 

In  the  power  of  fate  to  add  to,  or  take  from 
My  perfect  happiness  ;  and  yet — he  should 
Have  made  me  his  first  visit. 

Ador.  So  1  think  too. 
But  he 

•\y/.  Durst  not  appear,  I  being  present ; 
That's  his  excuse,  I  warrant  you. 

Cam.  Speak,  where  is  he? 

With  whom?  who  hath  deserved  more  from  him?  or 
Can  be  of  equal  merit?     1  in  this 
Do  not  except  the  king.  , 

Ador.  He's  at  the  palace, 

till  the  general  convulsion,  when  be  sunk,  with  a  thousand 
belter  thini>c,  to  rise  no  more. 

\Vlial  M.  Ill  he  once  had  or  the  public  mind  may  be  col- 
lected from  -in  anecdote  in  that  itr.mve  medley  by  Pry  line, 
which,  by  the  way,  contains  more  libjldry  in  a  tew  l<agis, 
tii.iii  is  to  be  found  in  hair  the  pljys  he  reprobate*.  He 
tl.cre  ttlls  us  ol  a  l.idv  who,  on  hrr  drulh-bi-d,  iu-tead  of 
attending  to  the  prirct,  "  cried  out  nothing  bnt  Jtronimo! 
Jciuiiimo!" — and  died  in  tliis  reprobate  slate,  "  lliinki.  g  of 
limiting  but  plays." 

Hitirionuutig. 


\Vith  the  duchess  of  Sienna.     One  coach  brought 

them  hither, 

Without  a  third  :  he's  very  gracious  with  her ; 
You  mav  corceive  the  rest. 

Cam.   .Mv  jealous  fears 
Make  me  to  apprehend. 

Ador.  Pray  you,  dismiss 
Signior  wisdom,  and  I'll  make  relation  to  you 
Of  the  particulars. 

Cam.  Servant,  1  would  have  you 
To  haste  unto  the  court. 

Syi.   I  will  outrun 
A  footman,  for  your  pleasure. 

Cam.  There  observe 
The  duchess'  train  and  entertainment. 

S yl.  Fear  not ; 

I  will  discover  all  that  is  of  weight, 
To  the  liveries  of  her  pages  and  her  footmen. 
This  is  fit  employment  for  me.  [Exit. 

Cam.  Gracious  with 
The  duchess!  sure,  you  said  so? 

Ador.  I  will  use 

All  possible  brevity  to  inform  you,  madam. 
Of  what  was  trusted  to  me,  ami  discharged 
With  faith  and  loyal  duty. 

Cu<n.  I  believe  it ; 

You  ransomed  him,  and  supplied  his  wants — inia- 
That  is  already  spoken  ;  and  what  vows  [gia« 

Of  service  he  made,  to  me,  is  apparent; 
His  joy  of  me,  and  wonder  too,  perspicuous; 
Does  not  your  story  end  so? 

Ador.  Would  the  end 

Had  answered  the  beginning  !  -In  a  word, 
Ingratitude  and  perjury  at  the  height 
Cannot  express  him. 

Cam.  Take  heed. 

Adir.  Truth  is  arm'd, 

And  can  defend  itself.     Jt  must  out,  madam . 
I  saw  (the  presence  full)  the  amorous  duchess 
Kiss  and  embrace  him  ;  on  his  part  accepted 
With  equal  ardour,  and  their  willing  hands 
No  sooner  join'd,  but  a  remove  was  publish'd 
And  put  in  execution. 

Cam.  The  proofs  are 
Too  pregnant.     O  Bertoldo  ! 

Ador.  He's  not  worth 
Your  sorrow,  madam. 

Cum.  Tell  me,  when  you  saw  this, 
Did  not  you  grieve,  as  1  do  now  to  hear  it? 

Ador.  His  precipice  from  goodness  raising  mine, 
And  serving  as  a  foil  to  set  my  faith  off, 
I  had  little  leason. 

dun.   In  this  you  confess 
The  devilish  malice  of  your  disposition. 
As  you  were  a  man, you  stood  bound  to  lament  it; 
And  not,  in  flattery  of  your  false  hopes, 
To  glory  in  it.     When  good  men  pursue 
The  paih  mark'd  out  by  virtue,  the  blest  saints 
With  joy  look  on  it,  and  seraphic  angels 
Clap  their  celestial  wings  in  heavenly  plaudits, 
To  see  a  scene  of  grace  so  well  presented, 
The  fiends,  and  men  made  up  of  envy,  mourning. 
Whereas  now,  on  the  contrary,  as  far 
As  their  divinity  can  partake  of  passion. 
With  me  they  weep,  beholding  a  fair  temple, 
Built  in  Bertoldo's  loyalty,  turn'd  to  ashes 
By  the  flames  of  his  inconstancy,  tlie  damn'd 
Rejoicing  in  the  object.  — Tis  not  well 
In  you,  Adorni. 

Ador.  \Vliut  a  temper  dwells 


248 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[AcrV 


In  this  rare  virgin !     Can  you  pity  him, 
That  hath  shown  none  to  you  ? 

Cam.  I  must  not  be 
Cruel  by  his  example.     You,  perhaps, 
Expect  now  I  should  seek  recovery 
Of  what  I  have  lost,  by  tears,  and  with  bent  knees 
Beg  his  compassion.     No  ;  my  towering  virtue, 
From  the  assurance  of  my  merit,  scorns 
To  stoop  so  low.     I'll  tnke  a  nobler  course, 
And,  confident  in  the  justice  of  my  cause, 
The  king  his  brother,  and  new  mistress,  judges, 
Ravish  him  from  her  arms.  You  have  the  contract, 
In  which  he  swore  to  marry  me  ? 

Adar.  'Tis  here,  madam.  [band  ; 

Cam.  He  shall  be,  then,  against  his  will,  my  hus- 
And  when  I  have  him,  I'll  so  use  him  ! — doubt  not, 
But  that,  your  honesty  being  unquestion'd, 
This  writing,  with  your  testimony,  clears  all. 

Ador.  And  buries  me  in  the  dark  mists  of  error. 

Cam.  I'll  presently  to  court ;  pray  you,  give  order 
For  my  caroch*. 

Ador.  A  cart  for  me  were  fitter, 
To  hurry  me  to  the  gallows.  [E.rj'f. 

Cam.  O  false  men  ! 

Inconstant!  perjured!     My  good  angel  help  me 
In  these  my  extremities  ! 

Re-enter  SYLLI. 

Syl.  If  you  e'er  will  see  a  brave  sight, 
Lose  it  not  now.     Bertoldo  and  the  duchess 
Are  presently  to  be  married  :  there's  such  pomp, 
And  preparation ! 

Cam.  If  I  marry,  'tis 
This  day,  or  never. 

Syl.   Why,  with  all  my  heart  ; 

Though  1  break  this,  1 11  keep  the  next  oath  I  make, 
And  then  it  is  quit. 

Cam.  Follow  1110  to  my  cabinet ; 
You  know  my  confessor,  father  Paulo  ? 

Syl.  Yes :  shall  he 
Do  the  feat  for  us  ? 

Cam.  I  will  give  in  w/iting 
Directions  to  him,  and  attire  myself 
Like  a  virgin  bride  ;  and  something  I  will  do, 
That  shall  deserve  men's  praise,  and  wonder  too. 

Syl.  And  I,  to  make  all  know  I  am  not  shallow, 
Will  have  my  points  of  cochineal  and  yellow. 

[Eieuiit. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     A  State-room  in  the  Palace. 

Loud  Mttsic.     Enter  ROBKHTO,  BEFTOLDO,  AUIIEUA, 
FERDINAND,  ASTUTIO,    GONZAGA,    RODERICO,   JA- 
COMO,  PIERIO,  a  Bishop,  und  Attendants. 
Hob.  Had  our  division  been  greater,  madam, 
Your  clemency,  the  wrong  being  done  to  you, 
In  pardon  or  it,  like  the  rod  of  concord, 
Must  make  a  perfect  union.     Once  more, 
With  a  brotherly  affection,  we  receive  you 
Into  our  favour :  let  it  be  your  study 
Hereafter  to  deserve  this  blessing,  far 
Beyond  your  merit. 

Bert.  As  the  princess'  grace 
To  me  is  without  limit,  my  endeavours, 

•  For  my  caroch.]  It  teems  at  if  Massinger's  editors  were 
ignorant  of  the  existence  or  meaning  of  such  a  word  aa 
caroch;  cincc  they  exchange  it  for  coach,  though  it  invaria- 
bly de»f<>ys  the  metre. 


With  all  obsequiousness  to  serve  her  pleasures, 
Shall  know  no  bounds  :  nor  will  I,  being  made 
Her  husband,  e'er  forget  the  duty  that 
I  owe  her  as  a  servant. 

Aurel.  I  expect  not 
But  fair  equality,  since  I  well  know, 
If  that  superiority  be  due, 

'Ts  not  to  me.     When  you  are  made  my  consort, 
All  the  prerogatives  of  my  high  birth  cancell'd, 
I'll  practise  the  obedience  of  a  wife, 
And  freely  pay  it.     Queens  themselves,  if  they 
Make  choice  of  their  inferiors,  only  aiming 
To  feed  their  sensual  appetites,  and  to  reign 
Over  their  husbands,  in  some  kind  commit 
Authorized  whoredom ;  nor  will  I  be  guilty, 
In  my  intent,  of  such  a  crime. 

Gonz,  This  done, 

As  it  is  promised,  madam,  may  well  stand  for 
A  precedent  to  great  women  :  but,  when  once 
The  griping  hunger  of  desire  is  cloy'd, 
And  the  poor  fool  advanced,  brought  on  his  knees, 
Most  of  your  eagle  breed,  I'll  not  say  all, 
Ever  excepting  you,  challenge  again 
What,  in  hot  blood,  they  parted  from. 

Aurel.  You  are  ever 

An  enemy  of  our  sex  ;  hut  you,  I  hope,  sir, 
Have  better  thoughts. 

Bert.  I  dare  not  entertain 
An  ill  one  of  your  goodness. 

Rob.  To  my  power 

I  will  enable  him,  to  prevent  all  danger 
Envy  can  raise  against  your  choice.     One  word  mor* 
Touching  the  articles. 

Enter  FUI.GENTIO,  CAMIOLA,  SYLLI,  and  ADORNI. 

Ful.  In  you  alone 

Lie  all  my  hopes  ;  you  can  or  kill  or  save  me ; 
But  pity  in  you  will  become  you  better 
(Though  I  confess  in  justice  'tis  denied  me) 
Than  too  much  rigour. 

Cum.  I  will  make  your  peace 
As  far  as  it  lies  in  me  ;  but  must  first 
Labour  to  right  myself. 

Aurel.  Or  add  or  alter 
What  you  think  fit;  in  him  I  have  my  all . 
Heaven  make  me  thankful  for  him  ! 

Rob.  On  to  the  temple. 

Cam.  Stay,  royal  sir  ;  und  as  you  are  a  king, 
Erect  one*  here,  in  doing  justice  to 
An  injured  maid 

Aurel.  How's  tins? 

Bert.  O,  I  am  blasted  ! 

Rob.    1  have  given  some  proof,   sweet  lady,   oi 

my  promptness  ., 

To  do  you  right,  you  need  not,  therefore,  doubt  me; 
And  rest  assured,  that,  this  great  work  dispatch 'dt 
You  shall  have  audience,  and  satisfaction' 
To  all  you  can  demand. 

Cam.  To  do  me  justice 
Exacts  your  present  care,  and  can  admit 
Of  no  delay.     If,  ere  my  cause  be  heard, 
In  favour  of  your  brother  you  go  on,  sir, 
Your  eceptre  cannot  right  me.     He's  the  man, 
The  guilty  man,  whom  I  accuse  ;  and  you 
Stand  bound  in  duty,  as  you  are  supreme, 
To  be  impartial.     Since  you  are  a  judge, 
As  a  delinquent  look  on  him,  and  not 
As  on  a  brother  :  Justice,  painted  blind, 

•  Erect  one  here,}  i.  e.  a  temple.    M.  MASON. 


SCT.NE  II.] 


THE  MAID*  OF  HONOUR 


*49 


Infers  her  ministers  are  obliged  to  hear 

The  cause,  and  truth,  the  judge,  determine  of  it ; 

And  not  sway'd  or  by  favour  or  affection, 

By  a  false  gloss,  or  wrested  comment,  alter 

The  true  intent  and  letter  of  the  law. 

Rob.  Nor  will  I,  madam. 

Aurel.  You  seem  troubled,  sir, 

Gonz.  1 1  is  colour  changes  too. 

Cam.  The  alteration 

Grows  from  his  guilt.     The  goodness  of  my  cause 
Begets  such  confidence  in  me,  that  I  bring 
No  hired  tongue  to  plead  for  me,  that  with  gay 
Rhetorical  flourishes  may  palliate 
That  which,  stripp'd  naked,  will  appear  deform 'd. 
I  stand  here  mine  own  advocate  ;  and  my  truth, 
Deliver'd  in  the  plainest  language,  will 
Make  good  itself ;  nor  will  I,  if  the  king 
Give  suffrage  to  it,  but  admit  of  you, 
My  greatest  enemy,  and  this  stranger  prince, 
To  sit  assistants  with  him. 

Aurel.  I  ne'er  wrong'd  you.  [if. 

Cam.  In  your  knowledge  of  the  injury,   I  believe 
Nor  will  you,  in  your  justice,  when  you  ares 
Acquainted  with  my  interest  in  this  man, 
Which  I  lay  claim  to. 

Rob.  Let  us  take  our  seats. 
What  is  your  title  to  him  ? 

Cam.  By  this  contract, 
Seal'd  solemnly  before  a  reverend  man, 

[Presents  a  paper  to  the  king. 
I  challenge  him  for  my  husband. 

Svl.  Ha !  was  I 

Sent  for  the  friar  for  this  ?  O  Sylli !  Sylli ! 
Some  cordial,  or  I  faint*. 

Rob.  This  writing  is 
Authentical. 

Aurel.  But  done  in  heat  of  blood, 
Charm 'd  by  her  flatteries,  as,  no  doubt,  he  was, 
To  be  dispensed  with. 

Per.  Add  this,  if  you  please, 
The  distance  and  disparity  between 
Their  births  and  fortunes. 

Cbm.  What  can  Innocence  hope  for, 
When  such  as  sit  her  judges  are  corrupted! 
Disparity  of  birth  or  fortune,  urge  you  ? 
Or  syren  charms?  or,  at  his  best,  in  me 
Wants  to  deserve  him  ?  Call  some  few  days  back, 
And,  as  he  was,  consider  him,  and  you 
Must  grant  him  my  inferior.     Imagine 
You  saw  him  now  in  fetters,  with  his  honour, 
His  liberty  lost;  with  her  black  wings  Despair 
Circling  his  miseries,  and  this  Goiizaga 
Trampling  on  his  afflictions  ;  the  great  sum 
Proposed  for  his  redemption  ;  the  king 
Forbidding  payment  of  it ;  his  near  kinsmen, 
With  his  protesting  followers  and  friends, 
Falling  of}' from  him  ;  by  the  whole  world  forsaken ; 
Dead  to  all  hope,  and  buried  in  the  grave 
Of  his  calamities  ;  and  then  weigh  duly 
What  she  deserved,  whose  merits  now  are  doubted, 
That,  as  his  better  angel,  in  her  bounties 
Appear'd  unto  him,  his  great  ransome  paid, 
His  wants,  and  with  a  prodigal  hand,  supplied ; 
Whether,  then,  being  my  manumised  slave, 
He  owed  not  himself  to  me  ? 

Aurel.  Is  this  true  ? 

Rob.  In  his  silence  'tis  acknowledged. 


*  Some  cordial,  or  I  faint.}    Wholly  omitted  in  Mr.  M. 
Mason's  edition. 


Gonz.  If  you  want 
:    A  witness  to  this  purpose,  I'll  depose  it. 

Cam.  If  I  have  dwelt  too  long  on  my  deserving 
i    To  this  unthankful  man,  pray  you  pardon  me, 
i   The  cause  required  it.     And  though  now  I  add 
A  little,  in  my  painting  to  the  life 
His  barbarous  ingratitude,  to  deter 
Others  from  imitation,  let  it  meet  with 
A  fair  interpretation.     This  serpent, 
Frozen  to  numbness,  was  no  sooner  warm'd 
In  the  bosom  of  my  pity  and  compassion, 
But,  in  return,  he  ruin'd  his  preserver, 
The  prints  the  irons  had  made  in  his  flesh 
Still  ulcerous;  but  all  that  I  had  done, 
My  benefits,  in  sand  or  water  written, 
As  they  had  never  been,  no  more  remember'd ! 
And  on  what  ground  but  his  ambitious  hopes 
To  gain  this  duebes's'  favour ! 

Aurel.    Yes;  the  object, 
Look  on  it  better,  lady,  may  excuse 
The  change  of  his  affection. 

Cam.  The  object ! 

In  what  ?  forgive  me,  modesty,  if  I  say 
You  look  upon  your  form  in  the  false  glass 
Of  flattery  and  self-love,  and  that  deceives  you. 
That  you  were  a  duchess,  as  I  take  it,  was  not 
Character'd  on  your  face  ;  and,  that  not  seen, 
For  other  feature,  make  all  these,  that  are 
Experienced  in  women,  judges  of  them, 
And,  if  they  are  not  parasites,  they  must  grant, 
For  beauty  without  art,  though  you  storm  at  it, 
I  may  take  the  right-hand  file. 

Cows.  Well  said,  i'faith  ! 
I  see  fuir  women  on  no  terms  will  yield 
Priority  in  h»>:.uty. 

Cam.  Down,  proud  heart ! 
Why  do  I  rise  up  in  defence  of  that, 
Which,  in  my  cherishing  of  it,  hath  undone  me  ! 
No,  ma;!am,  I  recant, — you  are  all  beauty, 
Goodness,  and  virtue  ;  and  poor  I  not  worthy 
As  a  foil  to  set  you  off :  enjoy  your  conquest ; 
But  do  not  tyrannize.     Yet,  as  I  am  [me, 

In  my  lowness,  from  your  height  you  may  look  on 
And.  in  your  suffrage  to  me,  make  him  know 
That,  though  to  all  men  else  I  did  appear 
The  shame  and  scorn  of  women,  he  stands  bound 
To  hold  me  as  the  masterpiece. 

Rob.  By  my  life, 

You  have  shewn  yourself  of  such  an  abject  temper, 
So  poor  and  low-condition'd,  as  I  grieve  for 
Your  nearness  to  me. 

Per.   I  am  changed  in  my 
Opinion  of  you,  lady  ;  and  profess 
The  virtues  of  your  mind  an  ample  fortune 
For  an  absolute  monarch. 

Gonz.  Since  you  are  resolved 
To  damn  yourself,  in  your  forsaking  of 
Your  noble  order  for  a  woman,  do  it 
For  this.      You  may  search  through  the  world  and 
With  such  another  phenix.  [meet  not 

Aurel.  On  the  sudden 

I  feel  all  fires  of  love  quenched  in  the  water 
Of  my  compassion.     Make  your  peace  ;  you  have 
My  free  consent ;  for  here  I  do  disclaim 
All  interest  in  you  :  and,  to  further  your 
Desires,  fair  maid,  composed  of  worth  and  honour, 
The  dispensation  procured  by  me, 
Freeing  Bertoldo  from  his  vow,  makes  way 
To  your  embraces. 

Bert.  Oh,  how  have  I  stray'd, 


250 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


[Acr  V. 


And,  wilfully,  out  of  the  noble  track 

Mark'd  me  by  virtue  !  till  now  I  was  never 

Truly  a  prisoner.     To  excuse  my  late 

Captivity,  I  might  allege  the  malice 

Of  Fortune  ;  you,  that  conquer'd  me,  confessing 

Courage  in  my  defence  was  no  way  wanting. 

But  now  I  have  surrender'd  up  my  strengths 

Into  the  power  of  Vice,  and  on  my  forehead 

Branded,  with  mine  own  hand,  in  capital  letters, 

Disloyal  and  ingrateful.     Though  barr'd  from 

Human  society,  and  hiss'd  into 

Some  desert  ne'er  yet  haunted  with  the  curses 

Of  men  and  women,  sitting  as  a  judge 

Upon  my  guilty  self,  I  must  confess 
It  justly  falls  upon  me  ;  and  one  tear, 

Shed  in  compassion  of  my  sufferings,  more 
Than  I  can  hope  for. 

Cam.  This  compunction  [should 

For  the  wrong  that  you  have  done  me,  though  you 
Fix  here,  and  your  true  sorrow  move  no  further, 
Will,  in  respect  I  loved  once,  make  these  eyes 
Two  springs  of  sorrow  for  you. 

Bert.  In  your  pity 

My  cruelty  shows  more  monstrous  ;  yet  I  am  not, 
Though  most  ingrateful,  grown  to  such  a  height 
Of  impudence,  as,  in.  my  wishes  only, 
To  ask  your  pardon.     If,  as  now,  I  fall 
Prostrate  before  your  feet,  you  will  vouchsafe 
To  act  your  own  icvenge,  treading  upon  me 
As  a  viper  eating  through  the  bowels  of 
Your  benefits,  to  whom,  with  liberty, 
I  owe  my  being,  'twill  take  from  the  burthen 
That  now  is  insupportable. 

Cam.  Pray  you,  rise ; 
As  I  wish  peace  and  quiet  to  my  soul, 
I  do  forgive  you  heartily  ;  yet  excuse  me, 
Though  I  deny  myself  a"  blessing  that, 
By  the  favour  of  the  duchess,  seconded 
With  your  submission,  is  offered  to  me  ; 
Let  not  the  reason  I  allege  for't  grieve  you, 
You  have  been  false  once.     I  have  done  :  and  if, 
When  I  am  married,  as  this  day  1  will  be, 
As  a  perfect  sign  of  your  atonement  with  me. 
You  wish  me  joy,  I  will  receive  it  for 
Full  satisfaction  of  all  obligations 
In  which  you  stand  bound  to  me. 

Bert.  I  will  do  it. 

And,  what's  more,  in  despite  of  sorrow,  live 
To  see  myself  undone,  beyond  all  hope 
lo  be  made  up  again. 

tiyl.  My  blood  begins 
To  come  to  my  heart  again. 

Cam.  Pray  'you,  signior  Sylli, 
Call  in  the  holy  friar  ;  he's  prepared 
For  finishing  the  work. 

Syi.  1  knew  I  was 
The  man  :  heaven  make  me  thankful ! 

Rob.  Who  is  this? 

Ant.  His  father  was  the  banker*  of  Palermo, 
And  this  the  heir  of  his  great  wealth  :  his  wisdom 
\\  as  not  hereditary. 

Syl.  'I  hough  you  know  me  not, 
Your  majesty  owes  me  a  round  sum  :  I  have 
A  seal  or  two  to  witness ;  yet,  if  you  please 


To  wear  my  colours  and  dance  at  my  wedding 
I'll  never  sue  you. 

Rob.  And  I'll  grant  your  suit. 
Syl.  Gracious  madonna,  noble  general, 
Brave  captains,  and  my  quondam  rivals,  wear  thtm, 
Since  I  am  confident  you  dare  not  harbour 
A  thought  but  that  way  current.  [Exit. 

Aurel.  For  mv  part, 
I  cannot  guess  the  issue. 

Re-enter  SYLLI  with  Father  PAULO. 
Syl.  Do  your  duty  ; 
And  with  all  speed  you  can  you  may  dispatch  us 

Paul.  Thus,  as  a  principal  ornament  to  the  clum  h, 
I  seize  her. 
All.  How! 

Rob.  So  young,  and  so  religious  ! 
Paul.  She  has  forsook  the  world. 
Siit.  And  Sylli  too  ! 
I  shall  run  mad. 

Rob.  Hence  with  the  fool ! — [Sylli  thrust  off.] — 

Proceed,  Sir. 

Paul.  Look  on  this  MAID  OF  HONOUR,  now 
Truly  honour'd  in  her  vow 
She  pays  to  heaven  :  vain  delight 
By  day,  or  pleasure  of  the  night 
She  no  more  thinks  of:    This  fair  hair 
(  Favours  for  great  kings  to  wear) 
Must  now  be  shorn  ;  her  rich  array 
Changed  into  a  homely  grav. 
The  dainties  with  which  she  was  fed, 
And  her  proud  flesh  pampered, 
Must  not  be  tasted  ;  from  the  spring, 
For  wine,  cold  water  we  will  bring, 
And  with  fasting  mortify 
The  feasts  of  sensuality. 
Hei  jewels,  beads  ;  and  she  must  look 
Not  in  :i  glass,  but  holy  book ; 
To  teach  her  the  ne'er-erring  way 
To  immortality.     O  may 
She,  as  she  purposes  to  be 
A  child  new-born  to  piety, 
Persever*  in  it,  and  good  men, 
With  saints  and  angels,  say,  Amen  ! 

Tarn.  This  is  the  marriage  !  this  the  port  to  which 
My  vows  must  steer  me  !     Fill  my  spreading  sails 
With  tb«  pure  wind  of  yeur  devotions  for  me, 
That  I  may  touch  the  secure  haven,  where 
Eternal  happiness  keeps  her  residence, 
Temptations  to  frailty  never  entering! 
I  am  dead  to  the  world,  and  thus  dispose 
Of  what  I  leave  behind  me  ;  and,  dividing 
My  state  into  three  parts,  1  thus  bequeath  it: 
The  first  to  the  fair  nunnery,  to  which 
I  dedicate  the  last  and  better  part 
Of  my  frail  life  ;  a  second  portion 
To  pious  uses ;  and  the  third  to  thee, 
Adorni,  for  thy  true  and  faithful  service. 
And.  ere  1  take  my  last  farewell,  with  hope 
I'o  find  a  grant,  my  suit  to  you  is,  that 
\ou  would,  for  my  sake,  pa'rdou  this  young  man, 
And  to  his  merits  love  him,  and  no  further. 
Hob.  1  thus  confirm  it. 

f  G ives  his  hand  to  Fitlgentio. 

Cam.  And,  as  e 'or  you  hope,  [To  Bertoldo. 

Like  me,  to  be  made  happy,  [  conjure  you 
To  reassume  your  order ;  and  in  fighting 

•  Tersevcr  in  tV.I  This  is  the  second  time  »he  editors  have 
modcrnfecd  peru-vcr  ii.io  peria-vere,  lo  the  destruction  ol'  the 
ver-e.  See  Virjjiu  Matter,  Act  1.  Scene  j. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 


951 


Bravely  against  the  enemies  of  our  faith, 
Redeem  your  mortgaged  honour. 

Cons.  I  restore  this  :         f  Gives  him  the  white  cross. 
Once  more,  brothers  in  arms. 

Bert.  I'll  live  and  die  so. 

Cam.  To  you  my  pious  wishes  !    And,  to  end 
All  differences,  great  sir,  I  beseech  you 
To  be  an  arbitrator,  and  ccmpound 
The  quarrel  long  continuing  between 
The  duke  and  duchess. 

Rob.  I  will  take  it  into 
My  special  tare. 


Cam.  I  am  then  at  rest.     Now,  father, 
Conduct  me  where  you  please. 

[L'aeunt  Paulo  and  Camiola 

Rob.  She  well  deserves 

Her  name,  THE  MAID  OF  HONOUR  !  May  she  stand, 
To  all  posterity,  a  fair  example 
For  noble  maids  to  imitate  !     Since  to  live 
In  wealth  and  pleasure's  common,  but  to  part  with 
Such  poison'd  baits  is  rare  ;  there  being  nothing 
Upon  this  stage  of  lite  to  be  commended, 
Though  well  begun,  till  it  be  fully  ended. 

['Flourish.     Exeunt*. 


*  This  is  of  the  higher  order  of  Massinger's  plays:  nor 
will  it  be  veiy  easy  lo  find  in  any  writer  a  subject  more 
animated,  or  characters  more  vaiiously  and  pointedly  drawn. 
There  is  no  delay  in  intn.ducing  the  business  of  the  drama; 
and  nothing  is  allowed  to  interfere  with  its  progress.  In- 
deed this  is  by  far  too  rapid  ;  and  event  is  precipitated  upon 
event  without  regard  to  tune  or  place.  Hut  Massinger  acts 
wiih  a  liberty  which  it  would  be  absurd  to  criticise.  Thebes 
and  Athens,  Palermo  and  Sienna,  aie  alike  lo  him;  and  lie 
must  be  allowed  to  transport  his  agents  and  their  concerns 
from  one  to  another,  as  often  as  the  exigencies  of  his  am- 
bulatory plan  may  require. 

It  is  observable,  th.it  in  this  play  Massingerhas  attempted 
the  more  difficult  part  of  dramatic  writing.  He  is  not  con- 
tent with  describing  different  qualities  in  his  characters; 
but  lays  before  the  reader  several  differences  of  the  same 
qualities.  The  courage  of  Gonzaga,  though  by  no  means 
inferior  to  it,  is  not  that  of  Bertolilo.  In  the  former,  it  is 
a  fixed  and  habitual  principle,  the  honourable  business  of 
his  life.  In  the  latter,  it  is  an  irresistible  impulse,  the  in- 
etant.iiieoui  result  of  a  fiery  temper.  Both  characters  are 
again  distinguished  from  Roderigo  and  Jacomo.  These  too 
have  courage  :  but  we  cannot  separate  it  from  a  mere  vulgar 
motive,  the  love  of  plunder;  and  in  this  respect  Gonz*ga's 
captains  resemble  tho^e  of  Charles  in  The  Duke  of  Milan. 
There  is  slill  another  remove;  and  all  these  branches  of 
real  courage  dilfei  from  the  poor  and  forced  approaches  to 
valour  in  Gasparo  and  Antonio.  These  distinctions  were 
stiougly  fixed  in  Massinger's  mind:  lest  they  should  pass 
without  due  observation,  he  has  mad';  Gonzaga  point  out 
some  of  them,  Act  II.  se.  .''.  :  and  Bertoldo  dwells  upon 
others,  Act  III.  sc.  1.  And  in  this  respect,  again,  he  has 
copied  his  own  caution,  already  noticed  in  the  Observations 
on  The  Kentyado.  A  broader  distinction  is  used  with  his 
two  courtiers;  and  the  cold  interest  of  Astutio  is  fully  con- 
trasted with  the  dazzling  and  imprudent  assumption  of 
Fulgentio.  But  Camiola  herself  is  the  great  object  that 
reigns  throughout  the  piece,  ii'very  where  she  animates  us 
with  her  spirit,  and  instructs  us  with  her  sense.  Yet  this 
superiority  takes  nothing  from  her  softer  feelings.  Her 
tears  f)»w  with  a  mingled  fondness  and  regret ;  and  she  is 
swayed  by  a  passion  which  is  only  quelled  by  her  greater 
resolution.  The  influence  of  her  character  is  also  height- 
ened through  the  different  manner  of  her  lovers  ;  through 
the  ina<l  impatience  of  the  uncontrolled  Bertoldo,  the  glit- 
tering pretensions  of  Fulgentio,  and  the  humble  and  sincere 


attachment  of  Adorni,  who  nourishes  secret  desires  of  an 
happiness  too  exalted  for  him,  laiililully  performs  commands 
prejudicial  to  ids  own  views,  through  the  force  of  an  affection 
which  ensures  his  obedience,  and,  amiilst  so  much  service, 
scarcely  presumes  to  hint  the  passion  which  consumes  him. 
I  know  not  if  even  signior  Sjlli  is  wholU  useless  l.eie;  he 
serves  at  least  to  show  her  good-hmnouic:!  toleration  of  a 
being  hardly  important  enough  lor  her  contempt. 

In  the  midst  of  this  just  praise  of  Camiola,  there  arc  a 
few  things  to  be  regretted.  Reason  and  religion  had  for- 
bidden her  union  with  Bertoldo;  and  she  had  declared  her- 
self unalterable  in  her  purpose.  His  captivity  reverses  her 
judgment,  anil  she  determine!  not  only  to  liberate,  but  to 
marry  him.  Unfortunately,  loo,  she  demands  a  sealed  con- 
tract as  the  condition  of  his  freedom;  though  Bcitoldo's 
ardour  was  already  known  to  her,  and  the  geueiosity  of  her 
nature  ought  to  have  abstained  from  so  degrading  a  bargain. 
But  Massinger  wanted  to  hinder  the  marriage  of  Aurtrli*;  and, 
with  an  infelicity  which  attends  many  of  his  contrivances, 
he  provided  a  prior  contract  at  the  expense  of  the  delicacy, 
as  well  as  the  principle.-,  of  his  heroine.  It  is  well,  that 
the  nobleness  of  the  couclifeion  throws  the  veil  over  these 
blemi-hes.  Her  determination  is  at  once  natural  and  unex- 
pected. It  answers  to  the  original  independence  of  her 
character,  and  she  retires  with  our  highest  admiration  and 
esteem. 

It  may  be  observed  here,  that  Massinger  was  not  tin 
known  to  Milton.  The  date  of  some  of  Milton's  early- 
poems,  indeed,  is  not  cxaetU  ascertained  :  but  if  the  reader 
will  compare  the  speech  of  Paulo,  with  the  Penseroso,  he 
cannot  fail  to  remark  a  similarity  in  the  cadences,  as  well 
as  in  the  measure  and  tlie  solemn!  y  of  the  thoughts.  On 
many  other  occasions  he  certainly  remembers  Massinger, 
and  frequently  in  his  representations  of  female  purity,  and 
the  commanding  dignity  of  virtue. 

A  noble  lesson  arises  from  the  conduct  of  the  principal 
character.  A  fixed  sense  of  truth  and  rectitude  gives 
genuine  superiority  ;  it  corrects  the  proud,  and  abashes  ihe 
vain,  and  marks  the  proper  limits  between  humility  and 
presumption.  It  also  governs  itself  with  the  same  as- 
cendancy which  it  establishes  over  others.  When  the  law 
ful  objects  of  life  cannot  be  possessed  with  clearness  of 
honour,  it  provides  a  nobler  pleasure  in  rising  above  tli«ir 
attraction,  and  creates  a  new  happiness  by  controlling  even 
innocent  desires.— DB.  IRELAND. 


THE    PICTURE. 


THE  PICTURE.]  This  Tragi-comedy ,  or,  as  Massinger  calls  it,  this  "  true  Hungarian  History,"  was  licensed 
by  Sir  H.  Herbert,  June  8th,  1629.     The  ]>lot,  as  The  Companion  to  the  Playhouse  observes,  is  from  the  28th 
novel  of  the  second  volume  of  Painter's  Palace  of  Pleasure,  1567.     The  magical   circumstance,  however, 
from  which  the  play  takes  its  name,  is  found  in  a  variety  of  iiuthors  :  it  has  all  the  appearance  of  an  Arabian 
fiction,  and  was  introduced  into  our  romances  at  a  very  early  period.     The  following  stanza  is  from  a  poem. 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  called  Horn  Childe  and  Maiden  Kimniltl,  first  given  to  the  press  by  Mr.  Kitson- 
"  To  Rimneld  he  com  withouten  lesing 
And  sche  bitaught  him  a  ring 
The  vertu  wele  sche  knew  : 
'  Loke  thou  forsake  it  for  no  thing 
It  schal  ben  our  tokening, 
The  ston  it  is  wel  trewe. 
When  the  ston  wexeth  wan, 
Than  chaungeth  the  thought  of  thi  leman, 

Take  then  a  newe  ; 
When  the  ston  wexeth  rede 
Than  have  y  lorn  mi  inaidenhed, 
Oyaines  the  untrewe.' " 

The  immediate  source  of  the  story  was  the  Novelle  of  Bandello,  since  exceedingly  popular.  Massinger, 
however,  has  made  some  slight  variation — there  is  no  temptation  of  Ulric  (the  Mathias  of  the  play)  and 
Tery  little  of  his  lady.  The  knights  are  secured  as  fast  as  they  arrive  at  her  castle  ;  and  the  Picture  conse- 
quently maintains  its  position.  From  the  same  source,  G.  Whitston  derived  the^tale  of  Ulrico  and  Lady 
Barbara,  in  his  Rock  «/'  Regard,  which  Massinger  appears  to  have  read.  The  story  is  also  to  be  found 
among  the  Noveltet  Gatlantes;  but  they  had  the  same  origin,  and  it  is  altogether  unnecessary  to  enter  into 
their  respective  variations.  The  French  have  modernized  it  into  a  pretty  tale,  under  the  name  of  Comment 
filer  parfait  Amour. 

This  Play  was  much  approved  at  its  first  appearance,  when  it  was  acted,  as  the  phrase  is,  by  the  whole 
strength  of  the  house.  Massinger  himself  speaks  of  it  with  complacency  ;  and,  indeed,  its  claims  to  admi- 
ration are  of  no  common  kind.  It  was  printed  in  1650;  but  did  not  reach  a  second  edition.  It  is  said,  in 
the  title-page,  to  have  been  "  often  presented  at  the  Globe  and  Black  Friar's  playhouses,  by  the  King's 
Majesty's  servants." 

An  unsuccessful  attempt  was  made  to  revive  this  Play,  by  the  Rev.  Henry  Bate  ;  Magnii  excidit  autit! 
We  tolerate  no  magic  now  but  Shakspeare's  ;  and  without  it  The  Picture  can  have  no  interest. 


TO  MY  HONOURED  AND  SELECTED  FRIENDS  OF  THE 

NOBLE  SOCIETY  OF  THE  INNER  TEMPLE, 

IT  maybe  objected,  my  not  inscribing  their  names,  or  titles,  to  whom  I  dedicate  this  poem,  proceedeth 
either  from  my  diffidence  of  their  affection  to  me,  or  their  unwillingness  to  be  published  the  patrons  of  a 
trifle.  To  such  as  shall  make  so  strict  an  inquisition  of  me,  I  truly  answer,  The  play,  in  the  persentment, 
found  such  a  general  approbation,  that  it  gave  me  assurance  of  their  favour  to  whose  protection  it  is  now 
sacred ;  and  they  have  professed  they  so  sincerely  allow  of  it,  and  the  maker,  that  they  would  have 
freely  granted  that  in  the  publication,  which,  for  some  reasons,  I  denied  myself.  One,  and  that  is  a  main 
one;  1  had  rather  enjoy  (as  I  have  done)  the  real  proofs  of  their  friendship,  than,  mountebank-like,  boast 
their  numbers  in  a  catalogue.  Accept  it,  noble  Gentlemen,  as  a  confirmation  of  his  service,  who  hath 
nothing  else  to  assure  you,  and  witness  to  the  world,  how  much  he  stands  engaged  for  your  so  frequent 
bounties,  and  in  your  charitable  opinion  of  me  believe,  that  you  now  may,  and  shall  ever,  command 

Your  servant 

PHILIP  MASSINGER, 


THE  PICTURE. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


LADISLAUS,  king  of  Hungary, 
FERDINAND,  general  of  the  army, 
EUBULUS,  OH  old  counsellor, 
MAHIIAS,  a  knight  of  Bohemia, 

UBALDO,  )     ., ,          .. 
T,  !  wild  courtiers, 

RICA  R  DO,  ) 

JULIO  B^PTISTA,  a  great  scholar, 

HILARIO,  servant  to  Sophia. 

Two  Boys,    representing  Apollo  and 

Pallas. 
Two  Cmriert. 


Actors'  Name*. 

R.  Benfield. 

A  Guide. 

R,  Sharpe. 

Servants  to  the  queen. 

J.  Lowin. 

Servants  to  Matliias. 

J.  Taylor. 

T.  Po'llard. 

HOXORIA,  the  queen, 

E.  Swanstone. 

SOPHIA,  wife  to  Mathias, 

W.  Pen. 
J.  Shancke. 

ACANTIIE,  )       -,     ,.  , 
(  maids  of  honour, 
SYLVIA,     J 

CORISCA,  Sophia's  woman. 

Ufa  fleers.  Attendant*.  Oi 

Actor*'  Xamet. 


J.  Thomson. 
J.  Hunniemaa 
A.  Gofle. 

W.  Trigge. 


SCENE,  partly  in  Hungary,  and  partly  in  Bohemia. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — The  Frontiers  of  Bohemia. 

Enter    MATHIAS,    SOPHIA,  CORISCA,   HILARIO,   icith 
other  Servants. 

Math.  Since  we  must  part,  Sophia,  to  pass  further 
Is  not  alone  impertinent,  but  dangerous. 
\Ve  are  not  distant  from  the  Turkish  camp 
Above  five  leagues,  and  who  knows  but  some  party 
Of  his  Timariots*,  that  scour  the  country, 
May  fall  upon  us? — be  now,  as  thy  name, 
Truly  interpreted,  hath  ever  spoke  thee, 
Wise  and  discreet ;  and  to  thy  understanding 
Marry  thy  constant  patience. 

Soph.  You  put  me,  sir, 
To  the  utmost  trial  of  it. 

Math.  Nay,  no  melting  ; 
Since  the  necessity  that  now  separates  us, 
We  have  long  since  disputed,  and  the  reasons, 
Forcing  me  to  it,  too  oft  wash'd  in  tears. 
I  grant  that  you,  in  birth,  were  far  above  me, 
And  great  men,  my  superiors,  rivals  for  you  ; 
But  mutual  consent  of  heart,  as  hands, 
Jom'd  by  true  love,  hath  made  us  one,  and  equal : 
Nor  is  it  in  me  mere  desire  of  fame, 
Or  to  be  cried  up  by  the  public  voice, 
For  a  brave  soldier,  that  puts  on  my  armour  : 
Such  airy  tumours  take  not  me.     You  know 
How  narrow  our  demeans  aref,  and,  what's  more, 
Having  as  yet  no  charge  of  children  on  us, 
We  hardly  can  subsist. 

Soph.  In  you  alone,  sir, 
I  have  all  abundance. 

Math.  For  my  mind's  content, 
In  your  own  language  I  could  answer  you. 
You  have  been  an  obedient  wife,  a  right  one ; 
And  to  my  power,  though  short  of  your  .desert, 
I  have  been  ever  an  indulgent  husband. 
\\  e  have  long  enjoy 'd  the  sweets  of  love,  and  though 


•  Timariots  are  the  Turkish   Cavalry,  a  sort  of  feudal 
veomanry,  who  luild  their  l.uuls  on  condition  of  service. 

H  ow  narrow  our  demeai.s  are,}  Demeata  is  here  used 
for  means,  as  demerits  for  merits,  &c. 


Not  to  satiety,  or  loathing,  yet 

We  must  not  live  such  dotards  on  our  pleasures, 

As  still  to  hug  them  to  the  certain  loss 

Of  profit  and  preferment.     Competent  means 

Maintains  a  quiet  bed;  want  breeds  dissension, 

Even  in  good  women. 

Soph.  Have  you  found  in  me,  sir, 
Any  distaste,  or  sign  of  discontent, 
For  want  of  what's  superfluous  ! 

Math.  No,  Sophia ; 

Nor  shall  thou  ever  have  cause  to  repent 
Thy  constant  course  in  goodness,  if  heaven  bless 
My  honest  undertakings.     'Tis  for  thee 
That  I  turn  soldier,  and  put  forth,  dearest, 
Upon  this  sea  of  action,  as  a  factor, 
To  trade  for  rich  materials  to  adorn 
Thv  noble  parts,  and  show  them  in  full  lustre. 
I  blush  that  other  ladies,  less  in  beauty 
And  outward  form,  but  in  the  harmony 
Of  the  soul's  ravishing  music,  the  same  age 
Not  to  be  named  with  thee,  should  so  outshine  thee 
In  jewels,  and  variety  of  wardrobes  ; 
While  you,  to  whose  sweet  innocence  both  Indies 
Compared,  are  of  no  vulue,  wanting  these, 
Pass  unregarded. 

Soph.  If  I  am  so  rich,  or 
In  your  opinion,  why  should  you  borrow 
Additions  for  me? 

Math.  Why!    I  should  be  censured 
Of  ignorance,  possessing  such  a  jewel 
Above  all  price,  if  I  forbear  to  give  it 
The  best  of  ornaments :  therefore,  Sophia, 
In  few  words  know  my  pleasure,  and  obey  me, 
As  yon  have  ever  done.     To  your  discretion 
I  leave  the  government  of  my  family, 
And  our  poor  fortunes  ;  and  from  these  command 
Obedience  to  jou,  as  to  myself: 
To  the  utmost  of  what's  mine,  live  plentifully  ; 
And,  ere  the  remnant  of  our  store  be  spent, 
With  my  good  sword  I  hope  I  shall  reap  for  you 
A  harvest  in  such  full  abundance,  as 
Shall  make  a  merry  winter. 

Soph.  Since  you  are  not 


THE  PICTURE. 


[Aer.l. 


To  be  diverted,  sir,  from  what  you  purpose, 

All  arguments  to  stay  you  here  are  useless :         [not 

Go  when  you  please,  sir.     Eyes,  I  charge  you  waste 

One  drop  of  sorrow  ;  look  you  hoard  all  up 

Till  in  my  widovr'd  bed  I  call  upon  you, 

But  then'be  sure  you  fail  not.      You  blest  angels, 

Guardians  of  human  life,  1  at  this  instant 

Forbear  t'invoke  you ;  at  our  parting,  'twere 

To  personate  devotion*.     i\ly  soul 

Shall  go  along  with  you,  and,  when  you  are 

Circled  with  death  and  horror,  seek  and  find  you: 

And  then  1  will  not  leave  a  saint  unsued  to 

For  your  protection.     To  tell  you  what 

I  will  do  in  your  absence,  would  show  poorly ;" 

My  actions  shall  speak  for  me;   'twere  to  doubt   ou 

To  beg  I  may  hear  fiom  you  ;   where  you  are 

You  cannot  live  obscure,  nor  shall  one  post, 

By  night  or  day,  pass  unexamiaed  by  me. 

If  I  dwell  long  upon  your  lips,  consider. 

After  this  feast,  the  griping  fast  that  follows, 

And  it  will  be  excusable;  pray  turn  from  me. 

All  that  I  can,  is  spoken.  [Exit. 

Math.  Follow  your  mistress. 
Forbear  your  wishes  for  me  ;  let  me  find  them 
At  my  return,  in  your  prompt  will  to  serve  her. 

Hil.  For  my  part,  sir,  1  will  grow  lean  with  study- 
To  make  her  merry. 

Coris.  Though  you  are  my  lord, 
Yet  being  her  gentli-woman,  by  my  place 
I  may  tuke  my  leave;  your  hand,  or,  if  you  please 
To  have  me  fight  so  high,  I'll  not  be  coy, 
But  stand  a-tip-toe  for't. 

Math.  O,  farewell,  girl!  [Kisses  lier. 

Nil.  A  kiss  well  begg'd,  Corisca. 

Cam.  "Twas  my  fee; 

Love,  how  he  meltsf !  I  cannot  blame  my  lady's 
Unwillingness  to  part  with  such  marmalade  lijis. 
There  will  be  scrambling  for  them  in  the  camp ; 
And  were  it  not  for  my  honesty,  i  could  wish  now 
I  were  his  leaguer  laundress} ;  1  would  find 


•  7b  personate  devotion.]  \.  e.  to  play  it  as  an  assumed 
part.  See  Great  Duke  of  Florence,  Act  IV.  So.  -2. 

+  Love,  how  he  melt.\ .']  So  the  qiiailo:  die  modern  edi- 
tions have,  Jove,  how  he  melts.  Why  Coxcter  niHile  lliu 
alteration  I  cannot  even  ijncs.- ;  Mttly,  deily  tor  deity,  the 
former  is  the  most  natural  lor  Cornea  to  swear  by. 

i  1  could  wish  now 

f  were  his  leaguer  laundress:]  Mr.  M.  Mason  reads  his 
leiger  landress ;  what  lie  muKmood  by  it,  I  know  not,  but 
Corisca  means  his  camp  laundress. 

—  Wl  ile  I  lay 

In  the  leaguer  at  Ardennes,  lie  corrupts 
Two  mercenary  .-laves,"  &c.  Love'*  Victory. 

Lfaguer  is  the  Dutch,  or  rather  Flemish,  word  for  a  camp; 
and  was  one  of  the  newfangled  terms  introduced  from  ilie 
Low  Countries.  This  innovation  on  the  English  language 
is  excellently  noticed  by  Sir  John  Smyihe,  in  Certain  Vit- 
courses  concerning  the  Formes  and  KjffCtt  of  diver*  SiorU 
of  Heapon*,  Ar.,  -tio.  UO'J.  "  These,"  ,ihe'  otiiccrs  men- 
tioned before,)  "  nttcrlie  Ignorant  of  all  our  amu-ient  disci 
pline  and  proceeding  in  actions  of  urines,  have  so  affected 
the  Wallons,  Flemings,  and  base  Almanc*  discipline,  th.it 
they  have  procured  10  innovate,  or  rather  to  Mibvert  all  our 
•ancient  proceedings  in  matters  military  :— as,  fur  example 
they  will  not  vouchsafe  in  their  spcachcs  or  writings  to  use 
our  termes  belonging  to  matters  of  \varre,  but  (loo  calfa 
campe  by  the  Dutch  name  of  leyar  ;  nor  will  not  afford  to 
Bay  iij.it  such  a  towne  or  such  a  fort  is  besieged,  but  that  it 
is  beleyard:—M  though  our  English  nation,  which  hath 
been  so  famous  in  all  actions  militarie  manic  hundred 
yearts,  were  HOW  but  newly  ciept  into  Hie  world;  or  as 
though  our  language  were  so  barren,  that  it  were  not  able  ol 
itself,  or  by  deiivaiion,  to  atti.oid  convenient  words  lo  ulter 
our  minds  in  matters  of  dial  qualitir." 

I  cannot  avoid  adding  my  wishes  that  our  oflin-rs  would 
reflect  a  little  oil  these  sensible  obnervalions:  there  is  now 


Soap  of  mine  own,  enough  to  wash  his  linen. 
Or  I  would  strain  hard  for't. 

////.  How  the  mammet  twitters! 
Come,  come  ;  my  lady  stays  for  us. 

Cm  is.   Would  1  had  been 
Her  ladyship  the  last  night! 

Hit.  No  more  of  that,  wench. 

|  Exeunt  Hilurio,  Corisra,  and  the  rest. 

Math.  I  am  strangely  troubled  :  yet  why  I  should 

nourish 

A  fury  here,  and  with  imagined  food, 
Having  no  real  grounds  on  which  to  raise 
A  building  of  suspicion  she  was  ever 
Or  can  be  false  hereafter?     I  in  this 
But  foolishly  enquire  the  knowledge  of 
A  future  sorrow,  which,  if  I  find  out, 
My  present  ignorance  were  a  cheap  purchase, 
Though  with  mv  loss  of  being.     1  have  already 
De.ilt  with  a  friend  of  mine,  a  general  scholar, 
One  deeply  read*  in  nature's  hidden  secrets, 
And,  though  with  much  unwillingness,  have  won  him 
To  do  as  much  as  art  can.  to  resolve  me 
My  late  that  follows. — To  my  wish,  he's  come. 

Enter  BAPTISTA. 

Julio  Baptista,  now  I  may  affirm 
Ynur  promise  and  performance  walk  together; 
And  therefore,  without  circumstance,  to  the  point ; 
Instruct  me  wh-.it  1  am. 

Bupt.    1  could  wish  you  had 
Made  trial  of  mv  love  some  other  way. 

Math.   Nay,  this  is  from  the  purpose. 

Ba/it.  If  you  can 

Proportion  your  desire  to  any  mean, 
1  do  pronounce  you  happy;   I  have  found, 
My  certain  rules  of  art.  your  matchless  wife 
Is  to  this  present  hour  from  all  pollution 
Free  and  untainted. 

Math.  Good. 

Bupt.  1  i  reason,  therefore, 

You  should  fix  here,  and  make  no  further  search 
Of  what  may  fall  hereafter. 

Math.  O,  Baptista, 

'Tis  not  in  me  to  master  so  my  passions  ; 
1  must  know  further,  or  y:u  have  made  good 
But  half  your  promise.     While  my  love  stood  by, 
Holding  her  upright,  and  my  presence  was 
A  watch  upon  her,  her  desires  being  met  too 
With  equal  ardour  from  me,  what  one  proof 
Could  she  give  of  her  constancy,  being  untempted? 
But  when  I  am  absent,  and  my  coming  back 
Uncertain,  and  those  wanton  heats  in  women 
Not  to  be  quench 'd  by  lawful  means,  and  she 
The  absolute  disposer  of  herself, 

a  greater  affectation  than  ever,  of  introducing  French 
military  phra>es  into  our  army;  the  consequences  of  which 
may  be  more  important  than  they  stem  to  imagine. 

* a  general  scholar, 

One  deeply  read,  &c.l  In  die  list  of  dramatis  persona;,  too, 
he  is  call.d  a  sfirat  scholar.  The  character  of  13aplista  is 
founded  np»n  a  notion  very  generally  leceived  in  Hie  dark 
agi-s,  tli.it  men  of  learning  wete  comer.-ant  in  the  opera- 
tions of  niiivjc  :  and,  inilccd,  a  scholar  and  a  m.igici.m  are 
frequently  confounded  by  our  oltl  writers,  or  la  her  con- 
sidered us  one  and  the  same.  The  notion  is  not  j  el  obsolete 
among  the  vulgar. 

Baptixta  1'oita  has  given  an  elaborate  account,  in  hit 
treatise  lie  Miiyiu  .\aturali,  of  ilie  powers  once  supposed  tc 
be  possessed  and  exercised  by  magician*.  Both  the  woik 
and  tlii:  author  h.id  long  been  f.iiniliar  "  in  the  mouths  of 
men,"  and  were  piobabh  not  unknown  to  Malinger.  It 
is  an  ingenious  conjecture  of  Mr.  Gilrhri-i,  that  he  look  the 
iiaiue  of  his  "  deep-read  scholar,"  from  JJaptisla  Porta. 


II. J 


THE  PICTURE. 


255 


Without  control  or  curb  ;  nay,  more,  invited 
Us'  opportunity,  and  all  strong  temptations, 
It'  then  she  hold  out — 

Ba/it.  As,  no  doubt,  she  will. 

Alaili,  Those   doubts   must  be   made  certainties, 

Baptista, 

By  your  assurance  ;  or  your  boasted  art 
Deserves  no  admiration.      How  you  trifle, 
And  play  with  my  affliction  !     I  am  on 
The  rack,  til!  you  confirm  me. 

Bupt    Sure,  Mathias, 
I  am  no  god,  nor  can  1  dive  into 
Her  hidden  thoughts,  or  know  what  her  intents  are; 
That  is  denied  to  art,  and  kept  conceal'd 
J-.'eri  from  the  devils  themselves  :  they  can  but  guess, 
Out  of  !oi:g  observa'on,  what  is  likely  ; 
But  positively  to  foretel  thai*  shall  be, 
You  may  conclude  impossible.     All  1  can, 
I  will  do  for  you  ;  when  you  are  distant  from  her 
A  thousand  leagues,  as  if  you  then  were  with  her, 
You  shall  know  truly  when  she  is  solicited, 
And  how  far  wrought  on. 
Math.  1  desire  no  more. 
Bujit.  Take,  then,  this  little  model  of  Sophia, 
With  more  than  human  skill  iiinn'd  to  the  life; 

[G»f«  him  a  picture. 

Each  line  and  lineament  of  it  in  the  drawing 
So  punctually  observed,  that,  had  it  motion, 
]n  so  much  'twere  herself. 

Math.  It  is  indeed 

An  admirable  piece  ;  but  if  it  Irive  not 
Some  hidden  virtue  that  I  cannot  guess  at, 
In  what  can  it  sidvantage  me? 

Ba/.t.  I'll  instruct  you  : 
Carry  it  still  about  you,  and  as  oft 
As  you  desire  to  know  how  she's  affected, 
With  curious  eyes  peruse  it:   while  it  keeps 
The  figure  it  now  has,  entire  and  perfect, 
She  is  not  only  innocent  in  fact, 
But  unattempted  ;  but  if  once  it  vary 
From  the  true  form,  and  what  s  now  white  and  red, 
Incline  to  yellow*,  rest  most  confident 
She's  with  all  violence  courttd,  but  unconquer'd  ; 
But  if  it  turn  all  black,  'tis  an  assurance 
The  fort,  by  composition  or  surprise, 
Is  forced  or  with  her  free  consent  surrender'd. 
Muth.  How  much  you  have  engaged  me  for  this 

favour 
The  service  of  my  whole  life  shall  make  good. 

liupt.  We  will  not  part  so,  I'll  along  with  you, 
And  it  is  needful  ;  with  the  rising  suii 
The  armies  meet ;  yet,  ere  the  fight  begin, 
lu  spite  of  opposition,  I  will  place  you 
In  the  head  of  the  Hungarian  general's  troop, 
Anii  near  h;s  person. 

Mutli.  As  my  better  angel, 
You  shall  direct  and  guide  me. 

Bupt    As  we  ride 
I'll  tell  you  more. 

Math'.  In  all  things  I'll  obey  you.  [Exeunt. 


*  Hut  pas!  lively  to  foretel  lliat  shall  }>e,]  All  the  copie« 
read,  that  this  shall  be,  which  ,~poils  the  verse,  and  is  i;oi, 
indeed,  Hie  ia;.y\i.ii;e  ol  the  age. 

f  hit  if  oner  it  vary 

From  the  Irueform,  and  u-hat's  now  vvhitean//  reel 
Jnciiiif.  to  jeliow.)  It  is  nol  impiubable  but  that  these 
and  Miuil.ii-  fictions  wi-ie  ori^in.illy  di'iived  from  tin?  rab- 
bicinal  iioii.  n,  lh.it  distant  iveiiis  were  signified  to  the 
high-priest  by  changes  in  the  colour  of  the  precious  stones 
\viiith  torn.ed  the  t)r;m  auJ  Thuimniu:. 


SC  RNE  II. — Hungary.     A  State-room  in  the  Palace 
Enter  UBAI.DO  and  RICARDO. 

Ric.  When  came  the  post ! 
Ubald.  The  last  night. 

Hie.  From  the  camp  1  [sign'd 

Ubald.  Yes,  as  'tis  said,  and  the  letter  writ  and 
By  the  general,  Ferdinand. 

'Bio.  Nay,  then,  sans  question, 
It  is  of  moment. 

Uliald.  It  concerns  the  lives 
Of  two  great  armies. 

Ric.    Was  it  cheerfully 
Received  by  the  king  ] 

Ubald.  Yes  ;  for  being  assured 
The  armies  were  in  view  of  one  another, 
Having  proclaim'd  a  public  fast  and  prayer 
For  the  good  success,  he  despatch'd  a  geutlemnn 
Of  his  privy  chamber  to  the  general, 
With  absolute  authority  from  him 
To  try  the  fortune  ol  a  day. 

Ric.  No  doubt  then 

The  general  will  come  on,  and  fight  it  bravely. 
Heaven  prosper  him  !     This  military  art 
I  grant  to  be  the  noblest  of  professions  ; 
And  yet,  I  thank  my  stars  fort,  1  was  never 
Inclined  to  learn  it ;  since  this  bubble  honour 
(Which  is,  indeed,  tin- nothing  soldiers  fight  for), 
With  the  loss  of  limbs  or  liie,  is,  in  my  judgment, 
Too  dear  a  purchase*. 

Ubald.  Give  me  our  court  warfare  : 
The  danger  is  not  great  in  the  encounter 
Of  a  fair  mistress. 

liic.   Fair  and  sound  together 
Do  very  well,  Ubaldo  ;  but  such  are 
With  difficulty  to  be  found  out ;  and  when  ihey  know 
Their  value,  prized  too  high.     By  thy  own  report, 
Thou  wast  at  twelve  a  gamester,  and  since  that, 
Studied  all  kinds  of  females,  from  the  night-trader 
1'  the  street,  with  certain  danger  to  thy  pocket, 
To  the  great  lady  in  her  cabinet ; 
That  spent  upon  thee  more  in  cullises, 
To  strengthen  thy  weak  back,  than  would  maintain 
Twelve  Flanders  mares,  and  as  many  running  horses. 
Besides  apothecaries  and  surgeons'  bills, 
Paid  upon  all  occasions,  and  those  frequent. 

Ubald.  You  talk,  Ricardo,  as  if  yet  you  were 
A  novice  in  those  mysteries. 

Ric.  By  no  means  ; 
My  doctor  can  assure  the  contrary : 
I  lose  no  time.     I  have  felt  the  pain  and  pleasure, 
As  he  that  is  a  gamester,  and  plays  often, 
Must  sometimes  be  a  loser. 
Ubald.  Wherefore,  then, 
Do  you  enry  me? 

Ric.  It  grows  not  from  my  want, 
Nor  thy  abundance  ;  but  being,  as  I  am, 
The  likelier  man,  and  of  much  more  experience, 
My  good  parts  are  my  curses  :  there's  no  beauty 
But  yields  ere  it  be  summon'd  ;  and,  as  nature 
Had  sign'd  me  the  monopoly  of  maidenheads, 
There's  none  tan  buy  it  till  1  have  made  my  market 
Satiety  cloys  me ;  as  I  live,  I  would  part  with 


since  this  bubble  honour 


(Which  is,  indeed,  the  nothing  soldiers  fiyht fur}, 
H  ith  the  loss  of  limbs  or  life,is,  in  my  judgment, 
Too  dear  a  purchase.]    In  this  passage,  which  has   been 
hitheito    most    absurdly    pointed,    Massinger,    as    Coxetet 
observes,  had   Slukspeare  in  his  thoughts,  and  principally 
Falstaff's  humorous  catechism. 


I 


THE  PICTURE. 


[Acrl. 


Half  my  estate,  nay,  travel  o'er  the  world, 
To  find  that  only  phenix  in  my  search. 
That  could  hold  out  against  me. 

Ubald.  lie  not  rapt  so ; 

You  may  spare  that  labour.     As  she  is  a  woman, 
What  think  you  of  the  queen? 

Ric.  I  dare  not  aim  at 
The  petticoat  royal,  that  is  still  excepted : 
Yet,  were  she  not  my  king's,  being  the  abstract 
Of  all  that's  rare  or  to  be  wish'd  in  woman, 
To  write  her  in  my  catalogue,  having  enjoy'd  her, 
I  would  venture  my  neck  to  a  halter  — but  we  talk  of 
Impossibilities  :  as  she  hath  a  beauty 
Would  make  old  Nestor  young  ;    such  majesty 
Draws  f'ortli  a  sword  of  terror  to  defend  it, 
As  would  fright  Paris,  though  the  queen  of  love 
Vow'd  her  best  furtherance  to  him. 

Ubald.  Have  you  observed 
The  gravity  of  her  language  mix'd  with  sweetness  ? 

Ric.  Then  at  what  distance  she  reserves  herself 
When  the  king  himself  makes  his  approaches  to 
her. 

Ubald.  As  she  were  still  a  virgin,  and  his  life 
But  one  continued  wooing. 

Ric.  She  well  knows 
Her  wonh,  and  values  it. 

Ubald.  And  so  far  the  king  is 
Indulgent  to  her  humours,  that  he  forbears 
The  duty  of  a  husband,  but  when  she  calls  for't. 

Ric.  All  his  imaginations  and  thoughts 
Are  buried  in  her  ;  the  loud  noise  of  war 
Cannot  awake  him. 

Ubald.  At  this  very  instant, 
When  both  his  life  and  crown  are  at  the  stake, 
He  only  studies  her  content,  and  when 
She's  pleased  to  shew  herself,  music  and  masks 
Are  with  all  c:ire  and  cost  provided  for  her. 

Ric.  This  night  she  promised  to  appear. 

Uliald.  You  may 

Believe  it  by  the  diligence  of  the  king, 
As  if  he  were  her  harbinger. 

Enter  LADISLAUS,  EUBULUS,  and  Attendants,  with 
perfumes. 

Ladii.  These  rooms 
Are  not  perfumed,  as  we  directed. 

Eubu.  Not,  sir ! 

[smoke 

I  know  not  what  you  would  have ;  I  am  sure  the 
Cost  treble  the  price  of  the  whole  week's  provision 
Spent  in  your  majesty's  kitchens. 

Liutis.   How  I  scorn 

Thy  gross  comparison  !     When  my*  Honoria, 
The  amazement  of  the  present  time,  and  envy 
Ot  all  succeeding  ages,  does  descend 
To  sanctity  a  place,  and  in  her  presence 
Makes  it  a  temple  to  me,  can  I  be 
Too  curious,  much  less  prodigal,  to  receive  her  ? 
lii  t  that  the  splendour  of  her  beams  of  beauty 
Ha  h  struck  thee  blind — 

Eiibn.  As  dotage  hath  done  you. 

Litdis,  Dotage !     O  blasphemy  !  is  it  in  me 
To  serve  her  to  her  merit?  Is  she  not 
The  daughter  of  a  king  J 

Eubu.  And  you  the  son 
Of  ours  I  take  it  ;  by  what  privilege  else 


•  When  my  Honoria,}  Mr.  M.  Mason  omits  my;  I  know 
not  whether  by  inadvertence  or  design;  but  it  injures  the 
metre. 


Do  you  reign  over  us  ;  for  my  part  I  know  not 
Where  the  disparity  lies. 

Ladis.  Her  birth,  old  man 

j   (Old  in  the  kingdom's  service,  which  protects  thee), 
Is  the  least  grace  in  her :  and  though  her  beauties 
Might  make  the  Thunderer  a  rival  for  her, 
They  are  but  superficial  ornaments, 
And  faintly  speak  her  :  from  her  heavenly  mind, 
Were  all  antiquity  and  fiction  lost, 
Our  modern  poets  could  not  in  their  fancy, 
Hut  fashion  a  Minerva  far  transcending 
The  imagined  one  whom  Homer  only  dreamt  of. 
But  then  add  this,  she's  mine,  mine,  Eubulus*  ! 
And  though  she  knows  one  glance  from  her  fair  eyes 
Must  make  all  gazers  her  idolaters, 
She  is  so  sparing  of  their  influence, 
That,  to  shun  superstition  in  others, 
She  shoots  her  powerful  beams  only  at  me. 
And  can  I,  then,  whom  she  desires  to  hold 
Her  kingly  captive  above  all  the  world, 
Whose  nations  and  empires,  if  she  pleased, 
She  might  command  as  slaves,  but  gladly  pay 
The  humble  tribute  of  my  love  and  servioe, 
Nay,  if  I  said  of  adoration,  to  her, 
1  did  not  err  ? 

Eiibu.  Well,  since  you  hug  your  fetters, 
In  love's  name  wear  them  !    You  are  a  king,  and  that 
Concludes  you  wisef,  your  will,  a  powerful  reason  : 
Which  we,  that  are  foolish  subjcts,  must  not  argue. 
And  what  in  a  mean  man  I  should  call  folly, 
Is  in  your  majesty  remarkable  wisdom  : 
But  for  me,  I  subscribe. 

Ladis.  Do,  and  look  up, 
Upon  this  wonder. 

Loud  music.   Enter  HONORIA  tn  state,  tinder  a  Canopy , 
her  train  borne  tip  by  SYLVIA  and  ACANTHE. 

Ric.  Wonder  !  ]  t  is  more,  sir, 

Ubald.  A  rapture,  an  astonishment. 

Ric.  What  think  you,  sir  ? 

Eubu.  As  the  king  thinks,  that  is  the  surest  guard 
We  courtiers  ever  lie  at  f .     Was  prince  ever 
So  drown'd  in  dotage  ?   Without  spectacles 
1  can  see  a  handsome  woman,  and  she  is  so  : 
But  yet  to  admiration  look  not  on  her. 
Heaven,  how  he  fawns  !  and,  as  it  were  his  duty, 
With  what  assured  gravity  she  receives  it! 
Her  hand  again  !    O  she  at  length  vouchsafes 
Her  lip,  and  as  he  had  suck'd  nectar  from  it, 
How  he's  exalted  !     \Vomen  in  their  natures 
Affect  command  ;  but  this  humility 
In  a  husband  and  a  king  marks  her  the  way 
To  absolute  tyranny.     [The   king  seats  her  on  hit 

throne.]     So  !  Juno's  placed 
In  Jove's  tribunal ;  and,  like  Mercury 
(Forgetting  his  own  greatness),  he  attends 

*  But  then  add  this,  she's  mine,  mine,  Eubulus !]  Our  old 
writers  were  very  lax  in  their  use  i,f  furcign  names,  Mas- 
singer  was  a  scholar,  yet  he  pronounces  Eubulus  much  as 
Shakspeare  would  have  done  it. 

You  are  a  king,  and  that 

Concludes  you  wise:  &c.]  Massinger  appears  to  me  to 
have  feveral  sly  tin  lists,  in  various  parts  of  his  works,  at  the 
slavish  doctrines  maintained  by  most  of  the  celebrated 
writeri  of  his  time  : — 

"  be  it  one  poet's  praise, 

That  if  he  pleased,  he  pleased  by  manly  ways, 
That  flattery  even  to  kings  he  held  a  shame, 
And  thought  a  lie  in  verse  or  prose  the  same." 
t  Eubu.  As  the  king  thinks,  that  is  the  surest  guard 
If  e  courtiers  ever  lie  at.]   i.  e.  ilie  snrei-t  posiure  of  de- 
fence.    "  'Jhou  Unowest,"   says  FaUlaff,  "  my   old  ward 
thut  1  lay."     Guard  and  u-a'rd  are  the  same  word. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


25T 


For  her  employments.     She  prepares  to  speak  ; 
What  oracles  shall  we  hear  now? 

Hon.  That  you  please,  sir, 
With  such  assurances  of  love  and  favour, 
To  grace  your  handmaid,  but  in  being  yours,  sir, 
A  matchless  queen,  and  one  that  knows  herself  so, 
Binds  me  in  retribution  to  deserve 
The  grace  conferr'd  upon  me. 

Ludis.  You  transcend 
In  all  things  excellent ;  and  it  is  my  glory, 
Your  worth  weigh 'd  tiuly,  to  depose  myself 
From  absolute  command,  surrendering  up 
My  will  and  faculties  to  your  disposure  : 
And  here  I  vow.  not  for  a  day  or  year, 
But  my  whole  life,  which  I  wish  long  to  serve  you, 
That  whatsover  I  injustice  may 
Exact  from  these  my  subjects,  you  from  me 
May  boldly  challenge  :  and  when  you  require  it, 
In  sign  of  my  subjection,  as  your  vassal, 
Thus  I  will  pay  my  homage. 

Him.  O  forbear,  sir  ! 
Let  not  my  lips  envy  my  robe  ;  on  them 
Print  your  allegiance  often  :  I  desire 
No  other  fealty. 

Ladis.  Gracious  sovereign  ! 
Boundless  in  bounty ! 

£u6it.  Is  not  here  fine  fooling  ! 
He's,  questionless,  bewitch'd.    Would  I  were  gelt, 
So  that  would  disenchant  him  !  though  I  forfeit 
My  life  for't,  1  must  speak.    By  your  good  leave, 

sir — 

I  have  no  suit  to  you,  nor  can  you  grant  one, 
Having  no  power  :  you  are  like  me,  a  subject, 
Her  more  than  serene  majesty  being  present. 
And  I  must  tell  you,  'tis  ill  manners  in  you, 
Having  deposed  yourself,  to  keep  your  hat  on, 
And  not  stand  bare,  as  we  do,  being  no  king, 
But  a  fellow-subject  with  us.     Gentlemen  ushers, 
It  does  belong  to  your  place,  see  it  reform'd  ; 
He  has  given  away  his  crown,  and  cannot  challenge 
The  privilege  of  his  bonnet. 

Ladis.  Do  not  tempt  me.  [example? 

Eubit,  Tempt  you  !  in   what?  in  following  your 
If  you  are  angry,  question  me  hereafter, 
As  Ladislaus  should  do  Eubulus, 
On  equal  terms.     You  were  of  late  my  sovereign 
But  weary  of  it,  I  now  bend  my  knee 
To  her  divinity,  and  desire  a  boou 
From  her  more  than  magnificence. 

Hon.  Take  it  freely.  [him. 

Nay,  be  not  moved  ;  for  our  mirth's  sake  let  us  hear 

Eubu.  Tis  but  to   ask  a   question  :    Have  you 

ne'er  read 
The  story  of  Semiramis  and  Ninus? 

Hon.  Not  as  I  remember. 

Enhu.  I  will  then  instruct  you, 
And  'tis  to  the  purpose  :  This  Ninus  was  a  king, 
And  such  an  impotent  loving  king  as  this  was, 
Hut  now  he's  none  ;  this  Ninus  (pray  you  observe 

me) 

Doted  on  this  Semiramis,  a  smith's  wife 
(I  must  confess,  there  the  comparison  holds  not, 
You  are  a  king's  daughter,  yet,  under  your  correc- 
tion, 

Like  her  a  woman)  ;  this  Assyrian  monarch, 
Of  whom  this  is  a  pattern,  to  express 
His  love  and  service,  seated  her,  as  you  are, 
In  his  regal  throne,  and  bound  by  oath  his  nobles, 
Fc^getting  alt  allegiance  to  himself, 
One  day  to  be  her  subjects,  and  to  put 


In  execution  whatever  she  [him 

Pleased  to  impose  upon  them  : — pray  you  command 
To  minister  the  like  to  us,  and  then 
You  shall  hear  what  follow 'd. 

Ludis.  Well,  sir,  to  your  story,  [know 

Eubu.  You  have  no  warrant,  stand  by  ;    let  ine 
Your  pleasure,  goddess. 

Hon.  Let  this  nod  assure  you.  [idol  ! 

Eubu.  Goddess-like,  indeed  !  as  I  live,  a  pretty 
She  knowing;  her  power,  wisely  made  use  of  it ; 
And  fearing  his  inconstancy,  and  repentance 
Of  what  he  had  granted  (as,  in  reason,  madam, 
You  may  do  his),  that  he  might  never  have 
Power  to  recal  his  grant,  or  question  her 
For  her  short  government,  instantly  gave  order 
To  have  his  head  struck  off. 

Latlis.  Js't  possible?  [dom 

Eubu.  The  storv  says  so,  and  commends  her  wis- 
For  making  use  of  her  authority. 
And  it  is  worth  your  imitation,  madam  : 
He  loves  subjection,  and  you  are  no  queen, 
Unless  you  make  him  feel  the  weight  of  it, 
You  are  more  than  all  the  world  to  him,  and  that 
He  may  be  so*  to  you,  and  not  seek  change 
When  his  delights  are  sated,  mew  him  up 
In  some  close  prison  (if  you  let  him  live, 
Which  is  no  policy),  and  there  diet  him 
As  you  think  fit,  to  feed  your  appetite  ; 
Since  there  ends  his  ambition. 

Ubald.  Devilish  counsel ! 

Eh.  The  king's  amazed. 

Ubald.  The  queen  appears,  too,  full 
Of  deep  imaginations;  Eubulus 
Hath  put  both  to  it. 

Ric.  Now  she  seems  resolved: 
I  long  to  know  the  issue. 

\_llonoria  descendtfrom  the  throng. 

Hon.  Give  me  leave, 
Dear  sir,  to  reprehend  you  for  appearing 
Perplex'd  with  what  this  old  man,  out  of  envy 
Of  your  unequall'd  graces,  shower 'd  upon  me, 
Hath,  in  his  fabulous  story,  saucily 
Applied  to  me.     Sir,  that  vou  only  nourish 
One  doubt  Honoria  dares  abuse  the  power 
With  which  she  is  invested  by  your  favour ; 
Or  that  she  ever  can  make  use  of  it 
To  the  injury  of  you,  the  great  bestower, 
Takes  from  your  judgment.     It  was  your  delight 
To  seek  to  me  with  more  obsequiousness 
Than  I  desired  :  and  stood  it  with  my  duty 
Not  to  receive  what  you  were  pleased  to  offer  ? 
I  do  but  act  the  part  you  put  upon  me, 
And  though  you  make  me  personate  a  queen, 
And  you  my  subject,  when  the  play,  your  pleasure, 
Is  at  a  period.  I  am  what  I  was 
Before  I  enter'd,  still  your  humble  wife, 
An.l  you  my  royal  sovereign. 


•   You  are  more  than  all  the  world  to  him,  and  that 

He  May  be  loe  to  you,]  This  is  the  reading  of  all  the  old 
copies,  but  most  certainly  false.     It  ouuht  to  be 

and  that 

He  may  be  so  to  you.     COXETER. 

When  it  is  considered  that  the  old  way  of  spelling  so  was 
foe,  and  that  the  /  is  frequently  mistaken  for  an  /,  we 
«hall  not  be  inclined  to  think  extraordinarily  highly  01  Ihe 
editor's  sagacity,  notwithstanding  it  is  set  off  by  a  capit  >1 
letter,  which  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  original.  But  now 
steps  in  Mr.  M.  Mason,  and,  having  the  scent  of  an  amend- 
ment, pronounces  so  to  be  nonsense. !  and  proposes  to  read 
(nay,  actually  prints),  true,  which,  saith  he,  "  is  evidently 
the  right  word."  All  this  thrashing  for  chaff! 


158 


THE  PICTURE. 


[AcT  It. 


Jiff.  Admirable!  [dangers 

Hon.  1  have  heard  of  captains  taken  more  with 
Than  the  rewards  ;  and  if,  in  your  approaches 
To  those  delights  which  are  your  own,  and  freely, 
To  heighten  your  desire,  you  make  the  passage 
Narrow  and  difficult,  shall  I  prescribe  you, 
Or  blame  your  fondness  ?  or  can  that  swell  me 
Beyond  my  just  proportion  1 

Uhald.  Ahove  wonder  !  [ness. 

Ladis.  Heaven  make  me  thankful  for  such  good- 
How.  Now,  sir, 

The  state  I  took  to  satisfy  your  pleasure, 
I  change  to  this  humility  ;  and  the  oath 
You  made  to  me  of  homage,  I  thus  cancel, 
And  seat  you  in  your  own. 

[Leads  the  king  to  the  throne. 

Ladis.  I  am  transported 
Beyond  myself. 

Hon.  And  now,  to  your  wise  lordship  : 
Am  1  proved  a  Semiramis?  or  hath 
My  Ninus,  as  maliciously  you  made  him, 
Cause  to  repent  the  excess  of  favour  to  me, 
Which  you  call  dotage? 

Ladis.  Answer,  wretch. 

Eubu.  I  dare,  sir, 

And  say,  however  the  event  may  plead 
In  your  defence,  you  had  a  guilty  cause  ; 
Nor  was  it  wisdom  in  you,  I  repeat  it, 
To  teach  a  lady,  humble  in  herself, 
With  the  ridiculous  dotage  of  a  lover, 
To  be  ambitious. 

Hon.  Eubulus,  I  am  so ; 
'Tis  rooted  in  me ;  you  mistake  my  temper. 
I  do  profess  myself  to  be  the  most 
Ambitious  of  my  sex,  but  not  to  hold 
Command  over  my  lord  ;  such  a  proud  torrent 
Would  sink  me  in  my  wishes  :  not  that  I 
Am  ignorant  how  much  I  can  deserve, 
And  may  with  justice  challenge. 

I'.nhn.  This  1  look'd  for  ; 
After  this  seeming  humble  ebb,  I  knew 
A  gushing  tide  would  follow. 

Hon.   By  my  birth, 

And  liberal  gifts  of  nature,  as  of  fortune, 
From  you,  as  things  beneath  me,  1  expect 
What's  due  to  majesty,  in  which  I  am 
A  sharer  with  your  sovereign. 

Eubu.  Good  again ! 

Hon.  And  as  I  am  most  eminent  in  place, 
In  all  my  actions  I  would  appear  so. 

Ladis.  You  need  not  fear  a  rival. 

Hon.  1  hope  not ; 

And  till  1  find  one,  I  disdain  to  know 
What  envy  is. 

Ladis.  You  are  above  it,  madam. 

Hon.   For  beauty  without  art,  discourse,  and  free* 

•  For  beauty  without  art,  discourse,  and, free,  &c  j  Tl  cse 
last  word*  are  improperly  arranged,  we  thu'ulil  rend, 

For  beauty  without  art,  and  discourse  free  from  affec 
tation.    M.  MA*ON. 

1  know  uot  how  much  Mr.  M.  Mason  had  icad  cf  hij 


From  affectation,  with  what  graces  else 
Can  in  the  wife  and  daughter  of  a  king 
Be  wish'd,  1  dare  prefer  myself,  as 

Eubu.  I 

Blush  for  you,  lady.     Trumpet  your  own  praises* ! 
This  spoken  by  the  people  had  been  he»rd 
With  honour  to  you.     Does  the  court  afford 
No  oil-tongued  parnsite,  that  you  are  forced 
To  be  your  own  gross  flatterer  ? 

Ladis.  Be  dumb. 
Thou  spirit  of  contradiction  ! 

Hon.  The  wolf 

But  barks  against  the  moon,  and  I  contemn  it. 
The  mask  you  promised?         [A  horn  sounded  within. 

LacKs.  Let  them  enter. 

Enter  a  COUIUER. 

How! 

Eubu.  Here's  one,  I  fear,  unlook'd  for. 

Ladis.  From  the  camp  ? 

Cour.  The  general,  victorious  in  your  fortune, 
Kisses  your  hand  in  this,  sir.  [Delivers  a  lettei 

Ladis.  That  great  Power, 
Who  at  his  pleasure  does  dispose  of  battles. 
Be  ever  praised  for't !    Read,  sweet,  and  partake  it: 
The  Turk  is  vanquish 'd,  and  with  littlo  loss 
Upon  our  part,  in  which  our  joy  is  doubled. 

Eubu.  But  let  it  not  exalt  you  ;  beur  it,  sir, 
With  moderation,  and  pay  what  you  owe  for't. 

Ladis.  I  understand  thee,  Eubulus.     I'll  not  now 
Enquire  particulars. —  [Exit  Courier.] — Our  delights 

deferred, 

With  reverence  to  the  temples  ;  there  we'll  tender 
Our  souls'  devotions  to  His  dread  might, 
Who  edged  our  swords,  and  taught  us  how  to  fight. 

[Eieunt. 


author  when  he  wrote  this  note  ;  but  must  take  leave  to 
think,  that  his  acquaintance  with  him  was  exceedingly 
siipritiri.il.  The  mode  of  expression,  which  he  \voulu 
change  into  tame  prose  by  his  arrangement,  is  so  t'rc<|iu-n 
in  Massinger,  as  to  form  one  of  the  characteristics  ot'  mi 
style.  It  is  not,  indeed,  unknown  to,  or  unused  by,  any  ol 
his  contemporaries  :  but  in  none  of  them  are  the  recurrence.! 
of  it  so  frequent. 
•  Etibn.  / 

Blush  for  you,  lady.  Trumpet  your  own  praties  t]  Dods- 
ley  read?, 
At  I 

liluthfor  you,  lady,  trumpet  not  your  own  praise, 
Coxter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason : 
A*  I 

Slush  for  you,  lady,  trumpet  your  own  praises — 
And  explain  it  to  mean  that—"  she  lit  in  If   iiavin«   lost   all 
sense  of  Miame,  he  undertakes  to  blush  for  hvi  ;  and  there- 
fore ironically  bids  her  proceed." 

I  like  neither  of  these  readings.  Dodsley'*  is  v«ry  tame  ; 
and  Coxeter's  at  variance  with  what  follows.  The  old 
copy  ps  tlu-rp-s  aoatni  h  t  us  : 

Eub.  As  I 

Blush  ftr  you  lady,  trumpet  your  own  praysir* ! 
Which  leads  me  to  siuprci  that  the  queen  was  interrupted 
by  the  impatience  of  Eubulus;  ujx.n  ih.it  idea  I  have  regu- 
lated  the   text.     Tnis   is   by  far  the  greatest  liberty  1  havt 
yet  takeu  with  my  autuot. 


STSKE  T.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


859 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I. — Bohemia.     A  Room  in  Malhias'  House. 
Enter  HILARIO  and  COIUSCA. 

Hit.  You  like  my  speech? 

Cm-is.  Yes,  it' you  give  it  action 
In  the  delivery. 

Hil.  If!   I  jiityyou.  [time, 

1  have  p'.ay'd  tlie   fool  before;  this  is  not  the  first 
Nor  shall  be.  1  hope,  the  last. 

Coris.  Nay,  I  think  so  too.  [laughter, 

Hil.  And  if  I  put  her  not  out  of  her  dumps  with 
I'll  m:ike  her  howl  for  anger. 

Coris.   Not  too  much 

Of  that,  good  fellow  llilario  :  «ur  sad  lady 
Hath  drank  too  often  of  that  bitter  cup; 
A  pleasant  one  must  restore  her.   With  what  patience 
"Would  she  endure  to  hear  of  the  death  of  my  lord  ; 
That,  merely  out  of  doubt  he  may  miscarry, 
Afflicts  herself  thus? 

Hil.   L'mph  !   'tis  a  question 
A  widow  only  can  resolve.     There  be  some 
That  in  their  husbands'  sicknes>es*  have  wept 
Their  pottle  of  tears  a  day  ;  but  being  once  certain 
At  midnight  he  was  dead,  have  in  the  morning 
Dried  up  their  handkerchief's,  and  thought  uo  more 
on't.  [TOW 

Corit.  Tush,  she  is  none  of  that  race  ;  if  her  sor- 
Be  not  true  and  perfect,  1  against  my  sex 
Will  take  my  oath  woman  ne'er  wept  in  earnest. 
She  has  made  herself  a  prisoner  to  her  chamber, 
Dark  as  a  dungeon,  in  which  no  beam 
Of  comfort  enters.     She  admits  no  visits  ; 
Eats  little,  and  her  nightly  music  is 
Of  sighs  and  groans,  toned  to  such  harmony 
Of  feeling  grief,  ihat  I,  against  my  nature, 
Am  made  one  of  the  consortf.     This  hour  only 
She  takes  the  air,  a  custom  every  day 
She  solemnly  observes,  with  greedy  hopes, 
From  some  that  pass  by,  to  receive  assurance 
Of  the  success  and  safety  of  her  lord. 
Now,  if  that  your  device  will  take 

Hit.  Ne'er  fear  it : 
I  am  provided  cap-a-pie1,  and  have 
Mv  properties  in  readiness. 

Sffk.  [it-it/iiit.]  Bring  my  veil,  there. 
Coris.   Be  gone,  1  hear  her  coming. 

Hit.  If  1  do  not 

Appear,  and,  what's  more,  appear  perfect,  hiss  me. 

[Exit. 

Enter  SOPHIA. 

S«ph.  I  was  flatter'd  once,  I  was  a  star,  but  now 
TurnM  a  prodigious  meteor,  and,  like  one, 
Hang  in  the  air  between  my  hopes  and  fears ; 
And  every  hour,  the  little  stuff  burnt  out 
That  yields  a  waning  light  to  dying  comfort, 

•  That  in  their  hatband*'  sicknesses  have  tcrpt]  So  the 
Quarto:  Hie  modern  editors  nsr.l, 

That  in  their  l^b-tml's  sickness  have  wept 
which    utterly    destroys    the    nutrt.     In   the   next   speech, 
fur—woman   ne'er  we  t,  Mr.   M.  Mason    Kive»   us   women 
ne'er  wept .'  and  thus  he  Humbles  and  blunders  on  through 
the  whole  work. 

t  Am  made  one  of  the  consort,)  Here,  as  every  where 
else,  Mr.  M.  Max.ni  discharges  the  genuine  woid  for  concert. 
See  The  Fatal  Dowry. 


I  do  expect  my  fall,  and  certain  ruin. 
In  wretched  things  more  wretched  is  delay; 
And  Hope,  a  parasite  to  me,  being  unmask'd, 
Appears  more  horrid  than  Despair,  <md  my 
Uis  ruction  worse  than  madness.     Even  my  prayers, 
U  hen  with  most  zeal  sent  upward,  are  pull'd  down 
With  strong  imaginary  doubts  and  fears, 
And  in  their  sudden  precipice  o'erwhelm  me. 
Dreams  and  fanta>tic  visions  walk  the  round* 
About  my  widow'd  bed,  and  every  slumber's 
Broken  with  loud  alarms  :  can  these  be  then 
But  sad  presages,  girl? 

Cm  is.   You  make  them  so, 
And  antedate  a  loss  shall  ne'er  fall  on  you. 
Suchpuie  -affection,  such  mutual  love, 
A  bed,  and  undeliled  on  either  part, 
A  house  without  contention,  in  two  bodies 
One  will  and  soul,  like  to  the  rod  of  concord, 
Kissing  each  other,  cannot  be  short-lived, 
Or  end  in  barrenness. — If  all  these,  dear  madam 
(Sweet  in  your  sadness), slnuld  produce  no  fruit, 
Or  leave  the  age  no  models  of  yourselves, 
To  witness  to  posterity  what  you  were  ; 
Succeeding  times,  frighted  with  the  example, 
But  hearing  of  your  story,  would  instruct 
Their  fairest  issue  to  meet  sensually, 
Like  other  creatures,  and  forbear  to  raise 
True  Love,  or  Hymen,  altars. 

Soph.  0  Corisca, 

1  know  thy  reasons  are  like  to  thy  wishes  ; 
And  they  are  built  upon  a  weak  foundation, 
To  raise  me  comfort.     Ten  long:  days  are  past, 
Ten  long  days,  my  Corisca.  since  my  lord 
Embark  d  himself  upon  a  sea  of  danger, 
In  his  dear  care  of  me.     And  if  his  life 
Had  not  been  shipwreck'd  on  the  rock  of  war, 
His  tenderness  of  me  (knowing  how  mucn 
I  languish  for  his  absence)  bad  provided 
Some  trusty  friend,  from  whom  1  might  receive 
Assurance  of  his  safety. 

Coris.  Ill  news,  madam,  [crutches: 

Are   saallow-wing'd,    but  what's   good   walks  on 
With  patience  expect  it,  and,  ere  long, 
No  doubt  you  shall  hear  from  him. 

[Horn  blown. 

Soph.  Ha  !  What's  that  ? 

Curis.  The  fool  has  got  a  sowgelder's  horn.  A  post, 
As  [take  it,  madam. 

Soph.  It  makes  this  way  still ; 
Nearer  and  nearer. 

Coris.  From  the  camp,  I  hope. 
Enter  one  disguised  as  a   C.wrier,   with  a  horn  ;  fot- 

laued  by  HILAHIO,  in  antic  armour,  with  long  whitt 

hair  and  beard. 

[armour, 

Soph.  The  messenger  appears,  and  in  strange 
Heaven  !  if  it  be  thy  will — 

Hil.  It  is  no  booi 
To  strive  ;  our  horses  tired,  let's  walk  0.1  foot : 

•  Urecms  and  fantastic  vision»  walk  the  round]  For 
the  round,  CoKder  w..»l<i  ri-.nl.rAnV  round;  t.il  he  itU 
not  understand  the  »hra-t.  To  "  walk  the  round  wai 
tethni  al,  anil  meant  t..  u-atch,  in  whi.-h  n  use  it  often 
occurs  in  Massingtr,  and  other  writers  of  his  age. 


THE  PICTURE. 


[ACT  II. 


And  that  the  castle,  which  is  very  near  us, 
To  give  us  entertainment,  may  soon  hear  us, 
Blow  lustily,  my  lad,  and  drawing  nigh-a*, 
Ask  lor  a  lady  which  is  cleped  Sophia. 
Cr»<is.  He  names  you,  madam. 
Hil.  For  to  her  I  bring, 
Thus  clad  in  arms,  news  of  a  pretty  thing, 
By  name  Mathias.  [Eorif  Courier. 

Soph.  From  my  lord  ?  O  sir 
I  am  Sophia,  that  Mathias'  wife. 
So  may  Mars  favour  you  in  all  your  battles, 
As  you  with  speed  unload  me  of  the  burthen 
I  labour  under,  till  1  am  confirm  *d 
Both  where  and  how  you  left  him  ! 

Hil.  If  thou  art, 

As  I  believe,  the  pigsney  of  fcis  heart, 
Know  he's  in  health,  and  what's  more,  full  of  glee ; 
And  so  much  I  was  will'd  to  say  to  thee. 
Soph.  Have  you  no  letters  from  him  ? 
Hit.  No  more  wordsf. 

In  the  camp  we  use  no  pens,  hut  write  with  swords  ; 
Yet  as  I  am  enjoin'd,  by  word  of  mouth 
I  will  proclaim  his  deeds  from  north  to  south ; 
Hut  tremble  not,  while  I  relate  the  wonder 
Though  my  eyes  like  lightning  shine,  and  my  voice 

thunder. 

Soph.  This  is  some  counterfeit  braggart. 
Com.    Hear  him,  madam. 
Hit.  The  rear  inarch'd  first,  which  follow'd  by 

the  van, 

And  wing'd  with  the  battaliaj,  no  man 
Durst  stay  to  shift  a  shirt,  or  louse  himself ; 
Yet,  ere  the  armies  join'd,  that  hopeful  elf, 
Thy  dear,  thy  dainty  duckling,  bold  Mathias, 
Advanced,  and  stared  like  Hercules  or  Golias. 
A  hundred  thousand  Turks,  it  is  no  vaunt, 
Assail'd  him;  every  one  a  Tenmagaunt : 
But  what  did  he  then,  with  his  keen-edge  spear 
He  cut  and  carbonated  them :  here  and  there 
Lay  legs  and  arms;  and,  as  'tis  said  trulee 
Of  Bevis,  some  he  quarter'd  all  in  three. 
Soph.  This  is  ridiculous. 
Hil.  I  must  take  breath ; 
Th  n  like  a  nightingale,  I'll  sing  his  death. 
Soph.  His  death! 
Hil.  I  am  out. 

Coris.  Recover,  dunder-head,  [died  ; 

Hil.  How  he  escaped,  I  should  have  sung,  not 
FoT,  though  a  knight,  when  I  said  so,  I  lied. 
Weary  he  was,  and  scarce  could  stand  upright, 
And  looking  round  for  some  courageous  knight 
To  rescue  him,  as  one  perplex'd  in  woe, 
He  call'd  to  me,  help,  help,  HiJario ! 
My  valiant  servant,  help ! 

•  Blow  lustily  my  lad,  and  drawing  nigh-a, 

Ask  for  a  lady  which  it  cleped  Sophia.)  Coxetcr  took 
the  a  ironi  nigh-a,  anil  Mr.  M.  Mason,  not  to  behind  hand 
in  the  business  ot"  improvement,  reduced  .'  nphia  to  Sophy. 
He  then  observes  with  great  telf-complacency,  "  this  emen- 
dation" (emendation  !)  "  is  evidently  right  ;  as  all  the  rest 
of  this  ridiculous  speech  is  in  rhyme,  we  shonlil  without 
doubt  read  Sophy  instead  of  Sophia!"  After  all  this  confi- 
dence, the  old  copy  reads  precisely  as  I  have  given  it. 

t  Hil.  No  more  words.  |  Here  is  another  "  emendation!" 
The  editors  read  ;  A'o,  mere  words.  Bnt  Hilario  alludes  to 
what  he  had  just  said — "  so  much  /  was  will'd  to  »ay  to 
thee — and  therefore  question  me  no  further."  The  contra- 
diction which  follows,  makes  the  humour,  if  it  may  be  so 
it  j  led,  of  this  absurd  interlude. 

J  And  winy'd  with  the  battalia,]  Mr.  M.  Mason  reads 
battalion;  a  needless  surcrease  of  nonsense:  by  battalia 
our  old  writers  meant  what  we  now  call  the  main  body  of 
the  army. 


Can*.  He  has  spoil'd  all.  [bold 

Soph.  Are  you  the  man  of  arms,  then?  I'll  make 
To  take  off  your  martial  beard,  you  had  fool's  hair 
Enough  without  it.     Slave !  how  durst  thou  make 
Thy  sport  of  what  concerns  me  more  than  life, 
In  such  an  antic  fashion  ?  Am  I  grown 
Contemptible  to  those  I  feed  ?    you,  minion, 
Had  a  hand  in  it  too,  as  it  appears, 
Your  petticoat  serves  for  bases  to  this  warrior*. 

Com.  We  did  it  for  your  mirth. 

Hill.  For  myself,  I  hope, 
I  have  spoke  like  a  soldier. 

Soph.   Hence,  you  rascal ! 
I  never  but  with  reverence  name  my  lord. 
And  can  I  hear  it  by  thy  tongue  profaned, 
And  not  correct  thy  follv?  but  you  are          [course, 
Transform'd    and    turn'd    knight-errant ;  take  your 
And  wander  where  you  please  ;  for  here  I  vow 
By  my  lord's  life  (an  oath  I  will  not  break), 
Till  his  return,  or  certainty  of  his  safety, 
My  doors  are  shut  against  thee.  [TExit 

Coris.  You  have  made 
A  fine  piece  of  work  on't !  How  do  you  like  the 

qualityf  ? 

You  had  a  foolish  itch  to  be  an  actor, 
And  may  stroll  where  you  please. 

Hil.  Will  you  buy  my  share  ? 

Con's.  No,  certainly  ;  I  fear  I  have  already 
Too  much  of  mine  own  :  I'll  only,  as  a  damsel 
(As  the  books  sayj),  thus  far  help  to  disarm  you  j 
And  so,  dear  Don  Quixote,  taking  my  leave, 
1  leave  you  to  your  fortune.  [Eor/f. 

Hil.  Have  1  sweat 

My  brains  out  for  this  quaint  and  rare  invention, 
And  am  I  thus  rewarded?  1  could  turn 
Tragedian  and  roar  now,  but  that  1  fear 
'Twould  get  me  too  great  a  stomach,  having  no  meat 
To  pacify  colon$  :    Whal.  will  become  of  me'! 
I  cannot  beg  in  armour,  and  steal  1  dare  not : 
My  end  must  be  to  stand  in  a  corn  field, 
And  fright  away  the  crows,  for  bread  and  cheese; 
Or  find  some  hollow  tree  in  the  highway, 
And  there,  until  my  lord  return,  sell  switches  : 
No  more  Hilario,  hut  Dolorio  now, 
I  '11  weep  my  eyes  out,  and  be  blind  of  purpose 
To  move  compassion  ;  and  so  I  vanish.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — Hungary.    An  Ante-ream  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  EUBIT.US,  UBALDO,  RICARDO,  and  others. 

Eubn.  Are  the  gentlemen  sent  before,  as  it  was 
By  the  king's  direction,  to  entertain  [order'd. 

The  general  f 

Hie.  Long  since  ;  they  by  this  have  met  him, 
And  given  him  the  bienvenu. 


*  Your  petticoat  serves  for  bases  to  this  warrior.]  JJasrt 
seem  to  be  some  kind  ot  quilted  and  ornamental  covering 
for  the  thighs.  It  appears  to  have  iiiade  a  part  of  the  mili- 
tary dress  of  the  time  : 

"  Per.  Now  by  your  furtherance  I  am  clad  •«  steel 
Only,  my  friend,  I  yet  am  unprovided 
Of  a  pair  of  bases. 

Fish.  We'll   sure   provide:    thou    shall  have   my   best 

gown  to  make  thee  a  pair."—  Pericles,  Act  11.  sc.  1. 

t  How  do  you  tilte  the  quality  ?J    i.  c.  the   profession   of 

playing.     See  The  Roman  Actor.     In  the  last  line  of  this 

speech,  the    editors  have  unnecessarily  inserted  now  before 

stroll. 

t  As  the  books  say.]  i.  e.  the  books  of  knight-errantry, 
which  were  then  much  read.  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Ma  on 
have— As  the  book  sa\s  ! 

j  To  pacify  colon  :j  i.  e.  the  cravings  ot  hanger. — See7*A« 
L  nnatural  Combat,  Act  1.,  Sc.  1. 


SCENE  1 1.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


261 


Eubu.  1  hope  I  need  not 
Instruct  you  in  your  parrs. 

Ubald.  How  !  us,  my  lord  ! 
Fear  not ;  we  know  our  distances  and  degrees 
To  the  vers'  inch  where  we  are  to  s;i!ute  him. 

Hie.  The  state  were  miserable  if  the  court  Lad 
Of  her  own  breed,  familiar  with  all  garbs  [none 

Gracious  in  England,  Italy,  Spain,  or  France ; 
With  form  and  punctuality  to  receive 
S'ranger  ambassadors  :   for  the  general 
He's  a  mere  native,  and  it  matters  not 
Wlr'eh  wav  we  do  accost  him. 

^Ubuld.  '['is  great  pity 

That  such  as  sit  at  the  helm  provide  no  better 
For  the  training  up  of  the  gentry.     In  my  judgment 
An  academy  erected,  with  large  pensions 
To  such  as  in  a  table  could  set  down 
The  congees,  cringes,  postures,  methods,  phrase, 
Proper  to  every  nation 

Ric.  O,  it  were 
An  admirable  piece  of  work  ! 

Ubald.  And  yet  rich  fools 
Throw  away  their  charity  on  hospitals 
For  beggars  and  lame  soldiers  and  ne'er  study 
The  due  regard  to  compliment  and  courtship, 
Matters  of  more  import,  and  are  indeed 
The  glories  of  a  monarchy. 

Eubii.  These,  no  doubt, 

Are  state  points,  gallants,  I  confess  ;  but  siire, 
Our  court  needs  no  aids  this  way,  since  it  is* 
A  school  of  nothing  else.      Ihere  are  some  of  you 
Whom  I  forbear  to  name,  whose  coining  b>  ru!s 
Are  the  mints  of  all  new  fashions,  that  have  done 
More  hurt  to  the  kingdom  by  superfluous  braveryf, 
\\  Inch  the  foolish  gentry  imitate,  than  a  war, 
Or  a  long  famine  ;  all  the  treasure,  by 
This  foul  excess,  is  got  into  the  merchant, 
L'mbroideier,  silkman,  jeweller,  tailor's  hand, 
And  the  third  part  of  the  land  too,  the  nobility 
Engrossing  titles  only. 

AM.  My  lord,  you  are  bitter.  \_A  trumpet. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  The  general  is  alighted,  and  now  enter'd. 

Ric,  Were  he  ten  generals,  1  am  prepared, 
And  know  what  1  will  do. 

Eub.  Pray  you  what,  Ricardo? 

Ric.  I'll  fight  at  compliment  with  him. 

Ubald.  I'll  charge  hume  too.  [oft  well. 

Eitb.  And  that's  a  desperate  service  ;  if  you  come 
Enter  FERDINAND,  MATHIAS,  BAPTisTA.awd  Captains. 

Ferd.  C;iptain,  command  the  officers  to  keep 
The  soldier,  as  he  march'd  in  rank  and  file, 
Till  they  hear  further  from  me.       [Exeunt  Captains. 

Eubu.  Here's  one  speaks 
In  another  key;  this  is  no  canting  language 
Taught  in  your  academy. 

Ferd.  JXay,  1  will  present  you 
To  ihe  king  myself. 

Math.  A  grace  beyond  my  merit. 

Ferd.  You  undervalue  what  I  cannot  set 
Too  high  a  price  on. 

Eubu.  With  a  friend's  true  heart, 
I  gratulate  your  return. 

•  Our  court  ne<;ds  no  aid*  thit  u-ay,  since  it  is  &c.]  Mr. 
W.  ftjasoii,  in  defiance  of  authority  anil  of  grammar,  reads  : 
Our  conns  need  no  aids  this  way  since  it  &c.  indeed,  he 
hath  printed  (lie  vliole  of  tliis  speech  very  carelessly,  and 
pointed  it  stdl  more  so. 

• fey  superfluous  bravery]  i.  e.  as  1  have 

already  observed,  finery,  costliness  of  apparel,  &c 


Ferd.  Next  to  the  favour 
Of  the  great  king,  I  am  happy  in  your  friendship. 

Ubald.  By  courtship,  coarse  on  both  sides  ! 

Ferd.  Pray  you,  receive 

This  stranger  to  your  knowledge  ;  on  my  credit, 
At  all  parts  he  serres  it. 

Eubu.  Your  report 
Is  a  strong  assurance  to  me.     Sir,  most  welcome. 

Math.  This  said  by  you  the  reverence  of  your  age 
Commands  me  to  believe  it. 

-Ric.  This  was  pretty  ; 

But  second  me  now. 1  cannot  storptoo  low 

To  do  your  excellence  that  due  observance 
Your  fortune  claims. 

Enhu.  He  ne'er  thinks  on  his  virtue  ! 

Ric.  For  being,  as  you  are,  the  soul  of  soldiers, 
And  bulwark  of  Bellona 

Ubald.  The  protection 
Both  of  the  court  and  king— 

Ric.  And  the  sole  minion 
Of  mighty  Mars — 

Ubu/d.  One  that  with  justice  may 
Increase  the  number  of  the  worthies — 

Eubu.  Heyday  ! 

Ric.  It  being  impossible  in,  my  arms  to  circle 
Such  giant  worth — 

Ubald.  At  distance  we  presume 
To  kiss  your  honour'd  gauntlet. 

Eubu.  What  reply  now 
Can  he  make  to  this  foppery  1 

Ferd.  You  have  said,  * 

Gallants,  so  much,  and  hitherto  done  so  little, 
That,  till  I  learn  to  speak,  and  you  to  do, 
I  must  take  time  to  thank  you. 

Eubu.   As  1  live, 
Answer 'd  as  I  could  wish.     How  the  fops  gape  now! 

Ric.  This  was  harsh  and  scurvy. 

Ubald.  We  will  be  revenged 
When  he  comes  to  court  the  ladies,  and  laugh  at  him. 

Eubu.  Nay,  do  your  offices,  gentlemen,  and  con- 
The  general  to  the  presence.  [duct 

J?i'c.  Keep  your  order. 

Ubald.  Make  way  for  the  general. 

[Eieunl  an  but  Eubulut 

Eubu.  What  wise  man, 

That,  with  judicious  eyes,  looks  on  a  soldier, 
But  must  confess  that  fortune's  swing  is  more 
O'er  that  profession,  than  all  kinds  else 
Of  life  pursued  by  man  ?     '1  hey,  in  a  state, 
Are  but  as  surgeons  to  wounded  men, 
E'en  desperate  in  their  hopes;  while  pain  and  anguish 
Make  them  blaspheme,  and  call  in  vain  for  death  : 
Their  wives  and  children  kiss  the  surgeon's  knees, 
Promise  him  mountains,  if  his  saving  hand 
Restore  the  tortured  wretch  to  fo:mer  strength. 
But  when  grim  death,  by  vEsculapius"  art, 
Is  frighted  from  the  house,  and  health  appears 
In  sanguine  colours  on  the  sick  man's  face. 
All  is  forgot ;  and,  asking  his  reward, 
He's  paid  with  curses,  often  receives  wounds 
From  him  whose  wounds  he  cured.    1  have  observed, 
W'hen  horrid  Mars*,  the  touch  of  whose  lough  hand 


*  From  him  whose  wounds  he  curd..     I  tare  observed, 
If  hen  horrid.  Man,  &c.]  Theie  is  both  an  iinperfee. 

tion    and  a    redundancy  in  this  speech,  as  it  stands  in  Utt 

old  edition,  \vliuh  read?, 

From  him  whose  wounds  he  cured,  so  soldiers, 
'Ihovyh  of  more  worth  and  use,  tntrt  the  tameJaU 
As  it  is  toe  apparent.    J  hare  observed 


THE  PICTURE. 


[Acr  II 


fitli  p;ilsies  shake?  c.  kiugdom.  hath  put  on 
is  dreadful  helmet,  anil  with  terror  fills 


Will 
Hi 

The  place  where  hf ,  like  an  unwelcome  guest, 

Resolves  to  revel,  how  the  lords  of  her,  like 

The  tradesman,  merchant,  and  litigious  pleader, 

And  such   like   scanihs.  bred   in  the  dung  of  peace, 

In  hope  of  their  protection,  humbly  offer 

Their  daughters  to  their  beds,  heirs  to  their  service. 

And  wash  wi.h  tears  their  sweat,  their  dust,  their 

scars : 

But  when  those  clouds  of  war,  that  menaced 
A  blooclv  delude  to  the  affrighted  state, 
Are,  by  their  breath,  dispersed,  and  overblown, 
And  famine,  blood,  and  death,  Bellona's  pages, 
Whipt  from  the  quiet  continent  to  Thrace*; 
Soldiers,  that,  like  the  foolish  hed^e-sparrow, 
To  their  own  ruin  hutch  this  cuckoo  peace, 
Are  straight  thought  burthensoine  ;  since    want  of 

means, 

Growing  fromf  want  of  action,  breeds  contempt : 
And  that,  the  worst  of  ills,  falls  to  their  lot, 
Their  service,  with  the  danger,  soon  forgot. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  The  queen,  my  lord,  hath  made  choice  of 

this  room, 
To  8e>-  the  mask. 

Enhit.   I'll  be  a  looker  on  ; 
My  dancing  days  are  past. 

Land  mus'c.  Enter  UBAI.DO,  R.ICARDO,  LADISLAUS, 
FERDINAND  HONORIA,  MATIIIAS,  SYLVIA,  ACANTHE, 
BAPTISTA,  Captains,  and  otlien.  As  they  pass,  a 
Sang  in  praise  cfiear. 

Liidii.  This  courtesy 

To  a  stranger,  my  Honoria,  keeps  fair  rank 
With  all  your  rarities.     After  your  travail, 

Jn  one  hue. 

11 'hen  horrid  Mart,  &c. 

From  the  repetitions,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  this 
soliloquy  (\vlncli  is  Mitlicieiiily  long)  WHS  abridged  in  the 
prompter's  book,  and  lli.H  tin;  abridgment  and  the  original 
wrre  confounded,  and  nnskilfiilly  copied  at  the  press,  j'his 
is  not  a  i-irciiinsi.im-e  so  improbable  as  it  may  appear  to 
tome  reader*,  for  1  rould  give  many  instances  ot  it.  It 
ilionlil  be  remembered  that  there  is  but  one  edition  of  this 
play,  MI  that  the  evil  is  without  remedy.  Coxeter  altered 
the  p,. inline,  « ilhout  improvim;  the  sense  :  and  Mr.  M. 
Mason  wave  the  passive  iinf.iiihlully. 

•  H'hipt  from  the  quiet  continent  to  Thrace;]  Massinger 
is    here    mistaken,  for    Thrace    is    upon    the    continent. — 

COXETEK. 

Ma«singer  probably  km-w  as  well  ax  the  editor,  that  part 
of  Thrace  was  on  the  coiitine-t;  but  the  Thracian  archipe- 
lago, which  wa.-  dedicated  to  Mars,  is  composed  of  islands. 

M.  MASON. 

It  is  difficult,  in  the  words  of  Escalni,  fe*  ">y,  "  which  is 
the  wiser  here,  Justice  or  Iniquity."  Th  contrast  is  n6t 
between  a  <•<>•  tiin-nt  arid  an  island,  biu  oetween  a  state  of 
tranquility  and  one  of  warfare.  The  ancients  comprehended 
under  the  name  ••!  Thrace  much  of  the  north-eastern  part  of 
Europe,  the  tierce  inhabitants  of  which  were  supposed  to 
worship  Mars  and  Hellona ;  who,  in  return,  made  the 
couitlr)  the  pvctliitr  place  of  their  residence.  From  thence 
they  are  frequently  described  \viih  great  magnificence  by 
the  poets,  as  setting  forth  to  kindle  war,  "  with  their  pages, 
famine,  blood,  and  death  ;"  and  thither,  when  peace  wa» 
restored,  they  were  supposed  to  retire  agr.in.  The  tame 
idea,  an  I  neariy  in  the  same  words,  has  already  occurred 
in  The  Roman  Actor: 
Note,  the  god  of  war 

A  nd  fumiiif,  blond,  and  denfh,  Bfltnna's  pages, 
Jiaiiithd  from  Home  1i>  'I  hrace ,  in  our  yonrl  fortune, 
Hith  justice  he  may  taste  the  fruits  of  jmicf. 

•  Grntfiag  from  want  of  action,]  This  is  Mifflricntly  clfar ; 
yet   Mr.  M.  Mason    alters    it    to — Growing   fot     want    of 
action 


Look  on  our  court  delights  ;  but  first,  from  your 
Relation,  with  erected  ears  I'll  hear 
The  music  of  your  war,  which  must  bo  svreet, 
Ending  in  victory. 

Ferd.  Not  to  trouble 

Your  majesties  with  description  of  a  battle 
Too  full  of  horror  for  the  place,  and  to 
Avoid  particulars,  which  should  I  deliver, 
I  must  trench  longer  on  your  patience  than 
My  manners  will  give  way  to  ; — in  a  word,  sir, 
It  was  well  fought  on  both  sides,  and  almost 
With  equal  fortune,  it  continuing  doubtful 
Upon  whose  tents  plumed  Victory  would  take     , 
Her  glorious  stand.     Impatient  of  delay, 
With  the  flower  of  our  prime  gentlemen,!  charged 
Their  main  battalia,  and  with  their  assistance 
Brake  in  ;  but,  when  I  was  almost  assured 
That  they  were  routed  ;  by  a  stratagem 
Of  the  subtile  Turk,  who  opening  his  gross  body 
And  rallying  up  his  troops  on  either  side, 
I  found  myself  so  far  engaged,  for  I 
Must  not  conceal  my  errors,  that  1  knew  not 
Which  way  with  honour  to  come  off. 

Euhu.  1  like 

A  general  that  tells  his  faults,  and  is  not 
Ambitious  to  engross  unto  himself 
All  honour,  as  some  have,  in  which,  with  justice, 
They  could  not  claim  a  share. 

Ferd.  Being  thus  hemm'd  in, 
Their  scimitars  raged  among  us  ;  and,  my  horse 
Kill'd  under  me,  I  every  minute  look'd  for 
An  honourable  end,  and  that  was  all 
My  hope  could  fashion  to  me  :  circled  thus 
With  death  and  horror,  as  one  sent  from  heaven, 
This  man  of  men,  with  some  choice  horse,  that  follow'd 
His  brave  example,  did  pursue  the  track 
His  sword  cut  for  them,  and,  but  that  I  see  him 
Already  blush  to  hear  what  he,  being  present, 
I  know  would  wish  unspoken,  I  should  say,  sir, 
Bv  what  he  did,  we  boldly  may  believe 
All  that  is  writ  of  Hector. 

Muth.  General, 
Pray  spare  these  strange  hyperboles. 

Eubu.  Do  not  blush 

To  hear  a  truth  ;  here  are  a  pair  of  monsieurs, 
Had  they  been  in  your  place,  would  have  run  a\vay, 
And  ne'er  changed  countenance. 

Uhald.  We  have  your  good  word  still. 

Eubu.  And  shall,  while  you  deserve  it. 

I.adis.  Silence ;  on. 

Ftnl.  He,  as  I  said,  like  dreadful  lightning  thrown 
From  Jupiter's  shield,  dispersed  the  armed  gire 
With  which  I  was  environed  ;  horse  and  man 
ShrunVunder  his  strong  arm  :  more,  with  his  looksf 
Frighted,  the  valiant  fled,  with  which  encouraged, 
My  soldiers  (like  young  eaglets  preying  under 
The  wings  of  their  fiece  dam),  as  if  from  him 
They  took  both  spirit  and  fire,  bravely  came  on. 
By  him  I  was  remounted,  and  inspired 
With  treble  courage ;  and  such  as  fled  before 
Boldly  made  head  again;  and,  to  confirm  them, 
It  suddenly  was  apparent,  that  the  fortune 
Of  the  day  was  ours  ;  each  soldier  and  commander 
Perform 'd  his  part ;  but  this  was  the  great  wheelf 

• more,  with  his  looks,  &c.]  i.  e.  J'el 

more,  further,  &c. 

t but  this  was  the  great  wheel,  &c.] 

This  is  the  third  or  fourth  time  we  have  had  this  expression. 
It  is  certainly  no  felony  tor  a  man  to  steal  from  himself, 
but  it  is  IIL-VIJI  tin  less  a  very  awkward  wa>  of  relieving  hi: 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


By  which  the  lesser  moved  ;  and  all  rewards 
And  signs  of  honour,  as  the  civic  garland, 
1  lie  mur.il  wreath,  the  enemy's  prime  horse, 
With  the  general's  sword,  and  armour  (the  old  ho- 
nours 
Wish   which    the    Romans   crown'd   their   several 

leaders), 
To  him  alone  are  proper. 

Ludis.  And  they  shall 
Deservedly  fall  on  him.     Sit ;  'tis  our  pleasure. 

Ferd.  Which  1  must  serve,  not  argue. 

Hon.   You  are  a  stranger, 
But,  in  your  service  for  the  king,  a  native, 
And,  though  a  free  queen,  1  am  bound  in  duty 
To  cherish  virtue  wheresoe'er  1  find  it : 
This  place  is  yours. 

Mnih.  It  were  presumption  in  me 
To  sit  so  near  you. 

Hon.  Not  having  our  warrant. 

Litdi.-i.  Let  the  maskers  enter:  by  the  preparation, 
'Tis  a  J-rench  bniwl,  an  apish  imitation 
Of  what  you  really  perform  in  battle  : 
And  Pallas,  bound  up  in  a  litile  volume, 
Apollo,  with  hi-,  lute,  attending  on  her, 
Serve  for  the  induction. 

Enter  Minkm,  AFOLU)  u-ith  his  lute,  and   PALLAS: 

A  Dince  ;  after  uhich  a  Song*  in  praise  of  ike  v:c- 

toi  inus  icldier. 

Our  thanks  to  all. 
To  the  banquet  that's  prepared  to  entertain  them  : 

[Exeunt  Maskers,  Apollo,  and  Pallas. 
What  would  my  best  Honoria  ? 

Him.  May  it  please 

My  king.  Mint  I,  who,  by  his  suffrage,  ever 
Have  Ir.id  power  to  command,  may  now  entreat 
An  honour  from  him. 

J.ailis.   U  hy  should  you  desire 
What  is  your  own?  whate'er  it  be,  you  are 
1  he  mistress  of  it. 

Hon.  i  am  happy  in 

\  our  grant :  my  suit,  sir,  is,  that  your  commanders, 
Especially  this  stranger,  may,  as  I 
In  my  discretion  shall  think  good,  receive 
\Vliafs  dui-  to  their  deserts. 

Ladii.  \\  hat  you  determine 
Shall  know  no  alteration. 

Enb-i.  The  soldier 

Is  like  to  have  good  usage,  when  he  depends 
Upon  her  pleasure  !     Are  all  the  men  so  bad, 
1  hat,  to  give  satisfaction,  we  must  L;ive 
A  woman  treasurer?     Heaven  help  all  ! 

Hon.  Wiih  you,  sir,  [To  Mathias. 


necessities.  It  is  MirpiUin;  how  seldom  these  repetition! 
occur  in  Sbalupewe.  When  we  consider  how  much  he 
wiote,  tlie  exuberance  of  his  resources  will  appear  Iruly 
wondeiliil. 

Malinger  seems  to  be  indebted  to  Daniel  for  the  original 
idea : 

For  this  great  motion  of  a  ftate,  we  pee, 

Dothiunit  on  many  wlifi  U ;  Hnd  some,  thongh  imall, 
Do  >rt  the yrrater  mnte,  who  in  degree 

Stirrc  ih.i-e  who  liki  \vi.-e  turae  the  great'st  of  all." 

Philctat. 

I  don't  think  MasMngcr  excels  in  writing  son^s;  there 
are  none  to  be  found  in  t  ese  play*  that  have'any  decree  of 
mriit,  and  few  that  me  oven  intelligible.— M.  MASON. 

This  .«ong,  which  is  i-viili  nlly  incomplete,  I  have  it-moved 
In  the  i  nil  of  il.r  play.  From  the  stage  dinrtion,  it  would 
seem  its  it  ill,-  care  of  tiles*  things  had  been  left  to  the 
prompter.  JIIM  before  we  have  "  a  s«mg  iu  praise  of  war;'1 
ind,  in  the  following  act,  another,  "  ou  pleasure." 


I  will  begin,  and,  as  in  my  esteem 
You  are  most  eminent,  expect  to  hare 
Vv  h.it's  tit  for  me  to  give,  and  you  to  take, 
The  favour  in  the  quick  dispatch  being  double, 
Go  fetch  my  casket,  and  with  speed. 

[Exit  .Icar.the. 
Eubu.  The.  kingdom 
Is  very  bare  of  money,  when  rewards 
Issue  from  the  queen's  jewel-house  .Give  him  gold 
And  store*,  no  question  the  gentleman  wants  it. 
Good  madam,  what  shall  he  do  with  a  hoop  ring, 
And  a  spark  of  diamond  in  it,  though  you  take  it, 

Re-enter  ACANTHE  with  a  Casket. 

For  the  greater  honour,  from  your  majesty's  finger? 
'Twill  not  increase  the  value.     He  must  purchase 
Rich  suits,  the  gay  caparison  of  courtshipf, 
Kevel  and  feast,  which,  the  war  ended,  is 
A  soldier's  glory  ;  and  'tis  fit  that  way 
Your  bounty  should  provide  for  him. 

Htm.  You  are  rude. 

And  by  your  narrow  thoughts  proportion  mine. 
\\  hat  1  will  do  now  shall  be  worth  the  envy 
Of  Cleopatra.     Open  it ;  see  here 

Honoria  descends  from  the  state, 

The  lapidary's  idol  !     Gold  is  trash, 
And  a  poor  salary,  fit  for  grooms  ;  wear  these 
As  studded  stars  in  your  armour,  and  make  the  sun 
Look  dim  with  jealousy  of  a  greater  light 
Than  his  beams  gild  the  day  with  :  when  it  is 
Exposed  to  view,  call  it  Honoria's  gift, 
The  queen  Honoria's  gift,  that  loves  a  soldier  ; 
And,  to  give  ornament  and  lustre  to  him, 
Parts  freely  with  her  own  !   Yet,  not  to  take 
From  the  magnificence  ot  the  king,  I  will 
Dispense  his  bounty  too,  but  as  a  page 
To  wait  on  mine  ;  for  other  tosses  J,  take 
A   hundred    thousand  crowns: — your   hand,    dear 
sir, —  [Takes  off' the  king's  signet. 

And  this  shall  be  thy  warrant. 

Eubu.  I  perceive 

I  was  cheated  in  this  woman  :  now  she  is 
In  the  giving  vein  to  soldiers,  let  her  be  proud, 
And  the  king  dote,  so  she  go  on,  I  care  not. 


Give  him  gold, 


—    e»  itr  HUH  yum, 

And  store]  This  expression,  which  is  taken  from  an  old 
ballad,  frequently  occurs  in  thoe  plays. 

t  He  must  purchaie 

Rich  suits,  the  gay  comparison  of  courtsJiip,]  So  it  11 
printed  in  the  old  copy:  ilie  modern  editor?  have  reformed 
Ihe  spelling,  and  it  may  be  they  have  done  well ;  yet  the 
word  occurs  so  frequently  in  our  old  dramatists,  that  I  have 
many  doubts  on  the  subject. 

In  The  Double  Falsehood,  a  play  which  Theobald  attributed 
to  Shakspeare,  but  which  I'ope,  and  liis  little  knot  of  Critics, 
'\viihuiit  seeing  the  honour  they  did  him},  atlected  to  believe 
iis  own,  are  these  pretty  lines:— 

— "  I  must  stoop  to  gain  her,, 
Throw  all  my  gay  comparison*  a.-ide, 
And  turn  my  proud  additions  out  of  service." 
Comparisons  ihcy  changed,  with  great  exultation  over  poor 
I'heobilil,  into  caparison*  ;  but   had  they  ki.own,   or  could 
le   have    informed    them,    that   the  word   was    so    spelt  by 
every  author  of  that  age,  it  might,  perhaps  have  moderated 
the   excess  of    (heir    triumph        Courtship,  which   is  found 
ii   the   same  line,  *i»nitics  tlie   cost  and    magnificence   of  a 
•ourt. 

for  other  tosses,  tale,  &c.] 


-,  waning,  perhaps  in  the  slight  manner  in  which  she  notic., 
his  part  of  her  bounty,  for  trash  to  flint;  away.  Coxcter 
laving  negligently  printed  loutes,  ob.-erve.-  ou  disown  tinn- 
ier, "  this  Tain  a'pt  to  think  .-lioiild  be,  for  other  nses  take," 
jnd  nothing  more  was  wanted  to  induce  Mr.  W.  Mason  !• 
hrust  i'iutu  Ihe  text! 


*64 


THE  PICTURE. 


[Acr  II. 


Hon.  This  done,  our  pleasure  is,  that  all  arrear 

ages* 

Bo  paid  unto  the  captains,  and  their  troops ; 
With  a  large  donative,  to  increase  their  zeal 
For  the  service  of  the  kingdom. 

Eubtt.  Better  still : 

Let  men  of  arms  be  used  thus,  if  they  do  not 
Charge  desperately  upon  the  cannon's  mouths, 
Though  the  devil"  roar'd,   and    fight  like   dragons, 

hang  me ! 
Now  they  may  drink  sack ;  but  small  beer  with  a 

passport 

To  beg  with  as  they  travel,  and  no  money, 
Turns  their  red  blood  to  buttermilk. 

Hon.  Are  you  pleased,  sir, 
With  what  1  have  done 

Ladis.  Yes,  and  thus  confirm  it 
With  this  addition  of  mine  own  :  You  have,  sir, 
From  our  loved  queen  received  some  recompense 
For  your  life  hazarded  in  the  late  action  ; 
And,  that  we  may  follow  her  great  example 
In  cherishing  valour,  without  limit  ask 
What  you  from  us  can  wish. 

Math.  If  it  be  true, 

Dread  sir,  as  'tis  affirm'd,  that  every  soil, 
Where  he  is  well,  is  to  a  valiant  man 
H  is  natural  country,  reason  may  assure  me 
I  should  fix  here,  where  blessings  beyond  hope, 
From  you,  the  spring,  like  rivers,  flow  unto  me. 
If  wealth  were  my  ambition,  by  the  queen 
I  am  made  rich  already,  to  the  amazement 
Of  all  that  see,  or  shall  hereafter  read 
The  story  of  her  bounty;  if  to  spend 
The  remnant  of  my  life  in  deeds  of  arms, 
No  region  is  more  fertile  of  good  knights, 
From  whom  my  knowledge  that  way  may  be  bet- 

tt-r'd, 

Than  this  your  warlike  Hungary  ;  if  favour, 
Or  grace  in  court  could  take  me,  by  your  grant, 
Far,  far  beyond  my  merit,  I  may  make 
In  yours  a  free  election  ;  but,  alas !  sir, 
I  am  not  mine  own,  but  by  my  destiny 
(Which  I  cannot  resist)  forced  to  prefer 
My  country's  smoke,  before  the  glorious  fire 
With  which  your  bounties  warm  me.  All  I  ask,  sir, 
Though  I  cannot  be  ignorant  it  must  relish 
Of  foul  ingratitude,  is  your  gracious  license 
For  my  departure. 

Ladis.  Whither? 

Math.  To  my  own  home,  sir, 
My  own  poor  home  ;  which  will,  at  my  return, 
Grow  rich  by  your  magnificence.     I  am  here 
But  a  body  without  a  soul  ;  and,  till  I  find  it 
In  the  embraces  of  my  constant  wife, 
And,  to  set  off  that  constancy,  in  her  beauty 
And  matchless  excellencies  without  a  rival, 
I  am  but  half  myself. 

//™.  And  is  she  then 
So  chaste  and  fair  as  you  infer? 

Math.  O,  madam, 

Though  it  must  argue  weakness  in  a  rich  man, 
To  show  his  gold  before  an  arnrifd  ihief, 
And  I,  in  praising  of  my  wife,  but  feed 
The  fire  of  lust  in  others  to  attempt  her; 
Such  is  my  full-sail'd  confidence  in  her  virtue, 
Though  in  my  absence  she  were  now  besieged 

that  all  arrearages]   This 


word,  I  know  not  why,  the  modern    editors   discard   for 
art  ems* 


3y  a  strong  army  of  lascivious  wooers, 
And  every  one  more  expert  in  his  art, 
Than  those  that  tempted  chaste  Penelope ; 
Though  they  raised  batteries  by  prodigal  gifts, 
By  amorous  letters,  vows  made  for  her  service. 
With  all  the  engines  wanton  appetite 
Could  mount  to  shake  the  fortress  of  her  honour, 
Here,  here  is  my  assurance  she  holds  out, 

[Aisles  the  picturt 
And  is  impregnable. 

Hon.  What's  that? 

Math.  Her  fair  figure. 

Ladis.  As  I  live,  an  excellent  face ! 

Hon.    You  have  seen  a  better. 

Ladis.  I   ever  except  yours*: — nay,  frown  not, 

sweetest, 

The  Cyprian  queen,  compared  to  you,  in  my 
Opinion,  is  a  negro.     As  you  order'd, 
I'll  see  the  soldiers  paid  ;  and,  in  my  absence, 
Pray  you  use  your  powerful  arguments,  to  stay 
This  gentleman  in  our  service. 

Hon.  I  will  do 
My  parts. 

Ladis.  On  to  the  camp. 

[Exeunt  Ladislaus,  Ferdinand,  Eubulut, 
Baptista,  Captains,  and  others. 

Hon.  I  am  full  of  thoughts, 

And  something  there  is  here  I  must  give  form  to, 
Though  yet  an  embryon :  you,  signiors, 
Have  no  business  with  the  soldier,  as  1  take  it, 
You  are  for  other  warfare  ;  quit  the  place, 
But  be  within  call. 

llic.  Employment,  on  my  life,  boy ! 

UbaiJ.  If  it  lie  in  our  road,  we  are  made  for  ever 
[Exeunt  Ubaldo  and  Ricardo. 

Hon.  You  may  perceive  the  king  is  no  way  tainted 
With  the  disease  of  jealousy,  since  he  leaves  me 
Thus  private  with  you. 

Math.  It  were  in  him,  madam, 
A  sin  unpardonable  to  distrust  such  pureness, 
Though  I  were  an  Adonis. 

Hon.  I  presume 

He  neither  does  nor  dares :  and  yet  the  story 
Delivered  of  you  by  the  general, 
With  your  heroic  courage,  which  sinks  deeply 
Into  a  knowing  woman's  heart,  besides 
Your  promising  presence,  might  beget  some  scruple 
In  a  meaner  man  ;  but  more  of  this  hereafter. 
I'll  take  another  theme  now,  and  conjure  you 
By  the  honours  YOU  have  won,  and  by  the  love 
Sacred  to  your  dear  wile,  to  answer  truly 
To  what  I  shall  demand. 

Math.  You  need  not  use 
Charms  to  this  purpose,  madam. 

Hon.  Tell  me,  then, 
Being  yourself  assured  'tis  not  in  man 
To  sully  with  one  spot  th"  immaculate  whiteness 
Of  your  wife's  honour,  if  you  have  not,  since 
The  Gordian  of  your  love  was  tied  by  marriage, 
1'lay'd  false  with  her  ? 

Math.  By  the  hopes  of  mercy,  never. 

Hon.   It  may  be,  not  frequenting  the  converse 
Of  handsome  ladies,  you  were  never  tempted, 
And  so  your  faith's  untried  yet. 

*  J,adig.  I  ever  except  yours: — nay,  frown  not,  naeetett,'] 
This  line  stands  thus  in  the  modern  edition*: 

Lutlis.  J  !  ne'er,  except  yours  ;  nay,  frown  not,  twretut ; 
which  ii  the  perfection  of  taste  and  harmony  :  the  old  copy 
reads  as  I  have  given  it. 


SCENK  T.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


Math.  Surely,  madam, 
I  am  no  woman-hater ;  I  have  been 
Received  to  the  society  of  the  best 
And  fairest  of  our  climate,  and  have  met  with 
No  common  entertainment,  vet  ne'er  felt 
The  least  heat  that  way. 

Hon.  Strange  !  and  do  you  think  still. 
The  earth  can  show  no  beauty  that  can  drench 
Jn  Lethe  all  remembrance  of  the  favour 
You  now  bear  to  your  own  ? 

Muih.  Nature  must  find  out 
Some  other  mould  to  fashion  a  new  creature 
Fairer  than  her  Pandora,  ere  I  prove 
Guilty,  or  in  my  wishes  or  my  thoughts, 
To  my  Sophia. 

Hon.  Sir,  consider  better ; 
Not  one  in  our  whole  sex  ? 

Math.  I  am  constant  to 
My  resolution. 

Hon.  But  dare  you  stand 
The  opposition,  and  bind  yourself 
By  oath  for  the  performance  7 

Math.  My  faith  else 
Had  but  a  weak  foundation. 

Hon.  I  take  hold 

Upon  your  promise,  and  enjoin  your  stay 
For  one  month  here. 
Math.  I  am  caught. 
Hon.  And  if  I  do  not 
Produce  a  lady,  in  that  time,  that  shall 
Make  you  confess  your  error,  I  submit 
Myself  to  any  penalty  you  shall  please 
To  impose  upon  me  :  in  the  mean  space,  write 
To  your  chaste  wife,  acquaint  her  with  your  fortune : 
The  jewels  that  were  mine  you  may  send  to  her, 


For  better  confirmation  :  I'll  provide  you 

Of  trusty  messengers  ;  but  how  far  distant  is  shel 

Math.  A  day's  hard  riding. 

Hon.  There  is  no  retiring  ; 
I'll  bind  you  to  your  word. 

Math.    Well,  since  there  is 
No  way  to  shun  it,  I  will  stand  the  hazard, 
And  instantly  make  ready  my  dispatch  : 
Till  then,  I'll  leave  your  majesty.  [Exit 

Hon.  How  I  burst 

With  envy,  that  there  lives,  besides  myself. 
One  fair  and  loyal  woman !   'twas  the  end 
Of  my  ambition  to  be  recorded 
The  only  wonder  of  the  age,  and  shall  I 
Give  way  to  a  competitor?     Nay,  more, 
To  add  to  my  affliction,  the  assurances 
That  I  placed  in  my  beauty  have  deceived  me : 
I  thought  one  amorous  glance  of  mine  could  bring 
All  hearts  to  my  subjection  ;  but  this  stranger 
Unmoved  as  rocks,  contemns  me.     But  1  cannot 
Sit  down  so  with  mine  honour:  I  will  gain 
A  double  victory,  by  working  him 
To  my  desire,  and  taint  her  in  her  honour, 
Or  lose  myself:  I  have  read,  that  sometime  poison 
Is  useful. — To  supplant  her,  I'll  employ 
With  any  cost,  Ubaldo  and  Ricardo, 
Two  noted  courtiers,  of  approved  cunning 
In  all  the  windings  of  lust's  labyrinth  ; 
And  in  corrupting  him,  I  will  outgo 
Nero's  Poppaea  ;  if  he  shut  his  ears 
Against  my  syren  notes,  I'll  boldly  swear 
Ulysses  lives  again  :  or  that  1  have  found 
A  frozen  cynic*,  cold  in  spite  of  all 
Allurements  ;  one  whom  beauty  cannot  move, 
Nor  softest  blandishments  entice  to  love.         [Eitf. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — Bohemia.     A  Space  near  the  Entrance 
of  Mathias'  House. 

Enter  HILAEIO,  with  a  pitcher  of  water  and  a  wallet. 

Hil.  Thin,  thin  provision  !   I  am  dieted 
Like  one  set  to   watch  hawks ;    and,  to   keep  me 

waking. 

My  croaking  guts  make  a  perpetual  larum. 
Here  I  stand  centinel ;  and,  though  I  fright 
Beggars  from  my  lady's  gate,  in  hope  to  have 
A  greater  share,  I  find  my  commons  mend  not. 
I  look'd  this  morning  in  my  glass,  the  river, 
And  there  appear'd  a  fish  call'd  a  poor  John*, 
Cut  with  a  lenten  face,  in  my  own  likeness  ; 
And  it  seem'd  to  speak,  and  say,  Good-morrow, 

cousin ! 

No  man  comes  this  way  but  has  a  fling  at  me: 
A  surgeon  passing  by,  ask'd  at  what  rate 
I  would  sell  myself;  I  ag.swer'd,  For  what  usel 
To  make,  said  he,  a  living  anatomy, 
And  set  thee  up  in  our  hall,  for  thou  art  transparent 
Without  dissection ;  and,  indeed,  he  had  reason 


a  fish  call'd  a  poor  John,] 

i.  e.  dried  hake.     It  occurs  in  The  Guardian: 

"  Or  live,  like  a  Carthusian,  on  poor  John." 


For  I  am  scour'd  with  this  poor  purgef  to  nothing. 
They  say  that  hunger  dwells  in  the  camp  ;  but  tifl 
My  lord  returns,  or  certain  tidings  of  him, 
He  will  not  part  with  me  : — but  sorrow's  dry, 
And  I  must  drink  howsoever. 

Enter  UBALDO,  RICARDO,  and  a  Guide. 
Guide.  That's  her  castle, 
Upon  my  certain  knowledge. 

Ubald    Our  horses  held  out 
To  my  desire.     I  am  afire  to  be  at  it. 

Ric.  Take  the  jades   for  thy   reward  :  before  I 
part  hence, 


-or  that  I  have  found 


A  frozen  cynic,  &c.]  I  doubt  whether  the  queen  was  well 
read  in  the  characteristics  of  the  different  sect*.  The  cynics 
wanted  little  allurement;  the  modestest  of  them  would  have 
met  ocr  advances  more  than  half  way  :  but  perhaps  her  ma- 
jesty meant  to  say  stoic.  This  lady  i*  of  a  most  nnamiabla 
character.  Her  vanity,  which  she  mistakes  for  ambition,  is 
excessive;  and  her  eagerness  to  gratify  it,  dttrstahle  in  the 
extreme.  She  is  chaste  from  temperament,  but  licentious 
from  indulgence. 

t  For  1  am  scour'd  with  this  poor  purge  to  nothing.]  S» 
the  old  copies;  the  modern  editors  read,  with  this  poor  por- 
ridge: but  whether  out  of  delicacy,  or  to  improve  the  metre, 
I  cannot  fay. 


. 


f66 


THE  PICTURE. 


[ ACT  IIT. 


I  hope  to  l>e  better  carried.     Give  me  the  cabinet : 
So;  lenve  us  now 

Gii'nle.  Good  fortune  to  you,  gallants  !          [Exit. 
Uhuld.   Being  joint  agents,  in  a  design  of  trust  too, 
For  tlie  .service  of  the  queen,  and  our  own  pleasure, 
Let  us  proceed  with  judgment. 

Ric.  If  I  take  not 

This  fort  at  the  fiist  assault,  make  me  an  eunuch, 
So  1  may  have  preredence. 

Ubald.  Oil  no  terms. 

We  ate  both  to  play  one  prize  ;  he  that  works  best 
In  the  searching  of  this  mine,  shall  carry  it 
Without  contention. 

Ric.  Make  you  your  approaches 
As  I  directed. 

Ubald.  I  need  no  instruction  ; 
I  work  not  on  your  anvil.     I'll  give  fire 
With  mine  own  linstock  ;  if  the  powder  be  dank, 
The  devil  rend  the  touch-hole  !   Who  have  we  here  ? 
What  skeleton's  this  ? 

Pic.  A  ghost !  or  the  image  of  famine  ! 
Where  dost  t.hou  dwell  ? 

Hil.  Dwell,  sir  !  my  dwelling  is 
In  the  highway  :  that  goodly  house  was  once 
My  habitation,  but  1  am  banish'd, 
And  cannot  be  call'd  home  till  news  arrive 
Of  thesrood  knight  Mathias. 

Ric.  'if  that  will 
Restore  thee,  thou  art  safe. 

Ubald.  We  come  from  him, 
With  presents  to  his  lady. 

7/i.'.  But,  are  you  sure 
He  is  in  health  ? 

Ric.  Never  so  well :  conduct  us 
To  the  lady. 

Hil.  Though  a  poor  snake,  I  will  leap 
Out  of  my  skin  for  joy.     Break,  pitcher,  break ! 
And  wallet,  late  my  cupboard,  I  bequeath  thee 
To  the  next  beggar  ;  thou,  red  herring,  swim 
To  the  Red  Sea  again  :  methinks  I  am  already 
Knuckle  deep  in  the  fleshpots  ;  and,  though  waking, 

dream 
Of  wine  and  plenty  ! 

Tfic.  What's  the  mystery 
Of  this  strange  passion? 

Hil    My  belly,  gentlemen, 
Will  not  give  me  leave   to  tell  you  ;    when   I  have 

brought  you 

To  my  lady's  presence,  I  am  disenchanted  : 
There  you  shall  know  all.  Follow;  if  1  outstrip  you, 
Know  I  run  for  my  belly. 

Ubald.  A  mad  fellow.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  Mathias'  House. 
Enter  SOPHIA  and  CORISCA. 

Soph.  Do  not  again  delude  me. 

Com.  If  I  do, 

Send  me  a  grazing  with  my  fellow  Hilario*. 
I  stood,  as  you  commanded,  in  the  turret, 
Observing  all  that  pass'd  by  ;  and  even  now 
I  did  discern  a  pair  of  cavaliers, 

•  Send  me  a  graziny  with  my  fellow  Jlilario,]  i.  e.  my  fel- 
low-servant. Even  this  simple  expression  cannot  escape 
the  ever-meddline  delicacy  of  Mr.  M.  Mason:  he  alters  it 
to—  my  frier (1  Hilario  1 


For  such  their  outside  spoke  them,  with  their  guide, 
Dismounting  from  their  horses  ;   they  said  something 
To  our  hungry  centinel,  that  made  him  caper 
And  frisk  in  the  air  for  joy  :  and,  to  confirm  this, 
See,  madam,  they're  in  view. 

Enter  HILARIO,  UBALDO,  and  RICABDO. 

7/i/.  News  from  my  lord  ! 
Tidings  of  joy  !  these  are  no  counterfeits, 
But  knights  indeed.     Dear  madam,  sign  my  pardon, 
That  I  may  feed  again,  and  pick  up  my  crumbs ; 
I  have  had  a  long  fast  of  it. 

•Sop/i.   Eat,  I  forgive  thee. 

Hil.  O  comfortable  words!   Eut,  I  forgive  thee! 
And  if  in  this  I  do  not  soon  obey  you, 
And  ram  in  to  the  purpose,  billet  me  a?ain 
In  the  highway.     IJutler  and  cook,  be  ready, 
For  I  enter  like  a  tyrant.  [Exit. 

Ubald.  Since  mine  eyes 
Were  never  happy  in  so  sweet  an  object, 
Without  inquiry,  I  presume  you  are 
The  lady  of  the  house,  and  so  salute  you*. 

Ric.  This  letter,  with  these  jewels,  from  your  lord, 
Warrant  my  boldness,  madam. 

[Deliver!  a  letter  and  a  casket. 

Ubald.  In  being  a  servant 
To  such  rare  beauty,  you  must  needs  deserve 
This  courtesy  from  a  stranger.  [Salutes  Cornea. 

Ric.  You  are  still 

Beforehand  with  me.     Pretty  one.  I  descend 
To  take  the  height  of  your  lip;  and,  if  I  miss 
In  the  altitude,  hereafter,  if  yon  please, 
I  will  make  use  of  my  Jacob's  staff.  [Salutes  Corisca. 

Ciiris.  These  gentlemen 

Have  certainly  had  good  breeding,  as  it  appears 
By  their  neat  kissing,  they  hit  me  so  pat  on  the  lips 
At  the  first  sight. 

[In  the  interim,  Sophia  reails  the  letter,  and 
opens  the  casket. 

Sirph.   Heaven,  in  thy  mercy,  make  me 
Thy  thankful  handmaid  for  this  boundless  blessin0*, 
In  thy  goodness  shower'd  upon  me ! 

Ubnid.  I  do  not  like 

This  simple  devotion  in  her;  it  is  seldom 
Practised  among  my  mistresses. 

Kit'.  Or  mine. 

Would  they  kneel  to  I  know  not  who,  for  the  posses- 
sion 

Of  such  inestimable  wealth,  before 
They  thank'd  the  bringers  of  it?  the  poor  ladv 
Does  want  instruction,  but  I'll  be  her  tutor, 
And  read  her  another  lesson. 

Soph.  If  I  have 

Shown  want  of  manners,  gentlemen,  in  my  slowness 
To  pay  the  thanks  I  owe  you  for  your  travail, 
To  do  my  lord  and  me,  howeVr  unworthy 
Of  such  a  benefit,  this  noble  favour, 
Impute  it,  in  your  clemency,  to  the  excess 
Of  joy  that  overwhelmed  me. 

Ric.  She  speaks  well. 

Ubald.  Polite  and  courtly. 


"The  lady  of  the  house,  and  so  salute  you.]  i.  >•.  as  such: 
Mr.  M.  Mason,  not  satisfied  with  this,  reforms  the  text,  and 
prints— and  do  salute  you.  The  reader  cannot  he  more 
weary  of  these  eternal  correction?,  ihan  my.-elf.  I  lament 
that  it  is  necessary,  for  both  our  sakcs,  to  notice  a  certain 
portion  of  them  in  this  way  (all,  is  impossible),  lest  I  should 
be  suspected  of  capriciously  deviating  from  the  text  of  mjr 
predecessors. 


SCENE  IV.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


267 


Soph.  And  howe'er  it  may 
Increase  the  offence,  to  trouble  you  with  more 
Demands  touching  my  lord,  before  I  have 
Invited  you  to  taste  such  as  the  coarseness 
Of  my  poor  house  can  oftVr ;  pray  you  connive 
On  my  weak  tenderness,  though  I  entreat 
To  learn  from  you  something  he  hath,  it  may  be, 
In  his  letter  left  unmention'd. 

Kic.  I  can  only 

Give  you  assurance  that  he  is  in  health, 
Graced  by  ihe  king  and  queen. 

Ubald.  And  in  the  court 
With  admiration  look'd  on. 

Ric.  You  must  therefore 
Put  off  these  widow's  garments,  and  appear 
Like  to  yourself. 

Ubald.  And  entertain  all  pleasures 
Your  fortune  marks  out  for  you. 

R ic.  There  are  other 
Particular  privacies,  which  on  occasion 
I  will  deliver  to  you. 

Soph.  You  oblige  me 
To  your  service  ever. 

Ric.  Good!  your  service ;  mark  that. 

Soph.  In  the  mean  time,  by  your  good  acceptance 

make 

My  rustic  entertainment  relish  of 
Thecuriousness  of  the  court. 

Ubald.  Y'our  looks,  sweet  madam, 
Cannot  but  make  each  dish  a  feast. 

Soph.  It  shall  be  a 

Such,  in  the  freedom  of  my  will  to  please  you. 
I'll  shew  you  the  way  ;  this  is  too  great  an  honour, 
From  such  brave  guests,  to  me  so  mean  an  hostess. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Hungary.      An   Outer  Room  in   the 
Palace. 

Enter  ACANTHE,  and  four  or  fve  Servants  in  visors*. 

Acan.  Y'ou  know  your  charge  ;  give  it  action,  and 

expect 
Rewards  beyond  your  hopes. 

1  Serv.  If  we  but  eye  them, 
They  are  ours  1  warrant  you. 

2  Serv.  May  we  not  ask  why 
We  are  put  upon  this  ? 

Acan.  Let  that  stop  your  mouth  ; 

[dies  them  money. 

And  learn  more  manners,  groom.  'Tis  upon  the  hour 
In  which  they  use  to  walk  here  :  when  you  have  them 
In  your  power,  with  violence  carry  them  to  the  place 
Where  1  appointed ;  there  I  will  expect  you  : 
15e  bold  and  careful.  [Exit. 

Enter  MATHIAS  and  BAPTISTA. 

1  Serv.  These  are  they. 

2  Serv.  Are  you  sure  1 

1  Serv.  Am  1  sure  1  am  myself? 

"2  Serv.  Seizeon  him  strongly ;  if  he  havehut  means 
To  draw  his  sword,  'tis  ten  to  one  we  smart  for't : 
Take  all  advantages. 


'Enter  ACANTHE,  and  four  or  Jive  Servants  in  visors.} 
Tlie  old  state  direction  is,  Enter  Acanthe,  t\\o,four  or  Jive 
tei'h  vizards;  i.  e.  sucli  a  number  ;u  the  >tage  could  conve- 
niently supply.  Tlie  editors  not  seeii's;  lliis,  Iwve  printed, 
Enter  Aciti.llie  to  four  orjiie,  &c.  but  this  is  wrong,  for  they 
all  appear  together. 


Math.  I  cannot  guess 

What  her  intents  are  ;  but  her  carriage  was 
As  I  but  now  related. 

Bapt.  Y'our  assurance 

In  the  constancy  of  your  lady  is  the  armour 
That  must  defend  you.     Where's  the  picture  ? 

Math.   Here, 
And  no  way  alter'd. 

Bapt.  If  she  be  not  perfect, 
There  is  no  truth  in  art. 

Moth.  By  this,  I  hope, 
She  hath  received  my  letters. 

Bapt.  Without  question : 

These  courtiers  are  rank  riders,  when  they  are 
To  visit  a  handsome  lady. 

Math.  Lend  me  your  ear. 
One  piece  of  her  entertainment  will  require 
Your  dearest  privacy. 

1  Serv.  Now  they  stand  fair ; 
Upon  them.  [They  rush  forward. 

Math.  Villains! 

I  Serv.  Stop  their  mouths.     We  come  not 
To  try  your  valours;  kill  him  if  he  offer 
To  ope  his  mouth.     We  have  you  :   'tis  in  vain 
To  make  resistance.     Mount  them  and  away. 

[Exeunt  ivith  Matltias  and  Baptist. 


SCENE  IV.— A  Gallery  in  the  same. 
Enter  Servants  with  lights,  LADISI.AUS,  FEitDisAND.ami 

El'BULUS. 

T.adis.  'Tis  late.    Go  to  your  rest;  but  do  not  envy 
The  happiness  I  draw  near  to. 

Eubit.  If  you  enjoy  it 

The  moderate  way,  the  sport  yields,  I  confess, 
A  pretty  titillation  ;  but  too  much  oft 
Will  bring  you  on  your  knees.     In  my  younger  days 
I  was  myself  a  gamester  ;  and  I  found 
By  sad  experience,  there  is  no  such  soaker 
As  a  young  spongy  wife  :  she  keeps  a  thousand 
Horse-leeches  in  her  box ,  arid  the  thieves  will  suck  out 
Both  blood  and  marrow  !     I  feel  a  kind  of  cramp 
In  my  joints  when    I   think  on't :  but   it  may  be 

queens, 
And  such  a  queen  as  yours  is,  has  the  art 

Ferd,   You  take  leave 
To  talk,  my  lord. 

Ladis.  lie  may,  since  he  can  do  nothing. 

Eubu.  If  you  spend  this  way  too  much  of  your 

royal  stock, 
Ere  long  we  may  be  puefellows. 

Ladis.  The  door  shut ! 

Knock  gently  ;  harder.     So  here  comes  her  woman. 
Take  off  my  gown. 

Enter  ACANTHE. 

Acan.  My  lord,  the  queen  by  me 
This  night  desires  your  pardon. 

Ladis.  How,  Acanthe  ! 

I  come  by  her  appointment ;  'twas  her  grsua*  r 
The  motion  was  her  own. 

Acan.  It  may  be,  sir; 
But  by  her  doctors  she  is  since  advised. 
For  her  health's  sake,  to  forbear. 

Eubu.  1  do  not  like 

This  physical  letchery,  the  old  downrigLt  vav 
Is  worth  a  thousand  on't. 

Ladis.  Prithee,  Acantke, 
Mediate  for  me. 


268 


THE  PICTURE. 


[Acr  ill. 


Eubu.  O  the  fiends  of  hell! 
Would  any  man  bribe  his  servant,  to  make  way 
To  his  own  wife?  if  this  be  the  court  state, 
Shnine  fall  on  such  as  use  it! 

Acan.   By  this  jewel, 

This  night  I  dare  not  move  her,  but  to-morrow 
I  will  watch  all  occasions. 

Ladis.  Take  this, 
To  be  mindful  of  me.  [Exit  Acanthe, 

Eubu.  'Slight,  I  thought  a  king 
Might  have  ta'en  up  any  woman  at  the  king's  price. 
And  must  he  buy  his  own,  at  a  dearer  rate 
Than  a  stranger  in  a  brothel  ? 

Ladis.  What  is  that 
You  mutter,  sir? 

Eubu.  No  treason  to  your  honour: 
I'll  speak  it  out,  though  it  anger  you;  if  you  pay  for 
Your  lawful  pleasure  in  some  kind,  great  sir, 
What  do  you  make  the  queen?  cannot  you  clicket 
Without  a  fee,  or  when  she  has  a  suit 
For  you  to  grant  ? 

Ferd.  O  hold,  sir! 

Ladis.  On  with  his  bead    • 

Eubu.  Do,  when  you  please ;  you  but  blow  out 
a  taper  [oft 

That  would   light  your  understanding,  and,  in  care 
Is  burnt  down  to  the  socket.     Be  as  you  are.  sir, 
An  absolute  monarch  :  it  did  show  more  king-like 
In  those  libidinous  Caesars,  that  compell'd 
Matrons  and  virgins  of  all  ranks  to  bow 
Unto  their  ravenous  lusts  ;  and  did  admit 
Of  more  excuse  than  I  can  urge  for  you, 
That  slave  yourself  to  the  imperious  humour 
Of  a  proud  beautv. 

iMdis.  Out  of  my  sight! 

Eubu.  I  will,  sir, 

Give  way  to  your  furious  passion  ;  but  when  reason 
Hath  got  the  better  of  it,  I  much  hope 
The  counsel  that  offends  now  will  deserve 
Your  royal  thanks.     Tranquillity  of  mind 

Stay  with  you,  sir ! 1  do  begin  to  doubt      [than 

There's  something  more  in  the  queen's  strangeness 

Is  yet  disclosed  ;  and  I  will  find  it  out, 

Or  lose  myself  in  the  search.  [Exit. 

Ferd.  Sure  he  is  honest, 

And  from  your  infancy  hath  truly  served  you : 
Let  that  plead  for  him ;  and  impute  this  harshness 
To  the  frowardnes.3  of  his  age. 

Ladis.  I  am  much  troubled, 

And  do  begin  to  stagger.     Ferdinand,  good  night! 
To-morrow  visit  us.     Back  to  our  own  lodgings. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  ACANTHE  and  thevisored  Servants,  with  MATHIAS 
and  BAPTISTA  blindfolded. 

Acan.  You  have  done  bravely.     Lock  this  in  that 

room, 
There  let  him  ruminate ;  I'll  anon  unhood  him  : 

[They  carry  off  Baptista. 
The  other  must  stay  here.     As  soon  as  1 
Have  quit  the  place,  give  him  the  liberty 
And  use  of  his  eyes;  that  done,  disperse  vourselves 
As  prj»ateiy  as  you  can  :  but,  on  your  lives, 
No  word  of  what  hath  pass'd.  [Exit 

1  Sen.  If  I  do.  sell 

My  tsngue  to  a  tripe-wife.     Come,  unbind  his  arms  .- 
You  are  now  at  your  own  disposure ;  and  however 


We  used  you  roughly,  I  hope  you  will  find  here 
Such  entertainment  as  will  give  you  cause 
To  thank  us  for  the  service  :  and  so  1  leave  you*. 

[  Exeunt 

Math.  If  I  am  in  prison,  'tis  a  neat  one. 
What  (Edipus  can  resolve  this  riddle  ?     Ha  ! 
I  never  gave  just  cause  to  any  man 
Basely  to  plot  against  my  life : — but  what  is 
Become  of  my  true  friend  ?  for  him  I  suffer 
More  than  myself. 

Acan.  [wi  hin.}  Remove  that  idle  fear ; 
He's  safe  as  vou  are. 

Math.  Whosoe'er  thou  art, 
For  him  I  thank  thee.     I  cannot  imagine 
Where  I  should  be :  though  I  have  read  the  tales 
Of  errant-knighthood,  stuiTd  with  the  relations 
Of  magical  enchantments  ;  yet  I  am  not 
So  sottishly  credulous  to  believe  the  devil 
Hath  that  way  power.  [Music  above.]   lla!  music! 

The  blushing  rose,  and  purple  flower, 
Let  grow  too  long,  are  soonest  blasted  j 

Dainty  fruits,  though  sweet,  will  sour, 
And  rot  in  ripeness,  left  untasted. 

Yet  here  is  one  more  sweet  than  these : 

The  more  you  taste  the  more  she'll  please 

Beauty  that's  enclosed  with  ice, 

Is  a  shadow  chaste  as  rare ; 
Then  how  much  those  sweets  entice, 

That  have  issue  full  as  fair ! 
Earth  cannot  yield  from  all  her  powers 
One  equal  for  dame  Venus'  bowersf. 

A  song  too !  certainly,  be  it  he  or  she 
That  owes  this  voice,  it  hath  not  been  acquainted 
With  much  affliction.     Whosoe'er  you  are 
That  do  inhabit  here,  if  you  have  bodies, 
And  are  not  mere  aerial  forms,  appear, 

Enter  HONORIA,  masked. 

And  make  me  know  your  end  with  me.  Most  strange ' 
What  have  I  conjured  up?  sure,  if  this  be 
A  spirit,  it  is  no  damn'd  one.   What  a  shape's  here ! 
Then,  with  what  majesty  it  moves  !  If  Juno 
Were  now  to  keep  her  state  among  the  gods, 
And  Hercules  to  be  made  again  her  guest, 
She  could  not  put  on  a  more  glorious  habit, 
Though  her  handmaid,  Iris,  lent  her  various  colours, 
Or  old  Oceanus  ravish 'd  from  the  deep 
All  jewels  shipwreck'd  in  it.     As  you  have 
Thus  far  made  known  yourself,  if  that  your  face 
Have  not  too  much  divinity  about  it 
P'or  mortal  eyes  to  gaze  on,  perfect  what 
You  have  begun,  with  wonder  and  amazement 


*        and  so  I  leave  you.}  Thus  the  quarto: 

the  modern  editor*,  but  l«ss  properly,  and  so  we  leave  you 

t  This  song  puts  me  in  mind  of  Swift's  love-song, 
"  Cupid,  spread  tliy  purple  pinions, 
Sweetly  waving  o'er  my  head,"  — &c. 
and  seems  to  have  as  litlle  meaning  in  it. — M.  MASON. 

Truly  there  is  "  no  great  matter  in  the  song,"  as  th 
Clown  says  :  yet  it  is  not  altogether  so  devoid  of  meaning 
as  that  which  Mr.  M.  Mason  has  quoted  with  sm-h  Uii'l.ible 
correctness  ;  nor  absolutely  foreign  to  the  design  in  agitation. 
In  the  fir-t  line  of  the  second  stanza,  the  editors  read 
thovyhfor  that's;  the  word  is  mispiimed  in  the  quarto,  ami 
1  have  been  reduced  to  guess  at  it  The  siagedin  ction  here 
is.  Music  above,  a  tony  of  pleasure :  from  which  it  seems 
that  no  song  was  origina  ly  provided  by  the  author.  ludted 
it  is  a  doubt  with  me,  whether  most  of  these  things  WIT* 
not  supplied  by  the  poet  in  waiting. 


SCENE  V.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


To  my  astonish'd  senses,  [Honoriu  unmasks.]  How  ! 
the  queen  !  [Kneels. 

Hon.  Rise,  sir,  and  hear  my  reasons,  in  defence 
Of  the  rape  (for  so  you  may  conceive)  which  I, 
By  my  instruments,  made  upon  you.    You,  perhaps, 
May  think  what  you  have  suffer'd  for  my  lust 
Is  a  common  practice  with  me ;  but  I  call 
Those  ever-sinning;  lamps,  and  their  great  Maker, 
As  witnesses  of  my  innocence :  I  ne'er  look'd  on 
A  man  hut  your  hest  self,  on  whom  I  ever 
(Except  the  king)  vouchsafed  an  eye  of  favour. 

Math.  The  king1,  indeed,  and  only  such  a  king1, 
Deserves  your  rarities,  madam  ;  and,  but  he, 
'Twere  giant-like  ambition  in  any 
In  his  wishes  only,  to  presume  to  taste 
The  nectar  of  your  kisses  ;  or  to  feed 
His  appetite  with  that  ambrosia,  due 
And  proper  to  a  prince ;  and,  what  binds  more, 
A  lawful  husband.     For  myself,  great  queen, 
I  am  a  thins;  obscure,  disfurnish'd  of 
All  merit,  that  can  raise  me  higher  than, 
In  my  most  humble  thankfulness  for  your  bounty, 
To  hazard  my  life  for  you  ;  and  that  way 
1  am  most  ambitious. 

Hon.  1  desire  no  more 

Than  what  you  promise.     If  you  dare  expose 
Your  life,  as  you  profess,  to  do  me  service, 
How  can  it  better  be  employ 'd  than  in 
Preserving  mine?  which  only  you  can  do, 
And  must  do,  with  the  danger  of  your  own  ; 
A  desperHte  danger  too  !  If  private  men 
Can  brook  no  rivals  in  what  thev  affect, 
But  to  the  death  pursue  such  as  invade 
What  law  makes  thi-ir  inheritance  ;  the  king, 
To  whom  you  know  I  am  dearer  than  his  crown, 
His  health,  his  eyes,  his  after  hopes,  with  all 
His  present  blessings,  must  fall  on  that  man, 
Like  dreadful  lightning,  that  is  won  by  prayers, 
Threats,  or  rewards,  to  stain  his  bed,  or  make 
His  hoped-for  issue  doubtful. 

Muth.  If  you  aim 

At  what  I  more  than  fear  you  do,  the  reasons 
Which  you  deliver  should,  in  judgment,  rather 
De'.er  me,  than  invite  a  grant,  with  my 
Assured  ruin. 

Hon.  True  ;  if  that  you  were 
Of  a  cold  temper,  one  whom  doubt,  or  fear, 
In  the  most  horrid  forms  they  could  put  on, 
Might  teach  to  be  ingrateful.  Your  denial 
To  me,  that  have  deserved  so  much,  is  more, 
If  it  can  have  addition. 

Maih.  J  know  not 
What  your  commands  are. 

Hon.  Have  you  fought  so  well 
Among  arm'd  men,  yet  cannot  guess  what  lists 
You  are  to  enter,  when  you  aie  in  private 
With  a  willing  lady:  one,  that,  to  enjoy 
Your  company  this  night,  denied  the  king 
Access  to  what's  his  own  ?  If  you  will  press  me 
To  speak  in  plainer  language— — 

Mtitlt.  Pray  you,  forbear  ; 
I  would  I  did  not  understand  too  much  ! 
Already,  by  your  worls,  I  am  instructed 
To  <  redit  that,  which,  not  confirm 'd  by  you, 
Had  bred  suspicion  in  me  of  untruth, 
Though  nn  angel  had  aflirm'd  it.     But  suppose 
That,  cloy"d  with  happiness,  which  is  ever  built 
On  virtuous  chastity,  in  the  wantonness 
Of  appetite,  you  desire  to  make  trial 
Of  the  false  delights  proposed  by  vicious  lust ; 


Among  ten  thousand,  every  way  more  able 
And  apter  to  be  wrought  on,  such  as  owe  you 
Obedience,  being  your  subjects,  why  should  you 
Make  choice  of  me  a  stranger? 

Hon.  Though  yet  reason 
Was  ne'er  admitted  in  the  court  of  love, 
I'll  yield  you  one  unanswerable.     As  I  urged, 
In  our  last  private*  conference,  you  have 
A  pretty  promising  presence  ;  but  there  are 
Many,  in  limbs  and  feature,  who  may  take, 
That  way,  the  right-hand  file  of  you  :  besides, 
Your  May  of  youth  is  past,  and  the  blood  spentf 
By  wounds,  though  bravely  taken,  renders  you 
Disabled  for  love's  service  :  and  that  valour 
Set  off  with  better  fortune,  which,  it  may  be, 
Swells  you  above  your  bounds,  is  not  the  hook 
That  hath  caught  me,  good  sir.    I  need  no  champion 
With  his  sword,  to  guard  my  honour  or  my  beauty  ; 
In  both  I  can  defend  myself,  and  live 
My  own  protection. 

Math.  If  these  advocates, 

The  best  that  can  plead  for  me,  have  no  power, 
What  can  you  find  in  me  else,  that  may  tempt  you, 
With  irrecoverable  loss  unto  yourself, 
To  be  a  gainer  from  me  ! 

Hon.  You  have,  sir,      . 
A  jewel  of  such  matchless  worth  and  lustre, 
As  does  disdain  comparison,  and  darkens 
All  that  is  rare  in  other  men  ;  and  that 
I  must  or  win  or  lessen. 

Math.  You  heap  more 

Amazement  on  me  :  What  am  I  possess'd  of 
That  you  can  covet?  make  me  understand  it, 
If  it  have  a  name. 

Hon.  Yes,  an  imagined  one  ; 
But  is,  in  substance,  nothing  ;  being  a  garment 
Worn  out  of  fashion,  and  long  since  given  o'er 
By  the  court  and  country  :   'tis  your  loyalty 
And  constancy  to  your  wife  ;  'tis  that  I  dote  on, 
And  does  deserve  my  envy  :  and  that  jewel, 
Or  by  fair  play  or  foul,  I  must  win  from  you. 

Muth.  These  are  mere  contraries.     If  you  love 

me,  madam, 

For  my  constancy,  why  seek  you  to  destroy  it? 
In  my  keeping  it  preserve  me  worth  your  favour  f. 
Or,  if  it  be  a  jewel  of  that  value, 
As  you  with  labour'd  rhetoric  would  persuade  me, 
What  can  you  stake  against  it? 

Hon.  A.  queen's  fame, 
And  equal  honour. 

Math.  So,  whoever  wins, 
Both  shall  be  losers. 

*  In  our  lait  private  conference,  you  have.]  Mr  M. 
Mason  omits  private,  though  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
measure. 

and  the  blood  spent 

By  wounds,  &c.]  We  have  already  had  this  conceit  in 
The  Parliament  of  Love  : 

"  Tliunuh  honoiir'd  in  our  manly  woundt,  well  taken, 
You  say  they  do  deform  us,  and  the  loss 


in  iiiiuwiug  me  10  Keep  it,  sutler  me  to  remain  a  proper, 
object  of  your  kindness  >."  This  seems  lobe  the  drift  of  Ihe 
argument.  Coxetcr  not  adverting  to  this,  reads, 

In  my  ftt'tpiny  it  preserves  me  worth  your  favour  ! 
And  Mr.  M.  Mason,  improving  upon  him,  alters  Jn  to  If, 
remove?  the  point,  and  runs  iheline  into  ihe  next  sentence: 

If  my  knyiiig,  it  j)reserves  me  worth  your  favour 

Or,  if  (the,  &.c. 
But  where  is  Massinger  all  this  while  1 


870 


THE  PICTURE. 


[An  III. 


Hon.  That  is  that*  I  aim  at. 
Vet  on  the  die  1  lav  my  youth,  my  beauty, 
This  moist  palm,  this  soft  lip,  and  those  delights 
D'-wkness  should  only  judge  of.     Do  you  find  them 
Infectious  in  the  trial,  th:it  you  start, 
As  frighted  with  their  touch  ? 

Main.   Is  it  in  man 
To  resist  such  strong  temptations  ? 

Ho/i.  He  begins 
To  waver. 

Math.  Madam,  as  you  are  gracious, 
Grant  this  sliort  night's  deliberation  to  me  ; 
And,  with  the  rising  sun,  from  me  you  shall 
Receive  full  satisfaction. 

Hon.  Though  extremes 
Hate  nil  delay,  1  will  deny  you  nothing  ; 
This  key  will  briii:.;  you  to  your  friend;  you  are 

safe  both  ; 

And  all  things  useful  that  could  be  prepared 
For  one  I  love  and  honour,  wait  upon  you. 
Take  counsel  of  your  pillow,  such  a  fortune 
As  with  affection's  swiftest  wings  flies  to  you, 
Will  not  be  often  tender'd.  [E.rit. 

Mnth.  How  my  blood 

Rel>els !   I  now  could  call  her  back — and  yet 
There's  something  stays' me  :  if  the  king  had  ten- 
der'd 

Such  favours  to  my  wife,  tis  to  be  doubted 
They  had  nof.  been  refused  :  but,  being  a  man, 
I  should  not  yield  first,  or  prove  an  example 
For  her  defence  of  frailty.     By  this,  sans  question, 
She's  tempted  too  ;  and  here  I  may  examine 

[Looks  on  the  picture. 

Flow  she  holds  out.     She's  still  the  same,  ihe  same 
Pure  crystal  rock  of  (hastily.     Perisli  all 
Allurements  that  may  niter  me  !  The  snow 
Of  her  sweet  coldness  hath  extinguish'd  quite 
The  fire  that  but  even  now  began  to  flame  : 
And  I  by  her  coiifirm'd,  —  rewards  nor  titles, 
Nor  certain  death  from  the  refused  queen, 
Shall  shake  my  faith  ;  since  I  resolve  to  be 
Loyal  to  her,  as  she  is  true  to  me.  [Eitf. 


SCENE    Vlf. — Bohemia.      A   Room    in   Mathias' 
House. 

Enter  UBALDO  and  RICARDO. 

Ubald.  What  we  speak  on  the  voley  f  begins  to 

work , 
We  have  laid  a  good  foundation. 

Hie.  liuild  it  up, 

Or  else  'tis  nothing  :  you  have  by  lot  the  honour 
Of  the  first  a.-sault,  but,  as  it  is  cor.diiion'd, 
Observe  the  time  proportion'd  :  I'll  not  part  with 
My  share  in  the  achievement :  when  1  whistle, 
Or  hem,  fall  off. 

•  Hon.  That  in  that  /  aim  at.}  Every  where  the  modern 
editors  labour  to  desiroy  all  traces  of  the  phraseology  of 
Massingcr's  ago.  They  read,  That  is  what  1  aim  at. 

1  SCKNE  VI.)  Mr.  M.  Mason,  deseriiii'i  his  old  guide,  does 
not  make  this  a  new  scene  ;  though  the  change  of  place  is 
from  the  palace  of  Ladislaus  to  the  distant  residence  of 
Sophia  ! 

I  Ubal  I.   What  we  tpeali  on  the  voley.]  A  literal  translation 
of  the  French  phrase  11  lu-volee,  which  signifies  at  randum, 
or  mconsMrrati'ly.  —  M.  MASON. 
Thus  in  The  ;Ww  Inn. 

" —  ymi  must  not  give  credit 

To  all  tint  ladie*  pnl.licly  pivw*s, 

Or  talk  o'  the  voley  uulo  their  servants. 


E..ter  SOPHIA. 

Ubald.  She  comes.     Stand  by,  I'll  watch 
My  opportunity.  [They  tcalk  aside. 

Soph.  1  find  myself 

Str  mgelv  distracted  with  the  various  stories, 
Now  well,  now  ill,  then  doubtfully,  by  iny  guests 
Deliver'd  of  my  lord  ;  and,  like  poor  beggars 
That  in  their  dreams  find  trea-ure,  by  reflection 
Of  a  wounded  fancy,  make  it  questionable 
Whether  they  sleep  or  not ;  yet,  tickled  with 
Such  a  fantastic  hope  of  happiness, 
Wish  they  may  never  wake.     In  some  such  measure 
Incredulous  of  what  1  see  and  touch, 
As  'twere  a  fading  apparition,  I 
Am  still  perplex'd,  and  troubled;  and  when  most 
Con firm  a  tis  true,  a  curious  jealousy 
To  be  assured,  by  what  means,  and  from  whom 
Sucli   a  mass    of  wealth  was    first    deserved,   then 

gotten. 

Cunningly  steals  into  me.     I  have  practised, 
For  my  certain  resolution,  with  these  courtiers, 
Promising  private  i  oiiference  to  either, 
And,  at  this  hour  :   if  HI  search  of  the  truth, 
I  hear,  or  say,  moiv  than  b.  comes  my  virtue, 
Forgive  me,  mv  Mathias. 

Vbuld.   Now  1  make  in. —  [ Comes  joiicard. 

Madam,  as  you  command,  I  attend 
Your  pleasure. 

Soph.  1  must  thank  you  for  the  favour. 

Ubnld.  1  am  no  ghost ly  father  ;    yet  if  you  have 
Some   scruples   touching  your  lord,  you  would  be 

resolved  of, 
I  am  prepared. 

iSo/i/i.   I5ut  will  you  take  your  oath, 
To  answer  truly  ! 

Ubnld.  On  the  hem  of  your  smock,  if  you  please, 
A  vow  1  dare  not  break,  it  being  a  book 
1  would  gladly  swear  on. 

Si>ph.   To  spare,  sir,  that  trouble, 
I'll  take  your  word,  which,  in  a  gentleman, 
Should  be  of  equal  value.      Is  my  lord,  then, 
In  such  grace  with  tl<e  queen? 

Ubiilil.   You  should  best  know 
By  what  you  have  found  from  him,  whether  he  can 
Deserve*  a  grace  or  no. 

Soph     What  grace  do  you  mean? 

Vbald.  That,  special  -.race,  if  you  will  have  it,  he 
Labour'd  so  hard  for  between  a  pair  of  sheets, 
Upon  your  wedding  night,  when  your  ladyship 
Lost  you  know  what. 

Siif>h.  Fie  !  be  more  modest, 
Or  1  must  leave  you. 

Ubnld.  1  would  tell  a  truth 
As  cleanly  as  1  could,  and  yet  the  subject 
Makes  me  run  out  a  little. 

60/1/1.  You  would  put,  now, 
A  foolish  jealousy  in  mv  head,  my  lord 
Hath  gotten  a  new  mistress. 

Ubald.   One!   a  hundred  ; 
But  under  seal  1  speak  it :   I  presume 
Upon  your  silence,  it  being  for  )our  profit. 
They  talk  of  Hercules' fifty  in  a  uightf, 
Twas  well ;  hut  yet  to  yours  he  was  a  piddler; 
Such  a  soldier  and  a  courtier  never  came 


*  Deserve  a  yrace  or  no  ]  The  article  is  omitied  by  both 
the  editors,  ihon-li  the  metre  is  mi  perfect  \viiln.ui  it. 

»  They  tatt,  &c.|  1  have  omitted  two  words,  which  af- 
pcir  evidentl)  imerpola'.cd,  as  they  destroy  al  once  the 
construction  and  ihe  measure. 


VI.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


T:>  Alhsi*  rpgalis  ;  the  ladies  run  mad  for  him, 
AM!  there  is  such  contention  among  them, 
\Vlio  shall  engross  him  wholh,  tliat  the  like 
Was  nevpr  heard  of 

Supli.  A  f  they  handsome  women  ? 

U  hi- lit.   Fie  !    no  ;   coarse    mamroets,    and  what's 

worse,  they  are  old  too. 

Some  fiuy,  some  threescore,  and  they  pay  dear  for't, 
Believing-  that  he  carries  a  powder  in  his  breeches 
\Viil    make    them    young    again  ;    and  these    suck 
shwredly, 

Pic.  [i/7j  jsl/es.]  Sir,  I  must  fetch  you  off. 

Vhtild.  I  could  tell   you  wonders 
Of  th-  cures  he  has  done,  but  a  business  of  import 
Calls  me  away  ;  but,  thaldispatdi'd,  1  will 
Be  with  you  presently.  [Walla  aside. 

6V>/.7i.    1  he:e  is  something  more 
In  rhis  than  bare  suspit-ion. 

Jiic.   [  vmes Jnrwu'd]  save  you,  lady  ; 
Now  you  louk  like  yourself!     I  have  not  look'd  on 
A  lady  more  complete,  yet  have  seen  a  madam 
"Wear  a  garment  of  this  fashion,  of  the  same  stuff  too, 
One   just  of  your  dimensious :  sat  the  wind  there, 
boy  ! 

So/A.   What  lady,  ^r  ? 

Hie.  Nay,  no'hing  ;  and  metbinks 
I  should  know  this  ruby  :  very  good  !  'tis  the  same. 
This  chain  of  orient  pearl,  and  this  diamond  too, 
Have   lieen  worn  before ;  but  much  good  may  they 

do  you ! 
Strensr'h  to  the  gentleman's  back  !  he  toil'd  hard  for 

them 
Before  he  got  them. 

Snph.  Why,  how  were  they  gotten? 

Hie.  Not  in  the  field  with  his  sword,  upon  my  life, 
He  may  thunk  his  close  stilettof. — [Ubaldo  hems.~\ — 

•  Plague  upon  it  ! 
Run  the  minutes  so  fasti — Pray  you   excuse  my 

manners  ; 

I  left  a  It- tier  in  my  chamber  window, 
Which  1  would  not  have  set-nonany  terms  ;  fie  on  it, 
Forgetful  as  1  am  !   but  J'll  straight  attend  you. 

[TFu/A$  aside. 

Soph.  This    is   strange.      His  letters  said   these 

jewels  were 

Presented  him  by  the  queen,  as  a  reward 
For  his  ffood  service,  and  the  trunks  of  clothes 
That   followed    them   this    last   night,   wiih    haste 

made  up 
By  his  direction. 

Ubald.  [cttnesfimcnrd"]  I  was  telling  you 
Of  wonders,  madam. 

•Sfiph.  If  you  are  so  skilful, 
Without  premeditation  answer  me  ; 
Know  you  this  gown,  and  these  rich  jewels? 

Ubtitd.   Heaven, 
How  things   will   come  out!      But  that  I  should 

offVnd  vou, 

And  wroiittmv  more  than  noble  friend  your  husband, 
(For  we  are  sworn  brothers),  in  the  discovery 
Of  his  nearest  secrets,  1  could 

Soph.  By  the  hope  of  favour 
That  )ou  have  from  me,  out  with  it. 

*  To  Alba  ngali>;l  Mr.  M.  Ma«on  read*  Avla  leyal:*. 
Wli>  tl'i."  i-hiiligi-  should  be  thought  ueceffarj  ,  I  cannot  ti  II  ; 
Alba  regali*  WH.-  no  iim-on  in>  n  e.\pn5>ii>n  HI  the  lime  ;  anil, 
jiuliKl.  it  is  n.-til,  by  more  ih  in  one  writer,  fur  the  English 
court. 

1  Hf  miiy  thunk  hit  chue  fliletto.]  So  ihe  old  copy. 
Coxeler  aiiU  Air.  M.  Mas>ou  read,  hit  close  stiilel  too! 


Ubald.  'Tis  a  potent  spell 
I  cannot  resist ;  why  I  will  tell  you,  madam, 
And  to  how  many  several  women  you  rre 
Beholding  for  your  bravery.     This  was 
The  wedding  gown  of  Paulino,  a  rich  strumpet, 
Worn  but  a  day,  when  she  married  old  Gonzaga, 
And  left  off  trading. 

Snph.  O  my  heart ! 

Ubiiil.  This  chain 

Of  pearl  was  a  great  widow's,  that  invited 
Your  lord  to  a  mask,  and  the  weather  proving  foul, 
He  lodged  in  her  house  all  night,  and  merry  they 

were  ; 
But  how  he  came  by  it,  I  know  not. 

Soph.  Perjured  man  ! 

Ubalii.  This  ring  was  Julietta's,  a  fine  piece. 
But  very  good  at  the  sport :   this  diamond 
W;is  madam  Acanthe's,  given  him  fL-r  a  song 
Prick'd  in  a  private  arbour,  ns  she  said, 
When  the    queen  ask'd   for't ;  and  she  heard  him 

sing  too, 

And  danced  to  his  hornpipe,  or  there  are  liars  abroad. 
There  are  other  toys  about  you  the  same   way  pur- 
chased ; 

But,  parallel'd  with  these,  not  worth  the  relation. 
You  are  happy  in  a  husband,  never  man 
Made  better  use  of  his  strength  :  would  you  have 

him  waste 

His  bociy  away  for  nothing?  if  he  holds  out, 
There's  not  an  embroidered  petticoat  in  the  court 
But  shall  be  at  your  service. 

Soph.  I  commend  him, 

It  is  a  thriving  trade  ;  but  pray  you  leave  me 
A  little  to  myself. 

Ubald,  You  may  command 

Your  servant,  madam. — [  Walks  aside] — She's  stung 
unto  the  quick,  lad. 

Ric.  1  did  my  part ;    if  this  potion*    work  not, 

hang  me  ! 

Let  her  sleep  as  well  as  she  can  to-night,  to-morrow 
\\  e'll  mount  new  batteries. 

Ubald.  And  till  theu  leave  her. 

[Exeunt  Ubaldo  and  Ricardo. 

Soph.  You  Powers,  that  take  into  your  care  the 

guard 

Of  innocence,  aid  me  !  for  I  am  a  creature 
So  forfeited  to  despair,  hope  cannot  fancy 
A  ransome  to  redeem  me.     I  begin 
To  waver  in  my  faith,  and  make  it  doubtful, 
Whether  the  saints,  that  were  canonized  for 
Their  holiness  of  li'.e,  sinn'd  not  in  secret; 
Since  my  Ma  bias  is  fallen  from  his  virtue 
In  such  an  open  fashion.     Could  it  be,  else, 
That  such  a  husband,  so  devoted  to  me, 
So  vow'd  to  temperance,  for  lascivious  hire 
Should  prostitute  himself  to  common  harlots  ! 
Old  and  deform'd  too  !     Was't  for  this  he  left  me, 
And  on  a  feign 'd  pretence  for  want  of  means 
To  give  me  ornament  ? — or  to  bring  home 
Diseases  to  me?     Suppose  these  are  false 
And  lustful  goats,  if  he  were  true  and  right, 
Why  stays  he  so  long  from  me,  being  made  rich, 
And  that  the  only  reason  why  he  left  me? 
No,  he  is  lost ;  and  shall  I  wear  the  spoils 


• ifthi*   pction  tcorJt  not,]     Both  the 

editors  omit  potion  :  but,  indeed,  nothing  c-in  be  more  shame- 
fully primed  than  the  \\hole  of  this  scene,  it  1  said  the 
•whole  of  this  pljy,  I  should  not  wrong  the  truth. 


*'» 


THE  PICTURE. 


And  salaries  of  lust !  tliev  cleave  unto  me 
Like  Nessus'  poison'd  shirt  .  no,  in  my  rage 
I'll  tear  them  oft',  and  froinmv  body  wash 
The  venom  with  my  tears.     Hiive  I  no  spleen, 
Nor  anger  of  a  woman  ?  shall  he  build 
Upon  my  ruins,  and  1,  unrevenged, 
Deplore'his  falsehood  ?  no;  with  the  same  trash 
For  which  he  had  dishonour'd  me,  I'll  purchase 


A  just  revenge  :   I  am  not  yet  s-o  much 

In  debt  to  years,  nor  so  mis-shaped,  that  all 

Should  flv  from  my  embraces  :     Chastity, 

Thou  only  art  a  name,  and  I  renounce  thee ! 

I  am  now  a  servant  to  voluptuousness. 

Wantons  of  all  degrees  and  fashions,  welcome? 

You  shall  be  entertain'd  ;  and,  if  1  stray, 

Let  him  condemn  himself,  that  led  the  way.      [Exit 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — Hungary.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  MATHIAS  and  BAPTISTA. 

Bapt.  We  are  in  a  desperate  strait ;  there's  no 

evasion, 

Nor  hope  left  to  come  off,  but  by  your  yielding 
To  the  necessity,  you  must  feign  a  grant 
To  her  violent  passion,  or 

Math.  What,  my  Bnptista? 

Bnpt.  We  are  but  dead  else. 

Math.  Were  the  sword  now  heaved  up, 
And  my  neck  upon  the  block,  I  would  not  buy 
An  hour's  reprieve  with  the  loss  of  faith  and  virtue, 
To  be  made  immortal  lifre.     Art  thou  a  scholar, 
Nay,  almost  without  parallel,  and  yet  fear 
To  die,  which  is  inevitable  !     You  may  urge 
The  many  years  that,  by  the  course  of  nature, 
We  may  travel  in  this  tedious  pilgrimage, 
And  hold  it  as  a  blessing;  as  it  is, 
When  innocence  is  our  guide  :  yet  know,  Baptista, 
Our  virtues  are  preferr'd  before  our  years, 
By  the  great  Judge  :  to  die  untainted  in 
Our  fame  and  refutation  is  the  greatest ; 
And  to  lose  that,  can  we  desire  to  live*  1 
Or  shall  I,  for  a  momentary  pleasure, 
Which  soon  comes  to  a  period,  to  all  times 
Have  breach  of  faith  and  perjury  remembered 
In  a  still-living  epitaph  ?  no,  Baptista, 
Since  my  Sophia  will  go  to  her  grave 
Unspotted  in  her  faith,  I'll  follow  her 
With  equal  lovalty  :  —  But  look  on  this, 
Your  own  great  work,  your  masterpiece,  and  then, 

She  being  still  the  same,  teach  me  to  alter! 

Ha  !  sure  I  do  not  sleep  !  or,  if  I  dream, 
This  is  a  terrible  vision !     1  will  clear 
My  eyesight ;  perhaps  melancholy  makes  me 
See  that  which  is  not. 

Bnpt.  It  is  too  apparent. 
I  grieve  to  look  upon't  :  besides  the  yellow1, 
That  does  assure  site's  tempted,  there  are  lines 
Of  a  dark  colour,  that  disperse  themselves 
O'er  every  miniature  of  her  face,  and  those 
Confirm 

Math.  She  is  turn'd  wbore  ! 

Bapt.  I  must  not  say  so. 
Yet,  as  a  friend  to  truth,  if  you  gill  have  me 
Interpret  it,  in  her  consent  and  wishes 
Sho's  false,  but  not  in  fact  yet. 

*  And  to  lam  that,  can  we  desire  to  live!  This  is  from 
Juvenal : 
Et  itropter  vltam,  vivendi  perdere  catttat.      Sat.  VIII. 


Math.  Fact,  Baptista ! 

Make  not  yourself  a  pander  to  her  looseness, 
In  labouring  to  palliate  what  a  visor 
Of  impudence  cannot  cover.      Uid  e'er  woman 
In  her  will  decline  from  chastity,  but  found  means 
To  give  her  hot  lust  fuel  ?*     It  is  more 
Impossible  in  nature  for  gross  bodies, 
Descending  of  themselves,  to  hang  in  the  air  ; 
Or  with  my  single  arm  to  underprop 
A  falling  tower ;  nay,  in  its  violent  course 
To  stop  the  lightning,  than  to  stay  a  woman, 
Hurried  by  two  furies,  lust  and  falsehood, 
In  her  full  career  to  wickedness  ! 

Bapt.  Pray  you,  temper 
The  violence  of  your  passion. 

Math.  In  extremes 
Of  this  condition,  can  it  be  in  man 
To  use  a  moderation  ?     I  am  thrown 
From  a  steep  rock  headlong  into  a  gulph 
Of  misery,  and  find  myself  past  hope, 
In  the  same  moment  tir.it  1  apprehend 
That  I  am  falling  :  and  this,  the  figure  of 
My  idol,  few  hours  since,  while  she  continued 
In  her  perfection,  that  was  late  a  mirror, 
In  which  I  saw  miraculous  shapes  of  duty, 
Staid  manners  with  ali  excellency  a  husband 
Could  wish  in  a  chaste  wife,  is  on  the  sudden 
Turn'd  to  amngical  glass,  and  does  present 
Nothing  but  horns  and  horror. 

Bapt.  You  may  yet, 

And  'tis  the  best  foundation,  build  up  comfort 
On  your  own  goodness. 

Math.  No,  that  hath  undone  me ; 
For  now  I  hold  my  temperance  a  sin 
Worse  than  excess,  and  what  was  vice,  a  virtue 
Have  I  refused  a  queen,  and  such  a  queen, 
Whose,  ravishing   beauties   at   the   first  sight  liad 
tempted 

A  hermit  from  his  beads,  and  changed  his  prayers 
To  amorous  sonmts,  to  preserve  my  faith 
Inviolate  to  thee,  with  the  hazard  of 
My  death  with  torture,  since  she  could  inflict 
No  less  for  my  contempt;  and  have  I  met 
Such  a  return  from  thee  !     I  will  not  curse  thee, 
Nor,  for  thv  falsehood,  rail  against  the  sex  ; 
'Tis  poor,  and  common  :  I'll  only,  with  wise  men, 
Whiaper  unto  myself,  howe'er  they  seem, 
Nor  present,  nor  past  times,  nor  the  age  to  come, 
Hath  heretofore,  can  now,  or  ever  shall, 
Produce  one  constant  woman. 

*  To  aim  her  hot  hint  fuel?!  Wantonly  corrupted  by  the 
mewl,  ru  editor*  \nlu-yiveher  hot  lust  full  scope  !  Metre  and 
j    sciuc  dvsl>-uyvd  at  a  stroke! 


CCENE  II.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


£73 


Baft.  This  is  more 
Than  the  satirists  wrote  against  them. 

Math.  There's  n;>  lauguage 
That  can  express  the  poison  of  these  aspics, 
These  weeping  crocodiles,  and  all  too  lutle 
That  hath  been  said  against  them.      But  I'll  mould 
My  thoughts  into  another  form  ;  and,  if 
She  can  outlive  the  report  of  what  1  have  clone, 
This  hand,  when  next  she  comes  within  my  reach, 
Shall  be  her  executioner. 

Enter  HONORIA  and  ACANTIIE. 

Bapt,  The  queen,  sir. 

Hon.  \Vait    our   command    at   distance :— [Eai/. 

Acamhe.~\  —  Sir,  you  too  have 
Free  liberty  to  depart. 

Bapt.  I  know  niv  manners, 
And  thank  you  tor  the  favour.  [Exit. 

Hon.  Have  vt  u  t;iken 

Good  rest  in  your  new  lodgings?  I  expect  now 
Your  resolute  answer  ;  but  advise  maturely, 
Before  I  hear  it. 

Math.  Let  my  actions,  madam, 
For  no  words  can  dilate  my  joy,  in  all 
You    can    command,   with   cheerfulness   to    serve 

you, 

Assure  your  highness  ;  and,  in  sign  of  my 
Submission  and  contrition  for  my  error, 
My  lips,  that  but  the  last  night  shunn'd  the  touch 
Of  yours  as  poison,  taught  humility  now, 
Thus  on  your  foot,  and  that  to»  great  an  honour 
For  such  an  undeserver,  seal  my  duty. 
A  cloudy  mist  of  ignorance,  equal  to 
Cimmerian  darkness,  would  not  let  me  see,  then, 
What  now,  with  adoration  and  wonder, 
With  reverence  I  look  up  to  :   but  those  fogs 
Dispersed  and  scatter'd  by  the  powerful  beams 
With  which  jourself.  the  sun  of  all  perfection, 
Vouchsafe  to  cure  my  blindness  ;  like  a  suppliant, 
As  low  as  1  can  kneel,  I  humbly  beg 
What,  yon  once  pleased  to  tender. 

Hon.  This  is  more 

Than  I  could  hope! — What  find  you  so  attractive 
Upon  my  face,  iu  so  short  time  to  make 
This  sudden  metamorphosis?  pray  you,  rise  ; 
1,  for  your  late  neglect,  thus  sign  your  pardon. 
Ay,  now  you  kiss  like  a  lover,  and  not  as  brothers 
Coldly  salute  their  sister. 

Math.  1  am  turn'd 
All  spirit  and  fire. 

Hon.  Yet,  to  give  some  allay 
To  this  hot  fervour,  'twere  good  to  remember 
The  king,  whose  eyes  and  ears  are  every  where ; 
With  the  danger  too  that  follows,  this  discover'd. 

Math.  Danger!  a  bugbear,  madam;  let  me  ride 

once 

Like  Phaeton  in  the  chariot  of  your  favour, 
And  1  contemn  Jove's  thunder:  though  the  king, 
In  our  embraces  stood  a  looker  on, 
His  hangman,  and  with  studied  cruelty,  ready* 
To  drag  me  from  your  arms,  it  should  not  fright  me 
From  the  enjoying  that  a  single  life  is 
Too  poor  a  price  for.     O,  that  now  all  vigour 
Of  mv  youth  weie  re-collected  for  an  hour, 
That  my  desire  might  meet  with  yours,  and  draw 
The  envy  of  all  men,  in  the  encounter, 

*  7/u  hanyman,  and  with  studied  cruelty,  ready.]  Here 
again  llicst  vu-rnul  enemies  of  the  author's  idiomatic  style 
read,  his  hanyman  too,  with  studied  cruelty,  ate. 


Upon  my  head  !   I  should — but  we  lose  time  ; 
Be  sracious,  mighty  queen. 

Hon.  Pause  yet  a  liitle  : 

The  bounties  ot  the  king,  and,  what  weighs  more, 
Your  boasted  constancy  to  your  matchless  wife, 
Should  not  so  soon  be  shaken. 

Math.  The  whole  fabric, 
When  I  but  look  on  you,  is  in  a  moment 
O'erturned  and  ruin'd  ;  and,  as  rivers  lose 
'1  heir  names  when  they  are  swallow'd  by  the  ocean, 
In  you  alone  all  faculties  of  my  soul 
Are  wholly  taken  up  ;  my  wife  and  king, 
At  the  best,  as  things  forgotten. 

Hoh.  Can  this  be  ? 
I  have  gain'd  my  end  now.  \_Atide. 

Math.   Wherefore  stay  you,  madam? 

Hun.  In  my  consideration  what  a  nothing 
Man's  constancy  is. 

Math.  Your  beauties  make  it  so 
In  me,  sweet  lady. 

Hon.  And  it  is  my  glory  : 
1  could  be  coy  now,  as  you  were,  but  I 
Am  of  a  gentler  temper  ;  howsoever, 
And  in  a  just  return  of  what  1  have  suffer'd 
In  your  disdain,  with  the  same  meusi_e  grant  ine 
Equal  deliberation  :  1  ere  long 
Will  visit  you  again  ;  and  when  I  next 
Appear,  as  conquer'd  by  it,  slave-like  wait 
On  my  triumphant  beauty.  [Exit. 

Math.  What  a  change 

Is  here  beyond  my  fear  !  but  by  thy  falsehood, 
Sophia,  not  her  beautv,  is't  denied  me 
To  sin  but  in  my  wishes?  what  a  frown, 
In  scorn,  at  her  departure,  she  threw  on  me ! 
1  am  both  ways  lost ;  storms  of  contempt  and  scorn 
Are  ready  to  break  on  me,  and  all  hope 
Of  shelter  doubtful  :   1  can  neither  be 
Disloyal,  nor  yet  honest  ;  1  stand  guilty 
On  either  part ;  at  the  worst,  death  will  end  all ; 
And  he  must  be  my  judge  to  right  my  wrong, 
Since  I  have  loved  too  much,  and  lived  too  long. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — Bohemia.     A  Room  in  Mathias' 
House. 

Enter  SOPHIA,  with  a  book  and  a  paper. 

Soph.  Nor  custom,  nor  example,  nor  vast  numbers 
Of  such  as  do  offend,  make  less  the  sin. 
For  each  particular  crime  a  strict  account 
Will  he  exacted ;  and  that  comfort  which 
The  damn'd  pretend,  fellows  in  misery, 
Takes  nothing  from  their  torments  :  every  one 
Must  suffer  in  himself  the  measure  of 
His  wickedness.     If  so,  as  I  must  grant, 
It  being  unrefutable  in  reason, 
Howe'er  my  lord  offend,  it  is  no  warrant 
For  me  to  walk  in  his  forbidden  paths  : 
What  penance  then  can  expiate  my  guilt, 
For  my  consent  (transported  then  with  passion) 
To  wantonness?  the  wounds  1  give  my  fame 
Cannot  recover  his  ;  and,  though  I  have  fed 
These  courtiers  with  promises  and  hopes, 
I  am  yet  in  fact  untainted,  and  I  trust 
My  sorrow  for  it,  with  my  purity, 
And  love  to  goodness  for  itself,  made  powerful, 
Though  all  they  have  alleged  prove  true  or  false. 
Will  be  such  exoicisms,  as  shall  command 
This  fury,  jealousy,  from  me.     What  1  hare 


ZT4 


THE  PICTURE. 


[Acr  IV 


Determined  touching  them,  I  am  resolved 
To  put  in  execution.     Within,  there  ! 

Enter  HILAIUO,  CORISCA,  with  other  Servants. 

Where  are  my  noble  guests  ? 

Hit.  The  elder,  madam, 

Is  drinking  by  himself  to  your  ladyship's  health, 
In  musk-.uiine  and  eggs  ;  and,  for  a  rasher 
To  draw  his  liquor  down,  he  hath  got  a  pie 
Of  marrowbones,  potatoes,  and  eringos, 
With  many  such  ingredients  ;  and  'tis  said 
He  hath  sent  his  man  in  post  to  the  next  town, 
For  a  pound  of  ambergris,  and  half  a  peck 
Of  fishes  call'd  canthandes. 

Com.  The  younger 

Prunes  up  himself,  ns  if  this  night  he  were 
To  act  a  bridegroom's  part !  but   to  what  purpose, 
I  am  ignorance  itself. 

Soph.  Continue  so.  [Gives  the  paper. 

Let  those  lodgings  be  prepared  as  this  directs  you. 
And  fail  not  in  a  circumstance,  as  you 
Respect  my  favour. 

1  Serv.  "\Ve  have  our  instructions. 

'2  Scrv.  And  punctually  will  follow  them. 

[Exeunt  Servants. 

Enter  UBALDO. 

Hil.  Here  comes,  madam, 
The  lord  Ubaldo. 

U/ialil.  Pretty  one,  there's  gold 
To  buy  thee  a  new  gown,  and  there's  for  tb.ee : 
Grow  fat,  and  fit  for  service.     I  am  now, 
As  I  should  be.  at  the  height,  and  able  to 
Beget  a  giant.     O  my  better  angel  ! 
In  this  you  show  your  wisdom,  when  you  pay 
The  letcher  in  his  own  coin  ;  shall  you  sit  puling, 
Like  a  patient.  Grizzle,  and  be  laugh 'd  at  ?  no  : 
This  is  a  fair  revenge.     Shall  we  to't? 

Soph.  To  what,  sir? 

Uhald.  The  sport  you  promised. 

Soph.   Could  it  be  done  with  safety? 

Ubuld.  I  warrant  you ;  I  am  sound  as  a  bell,  a 

tough 

Old  blade,  and  steel  to  the  back,  as  you  shall  find  me 
In  the  trial  on  your  anvil. 

Soph.  So  ;  but  how,  sir, 

Shall  I  satisfy  your  friend,  to  whom,  by  promise, 
I  am  equally  engaged  ? 

Ubuld.  I  must  confess, 

The  more  the  merrier  ;  but,  of  all  men  living, 
Take  heed  of  him  ;  you  may  safer  run  upon 
The  mouth  of  a  cannon  when  it  is  unlading, 
And  come  off  colder. 

Snph.   How  !  is  he  not  wholesome  ? 

Ubuld.   Wholesome!  I'll  tell  you,  for  your  good  : 

lie  is 

A  spittle  of  diseases*,  and,  indeed, 
More  loathsome  and  infectious  ;  the  tub  is 
His  weekly  bath  :  he  hath  no  Vlrank  this  seven  years, 
Before  he  came  to  your  house^u  compositions 
Of  sassafras  and  guiacum  ;  and  'try  mutton 
His  daily  portion  ;  name  what  scratch  soever 
Can  be  got  by  women,  and  the  surgeons  will  resolve 

you, 
At  this  time  or  at  that  Ricardo  had  it. 

he  it 

A  fp'ltle  of  disfnsf.1,]  So  tin?  old  copy  :  Coxeter  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  read,  \  jpiul  of  disease!,  v-hich  is  scarcely 
ense.  See  Tfui  L'ity  Madam. 


Soph.   Bless  me  from  him  ! 

Uhald.  "Tis  a  good  prayer,  lady. 
It  being  a  decree  unto  the  pox 
Only  to  mention  him  ;  if  my  tongue  burn  not,  hang 

rue, 
When  I  but  name  Ricardo. 

So/ill.  Sir,  this  caution 
Must  be  rewarded. 

Ubuld.  I  hopa  I  have  mar'd  his  market. 

But  when  ? 

Soph.   Why,  presently  ;  follow  my  woman, 
She  knows  where  to  conduct  you,  and  will  serve 
To-night  for  a  page.     Let  the  waistcoat  1  appointed, 
With  the  cambric  shirt  perfumed,  and  the  rich  cap, 
Be  brought  into  his  chamber. 

Ubuld.  Excellent  lady ! 
And  a  caudle  too  in  the  morning. 

Com.  I  will  fit  you.    \_Kxeunt  Ubaldo  and  Corisca. 

Enter  RICMTIDO. 

Soph.  So  hot  on  the  scent  i  Here  comes  the  other 
beagle. 

7?»c.  Take  purse  and  all. 

Hil.  If  this  company  would  come  often, 
I  should  make  a  pretty  term  on't. 

Soph.  For  your  sake 

I  have  put  him  off;  he  only  begg'd  a  kiss, 
I  gave  it.  and  so  parted. 

Ric.   I  hope  better  ; 
He  did  not  touch  your  lips  ? 

Soph.  Yes,  I  assure  ; 
There  was  no  dnnger  in  it  ? 

I?ic.  No  !  «at  presently 
These  lozenges  of  forty  crowns  an  ounce, 
Or  you  are  undone. 

Soph.  What  is  the  virtue  of  them  ? 

Pic.  They  are  preservatives  against  stinking  breath, 
Rising  from  rotten  lungs. 

Soph.  If  so,  your  carriage 
Of  such  dear  i.nlidotes,  in  my  opinion, 
May  render  yours  suspected. 

Hie.  Fie  !  no  ;   I  use  them 

When  I  talk  with  him,  I  should  be  poison'd  else. 
But  I'll  be  free  with  you  :   he  was  once  a  creature, 
It  may  be,  of  God's  making,  but  long  since 
He   is  turn'd  to   a  druggist's  shop  ;  the  spring  and 

fall 

Hold  all  the  year  with  him  ;  that  he  lives,  he  owes 
To  art,  not  nature  ;  she  has  given  him  o'er. 
He  moves  like  the  fairy  king,  on  screws  and  wheels 
Made  by  his  doctor's  recipes,  and  yet  still 
They  are  out  of  joint,  and  every  day  repairing. 
He  has  a  regiment  of  whores  he  keeps 
At  his  own  charge  in  n  Isxar-hoUW,  but  the  best  is, 
There's  not  a  no.-e  iimorig  them.      He's  acquainted 
With  the  green  water,  and  the  spitting  pill's 
Familiar  to  him.     In  a  frosty  morning 
You  mav  thrust  him  in  a  pottle-pot;  his  bones 
Rattle  in  his  skin,  like  beans  toss'd  in  a  bladder. 
If  he  but  hear  n  coach,  the  fomentation, 
The  friction  with  fumigation,  cannot  save  him 
From  the  chine-evil.*     lii  a  word,  he  is 


•  From  the  chine-evil. 1  So  the  old  copy  :  Coxeter  and  Mr. 
M.  Ma>on  re;,d,/rom  the  rliin  evil.  YVhelh'-r  they  under- 
stood ii  or  not,  1  r.mnot  sa>,  nor  is  it  indeed  of  inii<-li  con- 
lequence.  It  would  not  be  a  irulti  r  of  regret  if  every 
reader  of  this  strong  but  indelicate  humour  could  say  with 
Sophia. 

"  The  best  it, 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


Not  one  dispnsp,  but  all  ;  yet,  being  my  friend, 
T  will  forbear  his  character,  for  i  would  not 
Wrong  him  in  your  opinion. 

Soph.  The  best  is, 

The  virtues  you  bestow  on  him,  to  me 
Are  mysteries  1  know  not;  huf,  however, 
1  am  at  your  service.     .Sirrah,  let  it.  he  your  cure 
To  unclothe  the  gentleman,  and  with  speed  ;  delay 
Takes  from  delight. 

Ric.  Good  !   there's  ray  hat,  sword,  cloak  : 
A  vengeance  on  these  buttons!  off  with  mv  doublet, 
I  dare  show  my  skin ;  in  the  touch  you  will  like  it 

better. 

Prithee  cut  my  codpiece-points,  and.  for  this  service, 
When  1  leave  them  off  ihey  are  thine. 
Ull.  I'll  take  your  word,  sir. 
Ric.  Dear  lady,  stay  not  long. 
Soph.   1  may  come  too  t-oon,  sir. 
Pic.  No,  no,  ]  am  ready  now. 
Hil.  This  is  the  way,  sir. 

|  Ex-  unt  Hilnrlo  a>:d  Picardo. 

Soph.  I  was  much  to  blame  10  credit  tb^ir  reports 
Touching  my  lord,  that  so  traduce  eac-h  other, 
And  with  such  virulent  malice,  though  I  presume 
They    are   bad    enough:     but  1    have  studied   for 

them 
A  way  for  their  recovery. 

[A  iii'ise  fif  clapping  a  door  ;    Ubaldo  appears 

abitce,  in  his  shirt. 

Ubald.   What  dost  thou  mean,  wench? 
Why  dost  thou  shut  the  door  upon  me?  Ha! 
My  clothes  are  ta'en  away  too  !   shall  I  starve  here  ? 
Is  this  n>y  lodging?  1  am  sure  the  ladv  talk'd  of 
A  rich  cap,  a  perfumed  shirt,  and  a  waistcoat; 
But  here  is  nothing  hut  a  little  fresh  stiaw, 
A  petticoat  for  a  coverlet,  and  that  torn  too, 
And  an  old  woman's  biggin  for  a  nightcap. 

Pe-enter  CORISCA  below. 
'Slight,  'tis  a  prison,  or  a  pigsty.      Ha  ! 
The  windows  grated  with  iron  !   f  cannot  force  them, 
And  if  I  leap  down  here.  1  break  my  neck: 
I  am  hefray'd.     Rogues!   villains!   let  me  out ; 
I  am  a  lord,  and  that  s  no  common  title, 
And  shall  I  be  used  thus? 

Soph.   Let  him  rave,  he's  fast ; 
I'll  parley  with  him  at  leisure. 
RICAKDO  entering  with  a  gient  noise  above,  as  fallen*. 

7?ir.  Zounds!   have  you  trapdoors? 

Soph.    The  other   bird'?  i'  the  cage   too,   let  him 
flutter. 

lUc.    Whither  am  I  fallen?  into  hell ! 

Ul.alii    Who  makes  that  no:se,  there? 
Help  me ,  if  thou  art  a  friend. 

Hie.   A  friend!  I  am  where 
I  cannot  help  m\self;  let  me  see  thy  face. 

V  bit  Id.  How,  Ricardo!    I'rithee.  throw  me 
Thy  cloak,  if  thou  canst,  to  cover  me  ;  1  am  almost 
Frozen  to  death. 

Kic.  Aly  cloak  !  I  have  no  breeches ; 

Tlie  virtues  }on  bestow  on  him,  to  me 
Are  mysteries  I   know  riol  ;" 

The  reciprocal  criminations  oi  tin-  two  courtiers  is  imitated 
with  sonic  liunioiii  by  I  -irtwi  it,hl  in  I. ore  x  dunvn  t.  Act  IV. 
so.  I.,  and  t)>  Cowiey,  but  lei-s  Micce>sltillv,  in  'Iht'Ouardiim. 
'  Rir.irdo  entering  mith  a  yreat  noiv  above,  at  Jallfit.] 
Si>  the  old  cop),  liie  UM*ielll  eililois  n-.ul,  teiih  a  yrrat 
noitx  below.  It  is  ex  iilcnt,  however,  ih.it  ilie  prisoner.-!  weir. 
Dear  each  other,  an  I  .-"  ihe>  are  ic|<re.-enl  •<!  in  U>e  olii 
tloty,  which  |>ldce>  them  in  two  coiitij;uuui  cliambeis  of  the 
tuwei  or  keep  «i  the  castle. 


I  am  in  my  shirt  as  thou  art ;  and  here's  nothing 
For  myself  but  a  clown's  cast*  suit. 

Uhuld.   We  an-  both  undone. 
Prithee,  roar  a  little — Madam  ! 

lie-enter  Hi  LA  RIO  below,  in  RICAKDO'S  clothet. 
Pic.   Lady  of  the  house  ! 
Ubuld.  Grooms  of  the  chamber! 
lUc.  Gentlewomen!  Milkmaids! 
Ubald.  Shall  we  be  murder 'd  ? 
Soph.  No,  but  soundly  puuish'd, 
To  your  deserts. 

Die.  You  are  not  in  earnest,  madam  ? 

So/h.  Judge  as  you  find,  and  feel  it;    and  BOW 

hear 

What  I  irrevocably  purpose  to  you. 
Being  received  as  guests  into  my  house, 
And  with  all  it  afforded  entertain 'd, 
You  have  forgot  all  hospitable  duties  ; 
And,  with  the  defamation  of  my  lord, 
Wrought  on  my  woman  weakness,  in  revenge 
Of  his  injuries,  as  you  fashioned  them  to  me, 
To  yield  my  honour  to  your  lawless  lust. 
//('/.   Murk  that,  poor  fellows. 
Soph.  And  so  far  you  have 
Tnmsgvess'd  against  the  dignity  of  men, 
Who  should,  bound  to  it  by  virtue,  still  defend 
Chaste  ladies'  honours,  that  it  was  your  trade 
To  make  them  infamous  :  but  you  are  caught 
In  your  own  toils,  like  lustful  beasts,  and  therefore 
Hope  not  to  find  the  usage  of  men  from  me  : 
Such  mere}'  you  have  forfeited,  and  shall  suffer 
Like  the  most  slavish  women. 
Ubald.  How  will  you  use  us? 
Soph.    Ease,  and   excess   in    feeding,   made   you 

'wanton, 

A  pleurisy  of  ill  blood  you  must  let  out, 
By  labour,  and  spare  diet  that  way  got  too, 
Or  perish  for  hunger.     Reach  him  up  that  distaff 
With  the  flax  upon  it;  though  no  Omphale, 
Nor  you  a  second  Hercules,  as  I  take  it, 
As  you  spin  well  at  my  command,  and  please  me, 
Your  wages,  in  the  coarsest  bread  and  water, 
Shall  be  proportionable. 
Ubald.  I  w  ill  starve  first. 
Soph.  That's  as  you  please. 
Ric.  What  will  become  of  me  now? 
Soph.  You   shall  have  gentler  work ;  T  have  oft 

observed 
You    were  proud    to    show*   the    fineness   of  your 

hands, 

And  softness  of  your  fingers;  you  should  reel  well 
What  he  spins,  if  you  give  your  mind  to  it,  as  I'll 

force  you. 

Deliver  him  his  materials.     Now  you  know 
Your  penance,  fall  to  work  ;  hunger  will  teach  you: 
And  so,  as  slaves  to  your  lust,  not  me,  1  leave  you. 
[Exeunt  Sophia  and  Coriffa. 

Ubald.  I  shall  spin  a  fine  thread  out  now. 

Kic.  I  cannot  look 

On  these  devices,  but  they  put  me  in  mind 
Of  rope-makeis. 

Hil.  Fellow,  think  of  thy  task. 
Forget  such  vanities,  my  livery  there 
Will  serve  thee  to  wotk  in. 


•  and  fierf'l  not 


ana  nerr  s  nvininy 

For  m^elf.  but  a  clovn't  cast  suit.}  Ti.e  e.tutinn  cf  I 
modern  eu.iur*  is  adn.i.able:  lest  rast  tuit  should  not  be 
intelligible,  they  alter  i.  iulo«i«f  ott  *ui/,  al  little  ".ore  U»»n 
the  expense  ot'  the  iiieliel 


JT6 


THE  PICTURE. 


[Acr  IV. 


Ric.  Let  me  Lare  my  clothes  yet ; 
I  was  bountiful  to  thee. 

Hit.  They  are  past  your  wearing, 
And  mine  by  promise,  as  all  these  can  witness. 
You  bave  no  holidays  coming,  nor  will  I  work 
While  these  and  this  lasts  ;  and  so  when  you  plpase 
You  may  shut  up  your  shop  windows.  [Eiii. 

Ubald.  I  am  faint, 
And  must  lie  down. 

Ric.  I  am  hungry  too,  and  cold. 
O  cursed  women  ! 

Ubtild.  This  comes  of  our  whoring1. 
But  let  us  rest  as  well  as  we  can  to-night, 
But  not  o'ersleep  ourselves  lest  we  fast  to-morrow. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— Hungary.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  LADISLAUS,  HONO^A,  EUBULUS,   FEHDINA.ND, 
ACANTHE,  and  attendants. 

Hon.  Now,  you  know  all,  sir,  with  the  motives 

why 
I  forced  him  to  my  lodging. 

Ladii.  1  desire 
No  more  such  trials,  lady. 

Han.  I  presume,  sir, 
You  do  not  doubt  my  chastity. 

Ladis.  I  would  not; 
But  these  are  strange  inducements. 

Eitbu.  By  no  means,  Mr, 

Why,  though  he  were  with  violence  seized  upon 
And  still  detain'd  ;  the  man,  sir,  being  no  soldier, 
Nor   used  to   charge   his   pike  when  the  breach  is 

open, 

There  was  no  danger  in't !     You  must  conceive,  sir, 
Being  religious,  she  chose  him  for  a  chaplain, 
To  read  old  homilies  to  her  in  the  dark  j 
She's  bound  to  it  by  her  canons. 

Ladis.  Still  tormented 
With  thy  impertinence  ! 

Hon.  By  yourself,  dear  sir, 
I  was  ambitious  only  to  o'erthrow 
His  boasted  constancy  in  his  consent ; 
But  for  fact  1  contemn  him  :  I  was  never 
Unchaste  in  thought,  I  laboured  to  give  proof 
What  power  dwells  in  this  beauty  you  admire  so  ; 
And  when  you  see  how  soon  it  h  at  h  trans  form  'd  him, 
And  with  what  superstition  he  adores  it, 
Determine  as  you  please. 

Ladis.  I  will  look  on 
This  pageant,  but 

Hon.  When  you  have  seen  and  heard,  sir, 
The  passages  which  1  myself  discover'd, 
And  could  have  kept  conceal'd,  had  I  meant  basely, 
Judge  as  you  please. 

1  udis.  Well,  I'll  observe  the  issue. 

Eubu.  How  had  you  ta'en  this,  general,  in  your 
wife  ? 

Ferd.  As  a  strange  curiosity  ;  but  queens 
Are  privileged  above  subjects,  and  'tis  fit,  sir. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  MATHIAS  and  BAPTISTA. 

Bapt.  You  are  much  alter'd,  sir,  since  the  last 
night, 


When  the  queen  left,  you,  and  look  cheerfully, 
Your  duluess  quite  blown  over. 

Math.  I  have  seen  a  vision 
This  morning  makes  it  good*,  and  never  was 
In  such  security  as  at  this  instant, 
Fall  what  can  full  :  and  when  the  queen  appears, 
Whose  shortest  absence  now  is  tedious  to  me, 
Observe  the  encounter. 

Enter  HONORIA  :    LADIST.AUS,  EUBVLUS,  FEUDiNAKa 
and  ACANTHE,  with  others,  appear  uboie. 

Bapt.  She  already  is 
Enter'd  the  lists. 

Malh.  And  I  prepared  to  meet  her. 

Bapt.  I  know  my  duty. 

Hon.  Not  so,  you  may  stay  now, 
As  a  witness  of  our  contract. 

Bapt.  I  obey 
In  all  things,  madam. 

Hon.  Where's  that  reverence, 
Or  rather  superstitious  adoration, 
Which,  captive-like  to  my  triumphant  beauty 
You  paid  last  night?     No  humble  knee  nor  sign 
Of  vassal  duty  !     Sure  this  is  the  foot 
To  whose  proud  cover,  and  then  happy  in  it, 
Your  lips  were  glued  j  and  that  the  neck  then  of- 

fer'd, 

To  witness  your  subjection,  to  be  trod  on  : 
Your  certain  loss  of  life  in  the  king's  anger 
Was  then  too  mean  a  price  to  buy  my  favour; 
And  that  false  glow-worm  fire  of  constancy 
To  your  wife,  extinguished  by  a  greater  light 
Shot  from  our  eyes — and  that,  it  may  be  (being 
Too  glorious  to  be  look'd  on),  hath  deprived  you 
Of  speech  and  motion  :  but  1  will  take  oft' 
A  litile  from  the  splendour,  and  descend 
From  my  own  height,  aud  in  your  lowness  hear  you 
Plead  as  a  suppliant. 

Math.  I  do  remember 
I  once  saw  such  a  woman. 

Hon.  How ! 

Muih.  And  then 

She  did  appear  a  most  magnificent  queen, 
And  what's  more,  virtuous,  though  somewhat  dark- 
en'd 
With  pride,  and  self-opinion. 

Eiilin.  Call  you  this  courtship? 

Math.  And  she  was  happy  in  a  royal  husband, 
Whom  envy  could  not  tax  unless  it  were 
For  his  too  much  indulgence  to  her  humours. 

Eitbu.  Pray  you,  sir,  observe  that  touch,  'tis  to 

the  purpose ; 
I  like  the  play  the  better  for't. 

Math.  And  she  lived 

Worthy  her  birth  and  fortune  :  you  retain  yet 
Some  part  of  her  angelical  form  ;  but  when 
Envy  to  the  beauty  of  another  woman, 
Inferior  to  hers,  one  that  she  never 
Had  seen,  but  in  her  picture,  had  dispersed 
Infection  through  her  veins,  and  loyalty, 
Which   a  great  queen,  as   she    was,   should  have 

nourish'd, 
Grew  odious  to  her 

Hon.  I  am  thunderstruck. 


*  Math.  /  have  teen  a  rision 

Thit  morning  make*  it  good.]  Meaning  that  the  picture 
had  rccovf  red  its  natural  colour.  This  short  scene  u  inimit- 
ably beautiful. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


Math.  And  lust  in  all  the  bravery  it  could  borrow 
From  majesty,  bowe'er  disguised,  bad  ta'ea 
Sure  footing  in  the  kingdom  of  her  heart, 
The  throne  of  chastity  once,  how,  in  a  moment, 
All  that  was  gracious,  great,  and  glorious  in  her, 
And  won  upon  all  hearts,  like  seemiug  shadows 
Wanting  true  substance,  vanish'd  ! 

Hon.  How  his  reasons 
Work  on  my  soul  ! 

Math.  Retire  into  yourself; 
Your  own  strengths,  madam,  strongly  rnann'd  with. 

virtue, 

And  be  but  as  you  were,  and  there's  no  office 
So  base,  beneath  the  slavery  that  men 
Impose  on  beasts,  but  1  will  gladly  bow  to. 
But  as  you  play  and  juggle  with  a  stranger, 
Varying  your  shapes  like  Thetis,  though  the  beau- 
ties 

Of  all  that  are  by  poets'  raptures  sainted  * 
Were  now  in  you  united,  you  should  pass 
Pitied  by  me,  perhaps,  but  not  regarded. 

Eubu.  If  this  take  not,  I  am  cheated. 

Math.  To  slip  once, 

Is  incident,  and  excused  by  human  frailty  ; 
But  to  fall  ever,  damnable.     We  were  both 
Guilty,  I  grant,  in  tendering  our  affection  ; 
But,  as  I  hope  you  will  do,  I  repented. 
When  we  are  grown  up  to  ripeness,  our  life  is 
Like  to  this  -      -  -  -  piciuref.      While  we  run 
A  constant  race  in  goodness,  it  retains 
The  just  proportion  ;  but  the  journey  being 
Tedious,  and  sweet  temptation  in  the  way, 
That  may  in  some  degree  divert  us  from 
The  road  that  we  put  forth  in,  ere  we  end 
Our  pilgrimage,  it  may,  like  this,  turn  yellow, 
Or  be  with  blackness  clouded :  but  when  we 
Find  we  have  gone  astray,  and  labour  to 
Return  unto  our  never-failing  guide, 
Virtue,  contrition,  with  unfeigned  tears, 
The  spots  of  vice  wash'd  oft',  will  soon  restore  it 
To  the  first  pureness. 

lion.  I  am  disenchanted  : 
Mercy,  O  mercy,  heavens  !  [Kneels. 

Ladis,  I  am  ravish'd 
With  what  I  have  seen  and  heard. 

Ferd.  Let  us  descend, 
And  hear  the  rest  below. 

Enbu.  This  hath  fallen  out 
Beyond  my  expectation.  [They  retire. 

Hon.  How  have  I  wander'd 
Out  of  the  track  of  piety  !  and  misled 
By  overweening  pride,  and  flattery 
Of  fawning  sycophants  (the  bane  of  greatness), 


Could  never  meet  till  now  a  passenger, 

That  in  his  charity  would  set  me  right, 

Or  stay  me  in  my  precipice  to  ruin. 

How  ill  have  I  return 'd  your  goodness  to  me  ! 

The  horror,  in  my  thought  oft,  turns  me  marble: 

But  if  it  may  be  yet  prevented 

Re-enter  LADISLAUS,  EUBULUS,  FERDINAND,  ACANTHE 
and  others,  below. 

O  sir, 

What  can  I  do  to  show  my  sorrow,  or 
Writh  what  brow  ask  your  pardon  1 

Ladis.  Pray  you,  rise. 

Hon.  Never,  till  you  forgive  me,  and  receive 
Unto  your  love  and  favour  a  changed  woman  : 
;  My  state  and  pride  turn'd  to  humility,  henceforth 
Shall  wait  on  your  commands,  and  my  obedience 
I  Steer'd  only  by  your  will. 

Ladis.  And  that  will  prove 
A  second  and  a  better  marriage  to  me. 
All  is  forgotten. 

Hon.  Sir,  I  must  not  rise  yet, 
Till,  with  a  free  confession  of  a  crime 
Unknown  to  you  yet,  and  a  following  suit, 
Which  thus  I  beg,  be  granted. 

Ladis.  I  melt  with  you  : 
i  'Tis  pardon'd,  and  confirm'd  thus.  [Raises  her. 

Hon.  Know  then,  sir, 

In  malice  to  this  good  knight's  wife,  I  practised 
Ubaldo  and  Ricardo  to  corrupt  her. 

Bapt.  Thence  grew  the  change  of  the  picture. 

Hon.  And  how  far 

They  have  prevail'd,  I  am  ignorant :  now,  if  you,  sir 
For  the  honour  of  this  good  man,  may  be  entreated 
To  travel  thither,  it  being  but  a  day's  journey. 
To  fetch  them  off 

Ladis.  We  will  put  on  to-night. 

Bapt.  I,  if  you  please,  your  harbinger. 

Ladis.  I  thank  you. 

Let  me  embrace  you  in  my  arms  ;  your  service 
Done  on  the  Turk,  compared  with  this,  weighs  no- 
thing. 

Math.  I  am  still  your  humble  creature. 

Ladis.  My  true  friend. 

Ferd.  And  so  you  are  bound  to  hold  him. 

Eubu.  Such  a  plant 

Imported  to  your  kingdom,  and  here  grafted, 
Would  yield  more  fruit  than  all  the  idle  weeds 
That  suck  up  your  rain  of  favour. 

Ladis.  In  my  will 

I'll  not  be  wanting.    Prepare  for  our  journey. 
In  act  be  my  Honoria  now,  not  name, 
And  to  all  aftertimes  preserve  thy  fame.       [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— Bohemia.    A  Hall  in  MATHIAS'  House. 

Enter  SOPHIA,  CORISCA,  and  HILARIO. 
Soph.  Are  they  then  so  humble  ? 
Hil.  Hunger  and  hard  labour 

•  Of  all  that  are  by  poet*'  rapture*  sainted.]  The  modern 
editors,  trembling  fur  the  daring  flights  of  Massiuger,  have 
kind!)  brought  him  down  to  the  ordinary  level :  they  read, 

Of  all  that  are  by  poet'*  rapture*  paiuted  ! 
The  change  is  the  more  to  be  admired,  as  the  old  copy,  to 
show  the  expression  was  a  strong  one,  gave  it  with  a  capital 

21 


Have  tamed  them,  madam ;  at  the0  first  they  bel- 

low'd 
Like  stags  ta'en  in  a  toil,  and  would  not  work 


our  life  ig 


Like  to  thi*  -  -  -  -  picture.]  A  word  has  dropt  out  at  (h« 
press,  or  been  omitted  by  the  transcriber.  I  could  wi:-li  t< 
insert  magic,  but  leave  it  to  the  reader's  consideration 

• at  the  first  thry  bellow'd.]  I  harp  r 

stored  the  article,  which  completes  the  verse,  from  the  ol^ 
cvpy. 


£78 


THE  PICTURE. 


[AcrV 


For  sullenness  ;  but  when  they  found,  without  it 
There  was  no  eating,  and  that  to  starve  to  death 
Was  much  against  their  stomachs  ;  by  degrees, 
Against  their  wills,  they  fell  to  it. 

Con's.  And  now  feed  on 
The  little  pittance  you  allow,  with  gladness. 

Hit.  I  do  remember  that  they  stopp'd  their  noses 
At  the  sight  of  beef  and  mutton,  as  coarse  feeding 
For  their  tine  palates ;  but  now,  their  work  being 

ended, 

They  leap  at  a  barley  crust,  and  bold  cheese-parings, 
\Vith  a  spoonful  of  pal  I'd  wine  pour'd  in  their  water, 
For  festival-exceedings*. 

Cm-is.  When  I  examine 

My  spinster  s  work,  he  trembles  like  a  prentice, 
And  takes  a  box  on  the  ear,  when  I  spy  faults 
And  botches  in  hi.s  labour,  as  a  favour 
From  a  curst  mistress. 

Hil.  The  other,  too,  reels  well 
For  his  time  ;  and  if  your  ladyship  would  please 
To  see  them  for  your  sport,  since  they  want  airing, 
It  would  do  well,  in  my  judgment ;  you  shall  hear 
Such  a  hungry  dialogue  from  them  ! 

Soph.   But  suppose, 

When  they  are  out  of  prison,  they  should  grow 
Rebellious? 

Hit.  Never  fear't ;  I'll  undertake 
To  lead  them  out  by  the  nose  with  a  coarse  thread 
Of  the  one's  spinning,  and  make  the  other  reel  after, 
And  without  grumbling  ;  and  when  you  are  weary  of 
Their  company,  as  easily  return  them. 

Cm-is.  Dear  madam,  it  will  help  to  drive  away 
Your  melancholy. 

Soph.  Well,  on  this  assurance, 
1  am  content ;  bring  them  hither. 

Hil.  1  will  do  it 
In  stately  equipage.  [Exit. 

Soph.  They  have  confess'd,  then, 
Thev  were  set  on  by  the  queen,  to  taint  me  in 
My  loyalty  to  my  lord  1 

Cm-is.  'Twas  the  main  cause 
That  brought  them  hither. 

Snph.  1  am  glad  I  know  it ; 
And  as  J.  have  begun,  before  I  end 
I'll  at  the  height  revenge  it ;  let  us  step  aside, 
'I  hey  come:  the  object's  so  ridiculous, 
In  spile  of  my  sad  thoughts  I  cannot  but 
Lend  a  forced  smile  to  grace  it. 

Re-enter  HH.AHIO,  with  UBALDO  spinning,  and 

rticAiiDo  reeling. 
Hil.  Come  away : 

Work  as  you  go.  and  lose  no  time;  'tis  precious  ; 
You'll  find  it  in  your  commons. 
K ic.  Commons,  call  you  it  ? 
The  word  is  proper  ;  I  have  grazed  so  long 
Upon  your  commons,  I  am  almost  starved  here. 
Hil.  Work  harder,  and  they  shall  be  better'd. 
Ubald.  Better'd! 

Worser  they  cannot  be  :  would  I  might  lie 
Like  a  dog  under  her  table,  and  serve   for  a  foot- 
stool, 

•  For  festival-exceedings.  |  "At  the  Middle  Temple  an 
additional  dish  to  the  regular  dinner  is  still  called  '  exceed- 
ing*;' to  which  appellation  Massinger  alludes  in  The  Pic- 
ture, by  the  expression  of  festival-txceedinys  :  but  his  editor, 
Coxeter.  not  knowing  the  origin  of  the  phrase,  thinks  '  ex- 
eetding  festivals'  had  been  belter."  Hocclive's  Poems,  by 
Maaon,  4to.  1795,  p.  67.  For  this  extract  I  am  indebted  to 
Mr.  Waldron. 


So  I  might  have  my  belly  full  of  that 
Her  Iceland  cur  refuses  ! 

Hil.  How  do  you  like 
Your  airing  1  is  it  not  a  favour? 

Ric.  Yes ;  [hounds 

Just   such  a   one  as   you  use  to  a  brace  of  grey- 
When  they  are  led  out  of  their  kennels  to  scumber  ; 
But  our  case  is  ten  times  harder,  we  have  nothing 
In  our  bellies  to  be  vented :  if  you  will  be 
An  honest  yeoman-fewterer*,  feed  us  first, 
And  walk  us  after. 

Hil.  Yeoman-fewterer  ! 

Such  another  word  to  your  governor,  and  you  go 
Supperless  to  bed  fort. 

Ubald.  Nay,  even  as  you  please  ; 
The  comfortable  names  of  breakfasts,  dinners, 
Collations,  supper,  beverage,  are  words 
Worn  out  of  our  remembrance. 

Ric.  O  for  the  steam 
Of  meat  in  a  cook's  shop  ! 

Ubald.  I  am  so  dry, 

I  have  not  spittle  enough  to  wet  my  fingers 
When  I  draw  my  flax  from  my  distaff. 

Ric.  Nor  I  strength 

To  raise  my  hand  to  the  top  of  my  reeler.     Oh  ! 
I  have  the  cramp  all  over  me. 

Hil.  What  do  you  think  [it, 

Were  best  to  apply  to  it?    A  cramp-stone,  as  I  take 
Were  very  useful. 

Ri'r.  Oh  !  no  more  of  stonesf, 
We  have  been  used  too  long  like  hawks  already. 

Ubald.  We  are  not  so  high  in  our  flesh  now  to  need 

casting, 
We  will  come  to  an  empty  fist. 

Hit.  Nay,  that  you  shall  not. 
So  ho,  birds}!  —  [holds  up  apiece  nf  bread.'} — How  the 

eyasses  scratch  and  scramble  ! 
Take  heed  of  a  surfeit,  do  not  cast  your  gorges  ; 
This   is    more    than   I    have  commission    for;    be 
thankful. 


*  An  honest  yeoman-fewterer,]  In  this  and  the  preceding 
tpeech  the  ttrms  are  borrowed  from  the  kennel ;  fewterer, 
a  name  which  frequently  occurs  in  our  old  treatises  on 
hunting,  was  the  person  who  took  charge  of  the  dogs  imme- 
diately under  the  huntsman.  We  now  call  him,  1  believe, 
the  »hipper-in. 

Blount  derives  this  word  from  the  French  vaultre,  which, 
as  Cotgrave  s.us,  means  a  mongrel  hound;  whence  celtu- 
riui,  ami  vavltarius,  a  huntsman. 

t  Ric.  Oh!  no  more  o/'siones, 

We  have  beenused  too  long  like  hawks  already. 
Ub.tld.   He   are  not  so  high  in  our  flesh  now  to  need 
casting, 

We  will  come  to  an  empty  fist.]  To  understand  this,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  have  recourse  to  the  treatises  on  the  "  noble 
science  of  hawking." — "  When  the  hawk  will  come  to  the 
lure,  then  give  hrr  every  night  stones,  till  you  find  her 
stomach  good  :  after  that,  prottr  her  casting,  to  make  her 
cleanse  and  purge  her  gorge." — The  Gentleman's  Recreation 
p.  tn:,. 

Humanity  h*«  seldom  obtained  a  greater  triumph  than  in 
the  abolition  of  this  most  execrable  pursuit,  compared  to 
which,  cock  fighting  and  bull-baiting  are  innocent  amuse- 
ments :  and  this  not  so  much  on  account  of  the  game  killed 
in  the  open  field,  as  of  the  immense  number  of  domestic 
animals  sacrificed  to  the'  induction  of  the  hawk.  Thr 
blood  runs  cold  while  we  peruse  the  calm  directions  of  te^ 
brutal  falconer,  to  impale,  tie  down,  fasten  by  the  beak 
break  the  legs  and  wings  of  living  pigeons,  hens,  and  some- 
times herons,  for  the  hourly  exercise  of  the  hawk,  who  was 
thus  enabled  to  pull  them  to  pieces  without  resistance. 

I  So  ho,  birds  !  How  the  eyasses  scratch  and  scramble  '.] 
So  ho,  birds',  was  the  falconer's  <  all  to  feed.  An  eyas*, 
as  I  leain  from  the  respectable  authority  quoted  above,  is  a 
young  hawk  newly  taken  out  of  the  nest,  and  not  able  to 
prey  for  himself. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


879 


Soph.   Were  all  that   study  the  abuse  of  women 
Used  thus,  the  city  would  not  swarm  with  cuckolds, 
Nor  so  many  tradesmen  break. 

Com.  Pray  you,  appear  now, 
And  mark  the  alteration. 

Hil.  To  your  work, 

My  lady  is  in  presence ;  show  your  duties 
Exceeding  well. 

Soph.   How  do  your  scholars  profit? 

Hil.   Mold  up  your  heads  demurely.      Prettily, 
For  young  beginners. 

Cons.  And  will  do  well  in  time, 
If  they  he  kept  in  awe. 

R ic.  In  awe  !  I  am  sure 
I  quake  like  an  aspen  leaf. 

Uhald.  No  mercy,  lady  1 

Ric.  Nor  intermission  ? 

Soph.  Let  me  see  your  work  : 

Fie  upon't,  what  a  thread's  here  !  a  poor  cobler's  wife 
Would  make  a  finer  to  sew  a  clown's  rent  startup*; 
And  here  you  reel  as  you  were  drunk. 

Ric.  I  am  sure 
It  is  not  with  wine. 

Soph.  O,  take  heed  of  wine; 
Cold  water  is  far  better  for  vour  healths, 
Of  which  I  am  very  tender :  you  had  foul  bodies, 
And  must  continue  in  this  physical  die!, 
Till  the  cause  of  your  disease  be  ta'en  away. 
For  fear  of  a  relapse ;  and  that  is  dangerous  : 
Yet  I  hope  already  that  you  are  in  some 
Degree  recovered,  and  that  way  to  resolve  me, 
Answer  me  truly;  nay,  what  1  propound 
Concerns  both;   nearer:  what  would  you  now  give, 
If  your  means  were  in  your  hands,  to  lie  all  night 
With  a  fresh  and  handsome  lady  1 

Uhald.   How  !  a  lady? 
O,  I  am  past  it ;  hunger  with  her  razor 
Hath  made  me  an  eunuch. 

Ric.    Kor  a  mess  of  porridge, 
Well  sopp'd  with  a  bunch  of  radish  and  a  carrot, 
I  would  sell  my  barony  ;  but  for  women,  oh  ! 
No  more  of  women  :  not  a  doit  for  a  doxy, 
After  this  hungry  voyage. 

Soph.  These  are  truly 
Good  symptoms  ;  let  them  not  venture  too  much  in 

the  air, 
Till  they  are  weakerf. 

Ric.  This  is  tyranny. 

Uhald.  Scorn  upon  scorn. 

Soph.  You  were  so 
In  your  malicious  intents  to  me. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

And  therefore  'tis  but  justice What's  the  busi- 
ness? 

Serv.  My  lord's   great   friend,   signior   Baptista, 
madam, 

Is  newly  lighted  from  his  horse,  with  certain 

Assurance  of  my  lord's  arrival. 

* a  clown'*  rent  startup;]  A  startup, 

Mr.  M.  Mason  say.5,  is  part  of  a  man's  dress — so,  indeed,  is 
a  bag-wig  and   sword.     It  appears,    from  many  passages  in 
our  ill')  writers,   that   a  startup  was   a  coarse   kind    of  half- 
boot  with  thick  soles  ;  the  pero  of  the  ancirirs; 
"  Draw  close  into  the  covert,  lest  the  wet, 
Which  fulls  like  lazy  mists  upon  the  ground, 
Sokc  through  your  startup*." 

The  Faithful  Shepherdess. 

+  Till  they  are  weaker.]  Sophia  slill  artects  to  considci 
(hem  as  too  strong  to  be  trusted  abroad,  consistently  wild 
her  safety  :  there  ii  much  good  humour  and  pleasantry  in 
•Jus  icene. 


Soph.  How  ! 

And  stand  I  trifling  here?  Hence  with  the  mongrels 
To  their  several   kennels;  there  let  them   howl   in 

private ; 
I'll  be  no  further  troubled. 

[Exeunt  Sophia  and  Servant* 

Ubald.  O  that  ever 
I  saw  this  fury  ! 

Ric.  Or  look'd  on  a  woman 
But  as  a  prodigy  in  nature. 

Hil.  Silence  ; 
No  more  of  this. 

Cor  is.  Methinks  you  have  no  cause 
To  repent  your  being  here. 

Hil.  Have  you  not  learnt, 
When  your  states  are  spent,  your  several  trades  to 

live  by, 
And  never  charge  the  hospital? 

Com.   Work  but  tightly, 

And  we  will  not  use  a  dish-clout  in  the  house, 
But  of  your  spinning. 

Uhald.  O,  1  would  this  hemp 
Were  turned  to  a  halter ! 

Hil.  Will  you  march  ? 

Ric.  A  soft  one, 
Good  general,  I  beseech  you. 

Uhald.  I  can  hardly 
Draw  my  legs  after  me. 

Hit.  For  a  crutch  you  may  use 
Your  distaff;  a  good  wit  makes  use  of  all  things. 

[  Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Another  Room  in  the  tame. 

Enter  SOPHIA  and  BAPTISTA. 

Soph.  Was  he  jealous  of  me? 

Bapt.  There's  no  perfect  love 
Without  some  touch  oft,  madam. 

Soph.  And  my  picture, 
Made  by  your  devilish  art,  a  spy  upon 
My  actions?  I  ne'er  sat  to  be  drawn, 
Nor  had  you,  sir,  commission  for't. 

Bapt.  Excuse  me ; 
At  his  earnest  suit  I  did  it. 

Soph.  Very  good  : — 
Was  I  grown  so  cheap  in  bis  opinion  of  me? 

Bapt.  The  prosperous  events  that  crown  his  for- 
tunes 
May  qualify  the  offence. 

Soph.  Good,  the  events  : — 
The  sanctuary  fools  and  madmen  fly  to, 
When  their  rash  and  desperate  undertakings  thrive 

well : 

But  good  and  wise  men  are  directed  by 
Grave  counsels,  and  with  such  deliberation 
Proceed  in  their  affairs,  that  chance  has  nothing 
To  do  with  them:  howsoe'er take  the  pains,  sir, 
To  meet  the  honour  (in  the  king  and  queen's 
Approaches  to  my  house)  that  breaks  upon  me  ; 
I  will  expect  them  with  my  best  of  care. 

JBapt.  To  entertain  such  royal  guests 

So/ih.  I  know  it ; 
Leave  that  to  me,  sir.  [Exit  Baptista.']  What  should 

move  the  queen, 

So  given  to  ease  and  pleasure,  as  fame  speaks  her. 
To  such  a  journey  ?  or  work  on  my  lord 
To  doubt  my  loyalty,  nay,  more,  to  take. 
For  the  resolution  of  his  feiirs,  a  course 
That  is  by  holy  writ  denied  a  Christian  t 


280 


THE  PICTURE. 


[Acr.V 


Twas  impious  in  him,  and  perhaps  the  welcome 
He  hopes  in  my  embraces  may  deceive 

[Trumpets  sounded. 

His  expectation.     The  trumpets  speak 

The  king's  arrival :  help  a  woman's  wit  now, 

To  make  him  know  his  fault,  and  my  just  anger ! 


SCENE  III. — The  same.— A  Flourish.  Enter  LADU- 
LAUS,  FERDINAND,  EUBULUS,  MATHIAS,  BAPTISTA, 
HONORIA,  and  ACANTHE,  with  Attendant}. 

Eubu.  Your  majesty  must  be  weary. 

Hon.  No,  my  lord, 
A  willing  mind  makes  a  hard  journey  easy. 

JVJat/t/Not  Jove,  attended  on  by  Hermes,  was 
More  welcome  to  the  cottage  of  Philemon 
And  his  poor  Baucis,  than  your  gracious  self, 
Your  matchless  queen,  and  all  your  royal  train, 
Are  to  your  servant  and  his  wife. 

Ladis.  Where  is  she  ? 

Hon.  I  long  to  see  her  as  my  now-loved  rival. 

Eubu.  And  I  to  have  a   smack  at   her:  'tis   a 

cordial 

To  an  old  man,  better  than  sack  and  a  toast 
Before  he  goes  to  supper. 

Math.  Ha  !  is  my  house  turn'd 
To  a  wilderness?  nor  wife  nor  servants  ready, 
With  all  rites  due  to  majesty,  to  receive 
Such  unexpected  blessings  !   You  assured  me 
Of  better  preparation  ;  hath  not 
The  excess  of  joy  transported  her  beyond 
Her  understanding? 

Bapt.  I  now  parted  from  her, 
And  gave  her  your  directions. 

Math.  How  shall  I  beg 

Your  majesties'  patience  ?  sure  my  family's  drunk, 
Or  by  some  witch,  in  envy  of  my  glory, 
A  dead  sleep  thrown  upon  them. 

Enter  HILARIO  and  Servants. 

Serv.  Sir. 

Math.  But  that 

The  sacred  presence  of  the  king  forbids  it, 
My  sword  should  make  a  massacre  among  you. 
Where  is  your  mistress? 

Hit.  First,  you  are  welcome  home,  sir : 
Then  know,  she  says  she's  sick,  sir. — There's  no 

notice 
Taken  of  my  bravery  ! 

Math.  Sick  at  such  a  time  ! 

It  cannot  le :  though  she  were  on  her  death-bed, 
And  her  spirit  e'en  now  departed,  here  stand  they 
Could  call  it  back  again,  and  in  this  honour 
Give  her  a  second  being.     Bring  me  to  her; 
I  know  not  what  to  urge,  or  how  to  redeem 
This  mortgage  of  her  manners. 

[Exeunt  Mathiai,  Hilario,  and  Servants. 

Eubu.  There's  no  climate 

On  the  world,  I  think,  where  one  jade's  trick  or  other 
Reigns  not  in  women. 

Ferd.  You  were  ever  hitter 
Against  the  sex. 

Ladis.  This  is  very  strange. 

Hon.  Mean  women 
Have  their  faults,  as  well  as  queens. 

Lad  is.  O,  she  appears  now. 


Re-enter  MATHIAS  with  SOPHIA  ;  HILAHIO  following. 

Math.  The  injury  that  you  conceive  I  have  done 

you 

Dispute  hereafter,  and  in  your  perverseness 
Wrong  not  yourself  and  me. 

So]>h.  1  am  past  my  childhood*, 
And  need  no  tutor. 

Math.  This  is  the  great  king, 
To  whom  I  am  engaged  till  death  for  all 
I  stand  possess'd  of. 

Soph.  My  humble  roof  is  proud,  sir, 
To  be  the  canopy  of  so  much  greatness 
Set  off  with  goodness. 

Ladis.  My  own  praises  flying 
In  such  pure  air  as  your  sweet  breath,  fair  lady, 
Cannot  but  please  me. 

Math.  This  is  the  queen-of  queens, 
In  her  magnificence  to  me. 

Soph.  In  my  duty 
I  kiss  her  highness'  robe. 

Hon.  You  stoop  too  low 
To  her  whose  lips  would  meet  with  yours. 

Soph.  Howe'er  [Kisses  her. 

It  may  appear  preposterous  in  women 
So  to  encounter,  'tis  your  pleasure,  madam, 
And  not  my  proud  ambition. — Do  you  hear,  sir? 
Without  a  magicul  picture,  in  the  touch 
I  find  your  print  of  close  and  wanton  kisses 
On  the  queen's  lips.  [Aside  to  Matthias. 

Math.  Upon  your  life  be  silent : 
And  now  salute  these  lords. 

Soph.  Since  you  will  have  me, 
You  shall  see  1  am  experienced  at  the  game, 
And  can  play  it  tightly.     You  are  a  brave  man,  sir, 

[To  Ferdinand. 

And  do  deserve  a  free  and  hearty  welcome  : 
Be  this  the  prologue  to  it.  [Aisses  him. 

Eubu.  An  old  man's  turn 
Is  ever  last  in  kissing.     I  have  lips  too, 
However  cold  ones,  madam. 

Soph.  I  will  warm  them 
With  the  fire  of  mine.  [Kisses  him. 

Eubu.  And  so  she  has  !  I  thank  you, 
I  shall  sleep  the  better  all  night  for't. 

Math.  You  express 
The  boldness  of  a  wanton  courtezan, 
And  not  a  matron's  modesty  ;  take  upf, 
Or  you  are  disgraced  for  ever. 

Soph.  How  ?  with  kissing 

Feelingly,  as  you  taught  me?  would  you  have  me 
Turn  my  cheek  to  them,  as  proud  ladies  use 
To  their  inferiors,  as  if  they  intended 
Some  business  should  he  whisper 'd  in  their  ear, 
And  not  a  salutation  ?  what  I  do, 
I  will  do  freely ;  now  1  am  in  the  humour, 
I'll  fly  at  all :  are  there  any  more  ? 

Math.  Forbear, 

Or  you  will  raise  my  anger  to  a  height 
That  will  descend  in  fury. 

Soph.  Why  1  you  know 
How  to  resolve  yourself  what  my  intents  are, 
By  the  help  of  IVJephostophilust,  and  your  picture : 

•  Soph.  1  am  past  my  childhood, 

And  need  no  tutor.]  The  pretty  perverseness  of  Sophia  is 
excellenlly  managed  in  this  short  conference,  and  her  break- 
ing out  at  length,  highly  n:itnrai  and  amusing. 

t  —  -  take  tip,]  i.  e.  check 

yourself. 

j  liy  the  kelp  of  Mephostophilns,]  i.  e.  Baptista.  Me- 
phottophitut  is  th»  nam»"  of  a  fiend  or  familiar  spirit  in  the 


SCEKS  HI.] 


THE  PICTURE. 


281 


Pray  you,  look  upon't  again.     1  liumblv  thank 

The  queen's  great  care  of  me  while  you  were  absent. 

She  knew  how  tedious  'twas  for  a  young  wife, 

And  being  for  that  time  a  kind  of  widow, 

To  pass  away  her  melancholy  hours 

Without  good  company,  and  in  charity,  therefore, 

Provided  for  me  :  Out  of  her  own  store 

She  cull'd  the  lords  Ubaldo  and  Ricardo, 

Two  principal  courtiers  for  ladies'  service, 

To  do  me  sill  good  offices  ;  and  as  such 

Employ 'd  bv  her,  I  hope  I  have  received 

And  entertain'd  them  ;  nor  shall  they  depart 

\Vithout  the  effect  arising  from  the  cause 

That  brought  them  hither. 

Math.  Thou  dost  belie  thyself: 
I  know  that  in  my  absence  fhou  wert  honest, 
However  now  turn'd  monster. 

Sofli.  The  truth  is. 

We  diil  not  deal,  like  you,  in  speculations 
On  cheating  pictures  ;  we  knew  shadows  were 
No  substances,  and  actual  performance 
The  best  assurance.      I  will  bring  them  hither, 
To  make  good  in  this  presence  so  much  for  me. 
Some  minutes  space  1  beg  your  majesties' pardon. — 
You    are    moved    now  : — champ  upon   this  bit  a 

little, 
Anon  you  shall  have  another.     Wait  me,  Hilario. 

[  Eieunt  Sophia  and  Hilario. 

Lntlis.  How  now?  turn'd  statue,  sir! 

Math.   Fly,  and  fly  quickly, 
From  (his  cursed  habitation,  or  this  Gorgon 
Will  make  you  all  as  I  am.     In  her  tongue 
Millions  of  adders  hiss,  and  every  hair 
Upon  her  wicked  head  a  snake  more  dreadful 
Than  that  Tisiphone  threw  on  Athamas, 
Which  in  his  madness  forced  him  to  dismember 
His  proper  issue.     O  that  ever  1 
Reposed  my  trust  in  magic,  or  believed 
Impossibilities  !  or  that  charms  had  power 
To  sink  and  search  into  the  bottomless  hell 
Of  a  false  woman's  heart ! 

Eubu.  These  are  the  fruits 
Of  marriage!  an  old  bachelor  as[    am, 
And,  what's  more,  will  continue  so,  is  not  troubled 
With  these  fine  vagaries. 

Ferd.  Till  you  are  resolved,  sir, 
Forsake  not  hope*. 

Bap.  Upon  »ny  life,  this  is 
Dissimulation. 

Ladis.  And  it  suits  not  with 
Your  fortitudH  and  wisdom  to  be  thus 
Transported  with  your  passion. 

Hon.  You  were  once 
Deceived  in  me,  sir,  as  I  was  in  you  ; 
Yet  the  deceit  pleased  both. 

Math.   She  hath  confess'd  all ; 
What  further  proof  should  I  ask  ? 

Hon.  Yet  remember 
The  distance  that  is  interposed  between 
A  woman's  tongue   and  her  heart ;  and  you  must 

grant 
You  build  upon  no  certainties. 

History  of  Dr.  Faustut,  as  well  as  in  the  play  of  that  name 
by  Christopher  Marlow.  He  is  also  mentioned  by  Shaks- 
peare,  Jooion,  Fletcher,  and,  indeed,  by  moot  of  our  old 
dramatist*. 

*  Till  you  are  resolved,  sir, 

Forsake  not  hope.    Kesolved  is  convinced.    Thus  Shales- 
pea  re  : 

"  By  heavens !  I  am  resolved 
That  Cli3ord's  manhood  lies  upon  his  tongue." 


Re-enter  SOPHIA,  CORISCA,  and  HILAIUO,  with  UBALDO 
and  RICARDO,  spinning  and  reeling,  us  before. 

Eubu.  What  have  we  here? 

Soph.  You  must  come  on,  and  show  yourselves. 

Ubald.  The  king  ! 

Kic.  And  queen  too  !  would  I  were  as  far  under 

the  earth 
As  I  am  above  it ! 

Ubald.  Some  poet  will*, 
I  From  this  relation,  or  in  verse  or  prose, 
I   Or  both  together  blended,  render  us 
Ridiculous  to  all  ages. 

Ladis.  I  remember 

This  face,  when  it  was  in  a  better  plight : 
Are  not  you  Ricardo? 

Hon.  And  this  thing,  I  take  it, 
Was  once  Ubaldo. 

Ubald.  I  am  now  I  know  not  what. 

Eic.  We  thank  your  majesty  for  employing  us 
To  this  subtile  Circe. 

Enbu.  How,  my  lord  !  turn'd  spinster! 
Do  you  work  by  the  day,  or  by  the  great? 

Ferd.  Is  your  theorbo 
Turn'd  to  a  distaff,  signior,  and  your  voice, 
With  which  you  chanted,  Boom  for  a  lusty  gallant  ! 
Tuned  to  the  note  of  Lachrynuej  ? 

Eubu.  Prithee  tell  me, 

For  I  know  thou'rt  free,  how  oft,  and  to  the  pur- 
pose, 
You've  been  merry  with  this  lady. 

Ric.  Never,  never. 

Ladis.  Howsoever,  you  should  say  so  for  your 

credit, 
Being  the  only  court  bull. 

Ubald.  O  that  ever 
I  saw  this  kicking  heifer  ! 

Soph.  You  see,  madam, 

How  I  have  cured  your  servants,  and  what  favours 
They  with  their  rampant  valour  have  won  from  me. 
You  may,  as  they  are  physic'd,  I  presume, 
Trust  a  fair  virgin  with  them  ;  they  have  learn'd 
Their  several  trades  to  live  by,  and  paid  nothing 
But  cold  and  hunger  for  them :  and  may  now 
Set  up  for  themselves,  for  here  I  give  them  over. 
And  now  to  you,  sir  ;  why  do  you  not  again 
Peruse  your  picture,  and  take  the  advice 
Of  your  learned  consort  ?  these   are  the   men,  or 
none, 

*  Some  poet  will,  &c.)  There  is  something  delightful  in 
these  anlici'paiions  of  future  fame  by  great  minds.  They  are 
the  flowery  spots  in  the  poet's  thorny  way,  which  beguile 
the  \\tarisoineness  of  his  pilgrimage,  and  in  despite  of  cold- 
ness and  neglect,  reconcile  him  to  his  fate. 

T   Tuned  to  the  note  of  Lachry  ma:  ?    Lachrymtefas  Sir 

John  Hawkins   informs  us,  in   his  History   of  Music)  was 

the  title  of  a  musical  work   composed  by  John    Uouland,  a 

celebrated  lutanist  in  the  time  ot  king  James  I.     "The  title 

of  it  at  length   is :  Lachrymal,  or  seven  Tearet  fiyured  in 

seaven  passionate  Pavans,  with  divers  other  !Javans,  Gali- 

ards,  and  Almans,  set  forth  to  the  Lute,  Viol,  or  Hoiin,in 

five  Parts."  To  this  performance,  which  was  once  exceedingly 

popular,  allusions   are  found  in  most  of  our  old  dramatists. 

I  do  not  know  what  the  "seaven  passionate"  (i.e.  atii  cling) 

compositions  were,  which  made  up  the  bulk  of  this  collection, 

i   but  it  seems,  from  the  following  extract,  that  one  of  them 

!   was  the  beautiful  and  pathetic  Lamentation  of  Lady  Ann 

I   Bothivell  : 

"  Balow,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  sleepe, 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  lliee  wetpe ;"  &c. 
"  ('it.  You  musicians,  play  Baloo. 

W\fe.  No,  good  George  ;  let's  have  Lachrynus. 
Cit.  Why  this  is  it." 

The  Kniyht  of  the  Burning  Pestle. 


THE  PICTURE. 


[Aer.  V 


That  made  you,  as  the  Italian  says*,  a  becco, 

Muth.  I    know    not  which    way  to   entreat  your 

pardon. 

Nor  am  1  worthy  of  it.     My  Spohia, 
My  best  Sophia  ;  here  before  the  king. 
The  queen,  these  lords,  and  i.ll  the  lookers  on, 
I  do  renounce  my  error,  and  embrace  you, 
As  the  great  example  to  all  aftertimes, 
For  such  as  would  die  chaste  and  noble  wives, 
With  reverence  to  imitate. 

Soph.  Not  so,  sir, 

1  yet  hold  off.     However  I  have  purged 
My  doubted  innocence,  the  foul  aspersions, 
In  your  unmanly  doubts,  cast  on  my  honour, 
Cannot  so  soon  be  wash'd  off. 

Eubit.  Shall  we  have 
More  jiggobobs  yet  ? 

Soph.  When  you  went  to  the  wars, 
I  set  no  spy  upon  you  to  observe 
Which  way  you  wander'd,  though  our  sex  by  nature 
Is  subject  to  suspicions  and  fVar.s ; 
My  confidence  in  your  loyalty  freed  me  from  them. 
But,  to  deal  as  you  did,  against  your  religion, 
With  this  enchanter,  to  survey  my  actions, 
Was  more  than  woman's  weakness  ;  therefore,  know, 
And  'tis  my  boon  unto  the  kin?.  I  dj 
Desire  a  separation  from  youi  bed  ; 
For  I  will  spend  the  remnant  of  my  life 
In  prayer  and  meditation. 

Matk.  O,  take  pity 
Upon  my  weak  condition,  or  I  am 
More  wretched  in  your  innocence,  than  if 
I  had  found  you  guilty.     Have  you  shown  a  jewel 
Out  of  the  cabinet  of  your  rich  mind. 
To  lock  it  up  again?     She  turns  away. 
Will  none  *peak  for  me?  shame  and  sin  have  robb'd 

me 
Of  the  use  of  my  tongue. 

Ladit.  Since  you  have  conquer'd,  madam, 
You  wrong  the  glory  of  your  victory 
If  you  use  it  not  with  mercv. 

Ford.  Any  penance 

You  please  to  impose  upon  him,  I  dare  warrant 
He  will  gladly  suffer. 

Eulni.  Have  I  lived  to  see 
But  on*  good  woman,  and  shall  we  for  a  trifle 
Have   her  turn   nun?    I    will   first  pull  down  the 

cloister. 

To  the  old  sport  again,  with  a  good  luck  to  you  ! 
'Tis  not  alone  enough  that  you  are  good, 
We  must  have  some  of  the  breed  of  you  :  will  you 

destroy 

The  kind  and  race  of  goodness?     I  am  converted, 
And  ask  your  pardon,  madam,  for  my  ill  opinion 
Against  the  sex  ;  and  show  me  but  two  such  more, 
I'll  marry  yet,  and  love  them. 

Hon.  She  that  yet 

Ne'er  knew  what  'twas  to  bend  but  to  the  king, 
Thus  begs  remission  for  him. 

Soph.  O,  dear  madam, 
Wrong  not  your  greatness  so. 

Omiies.   We  all  are  suitors. 

*  That  made  you,  at  the  Italian  says,  a  becco.]  So  the  old 
copy,  which  ii  far  more  humorous  than  the  sophistication 
of  Mr.  M.  Mason — as  tlie  Italian*  lay,  &c. 

Becco  is  rendered,  by  the  commentators  on  our  old  plays, 
a  cuckol.1  ;  the  Italian*,  however,  give  a  more  defamatory 
PI-NIT  :  with  them  it  generally  me;m<  what  \ve  call  a  wit- 
tol,  i.  c.  one  accessary  to  his  own  disgrace.  This  too  is  the 
meaning  it  bears  in  Massinger  and  bis  contemporaries,  who 
were,  generally  speaking,  no  indifferent  Italian  scholars. 


Ubald.  I  do  deserve  to  be  heard  among  the  rest. 

Ric.   A  nd  we  have  suffer'd  for  it. 

Soph.  I  perceive 

There's  no  resistance  :  but  suppose  I  pardon 
What  s  past,  who  can  secure  me  he'll  be  free 
From  jealousv  hereafter  ? 

Math.  I  will  be 

My  own  security  :  go,  ride,  where  you  please  : 
Feast,  revel,  banquet,  and  make  choice  will)  wham, 
I'll  set  no  watch  upon  you  ;  and,  for  proof  of  it. 
This  cursed  picture  I  surrender  up 
To  a  consuming  fire. 

Bnpt.  As  I  abjure 
The  practice  of  my  art. 

So/'h.   Upon  these  terms 

I  am  reconciled  ;  and  for  these  that  have  paid 
The  price  of  their  folly,  I  desire  your  mercy. 

Ladis.  At  your  request  they  have  it. 

Ubald.  Hang  all  trades  now.  [honest, 

7?ic.  I   will  find  a  new  one,  and  that  is,  to  live 

Hit.  These  are  rny  fees*. 

Ubald.  Pray  you,  take  them,  with  a  mischief  ! 

Ladis.  So,  all  ends  in  peace  now. 
Ami,  to  all  niarrit  d  men,  be  this  a  caution, 
Which  they  should  duly  tender  as  their  life, 
Neither  to  dote  too  much,  nor  doubt  a  wife. 

[Eieunff* 

SONG,  by  PALLAS,  in  praise  of  the  victeriout  Soldier. 
See  Act  II.,  Sc.  2. 

Though  we  contemplate  to  express 

The  glory  of  our  happiness, 
That,  by  your  pnwerful  arm,  have  been 

So  true  a  victor,  that  no  sin 
Could  ever  taint  you  with  a  blame 

To  lessen  your  deserved  fame. 

Or,  thcugh  we  contend  to  set 

Your  worth  in  the  full  height,  or  get 

Celestial  singers,  crown'd  with  bays, 
With  flourishes  to  dress  your  praise  : 

You  know  your  conquest ;   but  your  story 
Lives  in  your  triumphant  glory. 


*  Hil.  Thrse  art  my  ftts.]  Meaning  the  clothes  of  ill 
two  courtiers  :  they,  it  should  be  recollected,  are  at  this  tun 
dressed  in  the  cast  rags  of  Hilario. 

t  The  fondness  which  Massinger  seems  to  h.ive  felt  fn 
this  play  was  not  misplaced.  The  circumstance  on  whici 
it  is  founded  is,  indeed,  sufficiently  fantastical,  und  was  dii 
allowed  by  the  philosophy  of  his  "own  age :  but  this  is  IK 


usual,  relieves  the  impression  of  the  serious  events. 

The  comic  part  is  tuo  attractive  in  itself  to  need  any 
recommendation,  and  its  effect  is  too  powerful  to  be  missed 
by  any  reader.  But  it  may  not  be  useless  to  point  out  the 
substantial,  though  less  obtrusive,  merit  of  the  serious  scenes. 

If  it  i?  more  tiian  usually  difficult  to  ascertain  the  influ- 
ence of  sudden  passions  in  bosoms  generally  virtuous,  and 
well  regulated,  to  balance  the  struggle  between  habitual 


»«I/)>IIWBB  *ti  iromu,  exposes  nun  more  10  me  influence  01 
dangeroui   impressions.     Accordingly,    after  a   temporary 


STF.NI  III.l 


THE  PICTURE. 


283 


illusion,  she  rescues  herself  from  mischief  by  the  force  of 
her  own  mind.  He  is  preserved  by  oilier  causes,  the  unex- 
pected refusal  of  Honoria,  and  the  renewed  certainty  of  the 
constancy  of  his  wife. 

As  to  tne  queen  herself,  the  cause  of  their  unhappmcss, 
»he  is  described  with  much  novelty,  and  truth  of  nature. 
Mr.  Colman*  has  talked  of  her  passion  ;  if  this  is  the  proper 
term,  it  is  a  passion,  nut  for  a  person,  but  a  principle.  She 
offers  herself  to  Mathias  from  no  genuine  attachment:  it  is 
mere  envy  of  the  constancy  between  him  and  Sophia,  and  a 
malicious  determination  to  show  her  own  superiority,  at 
whatever  risk.  Her  constitutional  vanity,  dangerously  nursed 
by  the  doting  admiration  of  her  husband,  impels  her  to 
seduce  a  virtuous  man  whom  she  does  not  love.  Her  wan- 
tonness is  whim ;  and  she  prepares  to  be  faithless  herself, 
because  she  cannot  bear  a  rival  in  fidelity. 

It  is  here  to  be  remarked,  that  Massinger  seems  to  have 
prepared  this  Play  with  all  the  resources  which  he  could 
command. 

In  the  Observation?  on  The  Dulir.of  Milan,  the  reader  has. 
been  already  tauuht  to  expect  a  timiurity  between  the  con- 
jugal dotage  of  Sfor/a  and  Ladislaus,  &c.  &c.  Several 
other  pl.iys  have  been  made  to  contribute  sentiments  and 
incidents  to  The  Picture.  It  is  impossible  to  read  Honoria's 
temptation  of  Mathias,  Act.  Ill,  sc.  v.  an^lnot  to  remember 
the  progress  of  Donusa's  solicitations,  and  the  amazement 
of  Viteili.—  Peney.ado,  Act  II.  sc.  iv.  —  The  lioman  Actor 
furnishes  other  circumstances  of  the  same  kind,  from  the 
conversation  of  Paris  both  with  Domitia  and  the  emperor, 
Act  IV.  §c.  ii:  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  he  pleads  with 

•  Pee  his  Critical  Refectiont  on  the  old  Englith  Dram* 
tic  Wr'iMt. 


the  latter,  not  only  in  the  thought,  but  in  the  very  manner  o 
Honoria  :  their  argument  appears  to  contradict  thtir  owh 
wi.-hes,  and  t*iis  is  equally  noticed  by  Domitian  and  Ma- 
thias. The  whimsical  weakness  to  which  I'btldo  »nd  Ri- 
cardo  are  reduced,  and  tlie  jokes  to  which  it  expose!  them, 
have  already  amused  us  in  ti  e  characteristic  punishment 
of  Perigoi — Parliament  of  Love.  And,  to  quote  only  one 
more  instance,  though  several  might  be  added,  the  noble 
freedom  with  which  Malhias  corrects  the  levity  of  the 
queen,  Act  IV,  sc.  iv,  though  greatly  superior  to  it,  is  cer- 
tainly suggested  by  Gonzaga's  austere  but  spirited  rebuke  of 
Aurelia— Maid  of  Honour.  Act  IV.  sc.  iv. 

In  short,  Mass'inger  nas  not  scrupled  to  adorn  this  Play 
with  whatever  was  afforded  by  the  story  itself,  or  could  be 
added  from  his  own  writings;  and,  like  the  artist  of  old,  he 
has  composed  an  exquisite  Picture  from  a  collection  of  many 
scattered  beauties. 

There  are  two  morals  combined  in  this  play  ;  one  arising 
from  the  doting  love  of  Ladislaus;  the  other,  from  the  sus- 
picions of  Mathias.  Vanity  is  always  unfeeling:  and, 
through  indiscreet  admiration,  may  be  tarried  far  beyond 
the  supposed  frivolousness  ot  its  nature,  and  become  a 
raging  passion,  destructive  of  our  own  virtue  and  ot  the 
happiness  of  others.  Again,  unreasonable  doubt  destroys 
the  very  happiness  which  it  labours  to  secure.  Irritation  ii 
the  natural  consequence  of  unjust  suspicion  ;  and  the  desire 
of  revenge  hurries  us  into  actions  from  which  our  better 
principles  would  otherwise  have  preserved  us.  What  ii 
worse,  we  excuse  ourselves  in  mischief  on  account  of  the 
very  motive  on  which  we  act ;  and  are  content  to  be  outra- 
p«ou»  on  the  flattering  principle  of  justice  itself. 

DR.  IRELAND. 


THE    EMPEROR    OF   THE    EAST. 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST.]  This  Tragi-comedy  was  licensed  for  the  stage  March  llth,  1631,  and 
printed  in  the  following  year.  The  plot  is  taken  from  the  history  of  Theodosius  the  younger,  as  delivered 
by  the  Byzantine  writers.  See  the  concluding  Observations  by  Dr.  Ireland. 

Massinger  has  followed  his  various  authorities  somewhat  more  closely  than  usual  ;  indeed,  be  disclaims, 
in  the  Prologue,  all  merit  on  the  score  of  invention,  the  work  being,  as  he  says,  "  a  story  of  reverend  an- 
tiquity." 

Notwithstanding  the  excellence  of  this  Play,  it  met  with  some  opposition  at  its  appearance :  its  distin- 
guished merits,  however,  procured  it  a  representation  at  court,  and  it  finally  seems  to  have  grown  into  very 
general  favour.  It  is  preceded,  in  the  old  edition,  by  several  commendatory  poems,  one  of  which,  by  W. 
Singleton,  is  not  undeserving  of  praise. 

It  was  frequently  acted .  as  the  title-pasre  tells  us.  "  at  the  Blackfriars  and  Globe  Play-houses,  by  tne 
King's  Majesty's  servants." 


TO  THE  BIGHT  HONOURABLE,  AND  MT  ESPECIAL  GOOD  LOHO, 

JOHN    LOED  MOHUN, 

BARON  OF  OKEHAMPTON,  &c. 

My  GOOD  LORD, 

LET  my  presumption  in  styling  you  so  (having  never  deserved  kin  my  service),  from  the  clemency  of  your 
noble  disposition,  find  pardon  *.  The  reverence  due  to  the  name  of  Mohun,  long  since  honoured  in  three 
earls  of  Somerset,  and  eight  barons  of  Munster,  may  challenge  from  all  pens  a  deserved  celebration.  And 
the  rather  in  respect  those  titles  were  not  purchased,  but  conferred,  and  continued  in  your  ancestors,  for 
many  virtuous,  noble,  and  still  living  actions  ;  nor  ever  forfeited  or  tainted,  but  when  the  iniquity  of  those 
times  laboured  the  depression  of  approved  goodness,  and  in  wicked  policy  held  it  fit  that  loyalty  and  faith, 
in  taking  part  with  the  true  prince,  should  be  degraded  and  mulcted.  But  this  admitting  no  further  dilation 
in  this  place,  may  your  lordship  please,  and  with  all  possible  brevity,  to  understand  the  reasons  why  I  am,  in 
humble  thankfulness,  ambitious  to  shelter  this  poem  under  the  wings  of  your  honourable  protection.  My  worthy 
friend,  Mr.  Aston  Cockayne,  your  nephew,  to  my  extraordinary  content,  delivered  to  me  that  your  lordship, 
at  your  vacanthours,  sometimes  vouchsafed  to  peruse  such  trifles  of  mine  as  have  passed  the  press,and  not  alone 
warranted  them  in  your  gentle  suffrage,  but  disdained  not  to  bestow  aremembrance  of  your  love,  and  intended 
favour  to  me.  1  profess  to  the  world,  I  was  exalted  with  the  bounty,  and  with  good  assurance,  it  being  so 
rare  in  this  age  to  meet  with  one  noble  name,  that,  in  fear  to  be  censured  of  levity  and  weakness,  dares  ex- 
press itself  a  friend  or  patron  to  contemned  poetry  f.  Having,  therefore,  no  means  else  left  me  to  witness 
the  obligation  in  which  I  stand  most  willingly  bound  to  your  lordship,  I  offer  this  Tragi-comedy  to  your 
gracious  acceptance,  no  way  despairing,  but  that  with  a  clear  aspect  you  will  deign  to  receive  it  (it  being 
an  induction  to  my  future  endeavours),  and  that  in  the  list  of  those,  that  to  your  merit  truly  admire  you, 
you  may  descend  to  number 

Your  lordship's  faithful  honourer, 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

*  MY   GOOD  LORD, 

Let  my  presumption  instyling  you  «o,&c].  To  understand  this  sentence,  it  will  be  necessary  to  recollect  that  "  my  good 
lord"  meant,  in  the  language  of  Massinger  and  his  contemporaries,  my  patron.  Of  this  mode  of  expression  many  instances 
are  to  be  found  in  these  volumes.  It  occurs  also  in  1  he  Spanish  Trayedy,  which  I  mention  for  the  sake  of  correcting  a 
slight  mistake : 

"  Lor.     What  would  he  with  us  ;  lie  writes  ns  here,  To  stand  good  Lorenzo,  and  help  him  in  his  distress."    Act  III. 

In  the  Ute  editions,  there  is  a  comma  after  stand,  which  perverts  the  sense. 

1  That  this  noble  lord  not  only  favoured  poetry,  but  wrote  himself,  appears  from  Sir  Aston  Cockayne's  letters  to  his  lord 
»hip,  in  verse.  See  Cockayne's  Poemt,  p.  80.— COXETKB. 


I.] 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


PROLOGUE* 

AT  THE  BLACKFRIARS. 

BUT  that  imperious  custom  warrants  it, 
Our  author  with  much  willingness  would  omit 
This  preface  to  his  new  work.     He  hath  found 
(And  suffer'd  for't),  many  are  apt  to  wound 
His  credit  in  this  kind  :  and,  whether  he 
Express  himself  fearful,  or  peremptory, 
He  cannot  'scape  their  censures  who  delight 
To  misapply  whatever  he  shall  write, 
'Tis  his  bard  fate.     And  though  he  will  not  sue, 
Or  hasely  beg  such  suffrages,  yet,  to  you, 
Free  and  ingenious  spirits,  he  doth  now, 
In  me,  present  his  service,  with  his  vow 
He  hath  done  his  best ;  and,  though  he  cannot  glory 
In  his  invention  (this  work  being  a  story 
Of  reverend  antiquity),  he  doth  hope, 
In  the  proportion  of  it,  and  the  scope, 
You  may  observe  some  pieces  drawn  like  one 
Of  a  stedfast  hand  ;  and,  with  the  whiter  stone, 
To  be  mark'd  in  your  fair  censures.     More  than  this 
I  am  forbid  to  promise,  and  it  is 
With  the  most  till  you  confirm  it :  since  we  know 
Whate'er  the  shaft  be,  archer,  or  the  bow 
From  which  'tis  sent,  it  cannot  hit  the  white, 
Unless  your  approbation  guide  it  right. 


*  This  prologue  has  been  hitherto  very  incorrectly  given. 
It  is  here  reformed  from  the  old  copies. 


PROLOGUE 

AT   COURT. 

As  ever,  sir,  you  lent  a  gracious  ear 
To  oppress'il  innocence,  now  vouchsafe  to  hear 
A  short  petition.     At  your  feet,  in  me, 
The  poet  kneels,  and  to  your  majesty 
Appeals  for  justice.     What  we  now  present, 
When  first  conceived,  in  his  vote  and  intent, 
Was  sacred  to  your  pleasure  ;  in  each  part 
With  his  best  of  fancy,  judgment,  language,  art, 
Fashion'd  and  form'd  so,  as  might  well,  and  may 
Deserve  a  welcome,  and  no  vulgar  way. 
He  durst  not,  sir,  at  such  a  solemn  feast, 
Lard  his  grave  matter  with  one  scurrilous  jest ; 
But  labour'd  that  no  passage  might  appear, 
But  what  the  queen  without  a  blush  might  hear  : 
And  yet  this  poor  work  suffer'd  by  the  rage 
And  envy  of  some  Catos  of  the  stage  : 
Yet  still  he  hopes  this  Plav,  which  then  was  seen 
With  sore  eyes,  and  condemn'd  out  of  their  spleen, 
May  be  by  you,  the  supreme  judge,  set  free, 
And  raised  above  the  reach  of  calumny. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


THEODOSIUS  tne  younger,  the  emperor, 
PAULINUS,  a  kinsman  to  the  emperor, 
PHI  UN  AX,  captain  of  the  guard, 

TlMANTUS,       -J 

CHRYSAPIUS,  ^eunttchs  of  the  emperor's  chamber, 

GRATIANUS,   J 

CLEON,  a  traveller,  friend  to  Paulinas, 

Patriarch, 

Informer, 

Projector, 

Master  of  the  Habits  and  Manners, 

Minion  of  the  Suburbs, 


Countryman, 

Surgeon, 

Empiric. 

Pur.cHERM,  the  protectress,  sister  to  the  emperor, 
ATHENAIS,  a  strange  virgin,   afterwards  empress,  ana 
named  Eudocia, 

P  '      j  the  younger  sisters  of  the  emperor. 

Officers,  Suitors,  Attendants,  Guards,  Huntsman, 
Executioners,  Servants,  6;c. 


SCENE,  Constantinople. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  PAULINUS  and  CLEON. 
Paul.  In  your  six  years  travel,  friend,  no  doubt 

you  have  met  with 

Many  and  rare  adventures,  and  observed 
The  wonders  of  each  climate,  varying  in 
The  manners  and  the  men ;  and  so  return 
For  the  future  service  of  your  prince  and  country, 
In  your  understanding  better'd. 


Cle.  Sir,  I  have  made  of  it 

The  best  use  in  my  power,  ami  hcpp  iny  gleanings 
After  the  full  crop  others  reaped  before  me, 
Shall  not,  when  I  am  call'd  on,  altogether 
Appear  unprofitable  ;  yet  I  left 
The  miracle  of  miracles  in  our  age 
At  home  behind  me  ;  tvery  where  abroad, 
Fame,  with  a  true  though  prodigal  voice,  deliver'd 
Such  wonders  of  Pulcheria,  the  princess. 
To  the  amazement,  nay,  astonishment  rather, 


286 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THK  EAST. 


[Act  I 


Of  such  as  heard  it,  that  I  found  not  one 

In  all  the  states  and  kingdoms  that  Ipass'd  through, 

Worthy  to  be  her  second. 

Pa  >il.  She,  indeed,  is 
A  perfect  phenix,  and  disdains  a  rival. 
Her  infant  years,  as  you  know,  promised  much, 
15 lit  thrown  to  ripeness,  she  transcends  and  makes 
CreJulity  her  debtor.     I  will  tell  you, 
In  mv  blunt  way,  to  entertain  the  time, 
Until  you  have  the  happiness  to  see  her, 
How  iii  your  ab.-ence  she  hath  borne  herself, 
And  with  all  possible  brevity  ;  though  the  subject 
Is  such  a  spacious  field,  as  would  require 
An  abstract  of  the  purest  eloquence 
(Derived  from  the  most  famous  orators 
The  nurse  of  learning,  Athens,  show'd  the  world) 
In  that  man  that  should  undertake  to  be 
Her  true  historian. 

Cle.  In  this  you  shall  do  me 
A  special  favour. 

Paul.  Since  Arcadius'  death, 
Our  late  great  master,  the  protection  of 
The  prince,  his  son,  the  second  Theodosius, 
By  a  general  vote  and  suffrage  of  the  people, 
Was  to  her  charge  assign'd,  with  the  disposure 
Of  his  so  nvmy  kingdoms.     For  his  person, 
She  hath  so  train'd  him  up  in  all  those  arts 
That  are  both  great  and  good,  and  to  be  wish'd 
In  an  imperial  monarch,  that  the  mother 
Of  the  Gracchi,  grave  Cornelia,  Rome  still  boasts  of, 
The  wise  Pulcheria  but  named,  must  be 
No  more  remember'd.     She,  by  her  example, 
Hath  made  the  court  a  kind  of  academy, 
In  which  true  honour  is   both  learn'd  and  prac- 
tised : 

Her  private  lodgings  a  chaste  nunnery, 
In  which  her  sisters,  as  probationers,  hear 
From  her,  their  sovereign  abbess,  all  the  precepts 
Read  in  the  school  of  virtue. 

Cle.  You  amaze  me. 

Paul.  I  shall,  ere  I  conclude ;  for  here  the  wonder 
Begins,  not  ends.     Hw  soul  is  so  immense, 
And  her  strong  faculties  so  apprehensive, 
To  search  into  the  depth  of  deep  designs, 
And  of  all  natures,  that  the  burthen,  which 
To  many  men  were  insupportable, 
To  her  is  but  a  gentle  exercise, 
Made,  by  the  frequent  use,  familiar  to  her. 

Cle.  With  your  good  favour   let  me   interrupt 

you. 

Being,  as  she  is,  in  every  part  so  perfect, 
Methinks  that  all  kings  of  our  eastern  world 
Should  become  rivals  for  her. 

Paul    So  they  have  ; 

But  to  no  purpose.     She  that  knows  her  strength. 
To  rule  ar.d  govern  monarchs,  scorns  to  wear 
On  her  free  neck  the  servile  yoke  of  mairiage  ; 
And  for  one  loose  desire,  envy  itself 
Oares  not  presume  to  taint  her  ;  Venus'  son 
Is  blind  indeed  when  he  but  gazes  on  her  ; 
Her  chastity  being  a  rock  of  diamonds, 
With  which  encounter'd,  his  shafts  fly  in  splinters ; 
His  flaming  torches  in  the  living  spring 
Of  her  perfections  quench'd  ;  and,  to  crown  all, 
She's  so  impartial  when  she  sits  upon 
The  high  tribunal,  neither  sway'd  with  pity 
Nor  awed  by  fear,  beyond  her  equal  scale, 
That  'tis  not  superstition  to  believe 
Astrea  once  more  lives  upon  the  earth, 
Pulcheria's  breast  her  temple. 


Cle.  You  have  given  her 
An  admirable  character. 

Paul.  She  deserves  it  : 

And  such  is  the  commanding  power  of  virtue, 
That  from  her  vicious  enemies  it  compels 
Paeans  of  praise,  as  a  due  tribute  to  her. 

[Loud  music. 

Cle.  What  means  this  solemn  music  ? 

Paid.  Sir*,  it  ushers 
The  emperor's  morning  meditation, 
In  which  Pulcheria  is  more  than  assistant. 
'Tis  worth  your  observation,  and  you  may 
Collect  from  her  expense  of  time  this  day, 
How  her   hours,   for   many  years,  have  been  dis- 
posed of. 

Cle.  I  am  all  eyes  and  ears. 

Enter,  after  a  strain  of  solemn  music,  PHILANAX, 
TIMANTUS,  Patriarch,  THEODOSIUS,  PULCHERIA, 
FLACCILLA,  and  ARCADIA  ;  Jotlowed  by  CHRYSAPIUS 
and  GRATIANUS  ;  Servants  and  Officers. 

Pul.  Your  patience,  Sir. 
Let  those  corrupted  ministers  of  the  court, 
Which  you  complain  of,  our  devotions  ended, 
Be  cited  to  appear  :  for  the  ambassadors 
Who  are  importunate  to  have  audience, 
From  me  you  may  assure  them  that  to-morrow 
They  shall  in  public  kiss  the  emperor's  robe, 
And  we  in  private  with  our  soonest  leisure, 
Will  give  them  hearing.     Have  you  especial  care 

too, 

That  free  access  be  granted  unto  all 
Petitioners.      The  moining  wears. — Pray  you   on, 

sir ; 
Time  lost  is  ne'er  recover'd. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Paulinus  and  Clean. 

Paul.  Did  you  note 
The  majesty  she  appears  in  t 

Cle.  Yes,  my  good  lord ; 
I  was  ravish'd  with  it. 

Paul.  And  then,  with  whac  speed 
She  orders  her  dispatches,  not  one  daring 
To  interpose  ;  the  emperor  himself, 
Without  reply,  putting  in  act  whatever 
She  pleased  to  imposef  upon  him. 

Cle.  Yet  there  were  some, 
That  in  their  sullen  looks,  rather  confess'd 
A  forced  constraint  to  serve  her,  than  a  will 
To  be  at  her  devotion  :  what  are  they  1 

Paul.    Eunuchs  of  the  emperor's  chamber,  that 

repine 

The  globe  and  awful  sceptre  should  give  place 
Unto  the  distaff,  for  as  such  they  whisper 
A  woman's  government,  but  dare  not  yet 
Express  themselves. 

Cle.  From  whence  are  the  ambassadors 
To  whom  she  promised  audience  1 

Paul.  They  are 

Employ'd  by  divers  princes,  who  desire 
Alliance  with  our  emperor,  whose  years  now, 
As  you  see,  write  him  man.     One  would  advance 
A  daughter  to  the  honour  of  his  bed ; 


•  Paul.  Sir,  it  ttahers,  &c.]  A  monosyllable  has  dropt  out 
here.  I  have  inserted  A't'r  the  most  innocent  one  that 
occurred  to  me. 

t  She  pleased  to  impo»e]  It,  which  the  modern  editor* 
insert  before  pleased,  was  admitted  without  authority,  and 
indeed  without  necessity. 


SCENE  JI.l 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


1*7 


A  second,  his  fair  sister:  to  instruct  you 

In  the  particulars  would  ask  longer  time 

Than  my  own  designs  give  way  to.     1  have  letters 

From  special  friends  of  mine,  that  to  my  care 

Commend  a  stranger  virgin,  whom  this  morning 

I  purpose  to  present  before  the  princess  : 

If  you  please,  you  may  accompany  me. 

Cle.  I'll  wait  on  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  11.— Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  the  Informer,  with  Officers  bringing  in  the  Pro- 
jector, the  Minion  of  the  Suburbs,  and  the  Master 
of  the  Habit  and  Manners. 

Infor.     Why   should   you    droop,  or  bang  your 

working  heads  ? 

No  danger  is  meant  to  you  ;  pray  bear  up  : 
For  aught  I  know,  you  are  cited  to  receive 
Preferment  due  to  your  merits. 

Pro/.  Very  likely  : 

In  all  the  projects  I  have  read  and  practised, 
I  never  found  one  man  compell'd  to  come 
Before  the  seat  of  justice  under  guard, 
To  receive  honour. 

Infor.  No !  it  may  be,  you  are 
The  first  example.     Men  of  qualities, 
''As  I  have  deliver'd  you  to  the  protectress, 
Who  knows  how  to  advance  them,  cannot  conceive 
A  fitter  place  to  have  their  virtues  publish'd, 
Than    in   open  court.      Could  you   hope  that  the 

princess, 

Knowing  your  precious  merits,  will  reward  them 
In  a  private  corner?  No  ;  you  know  not  yet 
How  you  may  be  exalted. 

AJ  in.  To  the  gallows. 

Infor.  Fie ! 

Nor  yet  depress'd  to  the  gallies  :  in  your  names 
You  carry  no  such  crimes:  your  specious  titles 
Cannot  but  take  her -.—President  of  the  Projectors  ! 
What  a  noise  it  makes !  The  Master  of  the  Habit*  • 
How  proud  would  some  one  country  be  that  I  know, 
To  be  your  first  pupil*  !  Minion  of  the  Suburbs, 
And  now  and  then  admitted  to  the  court, 
And  honour'd  with  the  style  of  Squire  of  Damesf  ! 
What  hurt  is  in  it  ?  One  thing  I  must  tell  you, 
As  I  am  the  state-scout,  you  may  think  me  an  in- 
former. 

Mast.  They  are  synonymaf. 

• The  Matter  of  the  Habit  •' 

How  proud  would  some  one  country  be  that  I  know, 
To  be  your  first  pupilt]"  Still  harping  upon  England, 
which,  at  the  time  these  scenes   are  supposed  to  have  taken 
place,  was  struggling  with  a  few  "  naked  Picts"  for  wolves 

t  And  honoured  with  the  style  of  Squire  of  Dames !]  This 
seems  to  have  been  a  cant  term,  with  our  old  dramatists, 
for  a  pander,  in  allusion  probably  to  his  designation.  The 
.Squire  o'  Dames  is  a  personage  of  great  respectability  in  the 
Faerie  Queene,  from  whence,  as  Mr.  Cilchrist  observes  to 
me,  Massingcr  derived  the  appellation.  In  Book  III. 
Canto  vii.  Stanza  53,  "  he  is  dispatched  by  liis  mistress,  to 
relieve  distressed  damsels  during  the  space  of  a  twelvemonth. 
This  injunction  he  happily  performs,  and  returns  with  three 
hundred  proofs  of  his  prowess  and  success;  his  capricious 
fair  one  then  forbids  him  her  prescence  until  he  can  find  as 
many  other  ladies, 

•  The  which,  for  all  the  suit  he  could  propound, 

Would  him  refuse  their  pledges  to  afford, 
But  did  abide  for  ever  chaste  and  sound." 

"  After  straying  three  years,  and  endeavouring  with  all 
his  might  to  effect  the  purpose  of  his  mission,  he  acknow- 
ledges to  Satyrane  (miserabile  dictu'.J  that  he  had  found 
but  th.ve !"  The  story,  as  Warton  has  observed,  is  copied 
from  Ariosto's  host's  Tale,  c.  28. 

J  Min.  They  are  synonyma.l    The  modern  editori  have 


Infor.  Conceal  nothing  from  her 
Of  your  good  parts,  'twill  be  the  better  for  you  ; 
Or  if  you  should,  it  matters  not ;  she  can  conjure. 
And  I  am  her  nbi(|uitary  spirit, 
Hound  to  obey  her: — you  have  my  instructions ; 
Stand  by,  here's  better  company. 

Enter  PAULINUS,  CLEON,  and  ATHENAIS  with  a  petition 

Athen.  Can  [  hope,  sir, 
Oppressed  innocence  shall  find  protection 
And  justice  among  strangers,  when  my  brothers. 
Brothers  of  one  womb,  by  one  sire  begotten, 
Trample  on  my  afflictions  ? 

Paul.  Forget  them, 
Remembering  those  may  help  you. 

Athen.  They  have  robb'd  me 
Of  all  means  to  prefer  my  just  complaint, 
With  any  promising  hope  to  gain  a  hearing, 
Much  less  redress  :  petitions  not  sweetened 
With  gold,  are  but  unsavory,  oft  refused; 
Or,  if  received,  are  pocketed,  not  read. 
A  suitor's  swelling  tears  by  the  glowing  beams 
Of  choleric  authority  are  dried  up 
Before  they  fall,  or,  if  seen,  never  pitied. 
What  will  become  of  a  forsaken  maid  I 
My  flattering  hopes  are  too  weak  to  encounter 
With  my  strong  enemy,  despair,  and  'tis 
In  vain  to  oppose  her. 

Cle.  Cheer  her  up  ;  she  faints,  sir. 

Paul.  This  argues   weakness;  though  your  bro- 
thers were 

Cruel  beyond  expression,  and  the  judges 
That  sentenced  you,  corrupt;  you  shall  find  here 
One  of  you  own  fair  sex  to  doyou  right, 
Whose  beams  of  justice,  like  the  sun,  extend 
Their  light  and  heat  to  strangers,  and  are  not 
Municipal  or  confined. 

Athen.  Pray  you,  do  not  feed  me 
With  airy  hopes  ;  unless  you  can  assure  ma 
The  great  Pulcheria  will  descend  to  hear^ 
My  miserable  story,  it  were  better 
I  died  without  the  trouble. 

Paul.  She  is  bound  to  it 
By  the  surest  chain,  her  natural  inclination 
To  help  the  afflicted  ;  nor  shall  long  delays 
More  terrible  to  miserable  suitors 
Than  quick  denials,  grieve  you.  Dry  your  fair  eyes  ; 
This  room  will  instantly  be  sanctified 
With  her  hless'd  presence ;  to  her  ready  hand 
Present  your  grievances,  and  rest  assured 
You  shall  depart  contented. 

Athen.  You  breathe  in  me 
A  second  life. 

Infor.  Will  your  lordship  please  to  hear 
Your  servant  a  few  words  ? 

Paul.  Away,  you  rascal ! 
Did  I  ever  keep  such  servants  ? 

Infor.  If  your  honesty 
Would  give  you  leave,  it  would  be  for  your  profit. 

Paul.  To  make  use  of  an  informer  !  tell  me,  in 

what 
Can  you  advantage  me  ? 


ignorantly  corrupted  this  into  synonymous ;    but  synonyma 
was  the  word  in  use  in  Massinger's  time. 
Thus  Jonson  : 

"  Where  lately  harbom'd  many  a  famous  whore, 
A  purging  bill,  now  fix'd  upon  (he  door, 
Tells  you  it  is  a  hoi-house  :  so  it  may, 
And  still  be  a  whore-house ; — they're  synar.yma." 

£pig.  vii. 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Act  I. 


Infer.  In  the  first  tender 
Of  a  fresh  suit  never  begg'd  yet. 

Pant.  What's  your  suit,  sir? 

l.T/rtr  Tis  feasible  : — here  are  three  arrant  knaves 
Discovered  by  my  art. 

Paul.  And  thou  the  archknave  : 
I'he  great  devour  the  less. 

In/or.  And  with  good  reason  ; 
I  must  eat  one  a  month,  I  cannot  live  else. 

Paul.  A  notable  cannibal !  but  should  I  bear  thee, 
In  what  do  your  knaves  concern  me  1 

Infor.  In  the  begging 
Of  their  estates. 

Paul.  Before  they  are  condemn'd  ? 

Inftrr.  Yes,   or    arraing'd  ;    your    lordship  may 

speak  too  late  else*. 

They  are  your  own,  and  I  will  be  content 
With  the  fifth  part  of  a  share. 

Paul.  Hence,  rogue ! 

Infor.  Such  rogues 

In  this  kind  will  be  heard  and  cherish'd  too. 
Fool  that  1  was,  to  offer  such  a  bargain 
To  a  spiced-conscience  chapman  ! — but  I  care  not ; 
What  he  disdains  to  taste,  others  will  swallow. 

Loud  music.  Enter  THEODOSIUS,  PULCHERIA,  ARCA- 
DIA, FLACCILLA,  Patriarch,  PHILANAX,  TIMANTUS, 
CHBYSAPIUS,  GRATIANUS,  and  Attendants. 

Cle.  They  are  returned  from  the  temple. 

Paul.  See  she  appears  ; 
What  think  you  now  ? 

Athen.  A  cunning  painter  thus, 
Her  veil  ta'en  off,  and  awful  sword  and  balance 
Laid  by,  would  picture  Justice. 

Pul.  When  you  please, 
You  may  intend  those  royal  exercises 
Suiting  your  birth  and  greatness  :  I  will  bear 
The  burthen  of  your  cares,  and,  having  purged 
The  body  of  your  empire  of  ill  humours, 
Upon  my  knees  surrender  it. 

Chry.  Will  you  ever 
Be  awed  thus  like  a  boy? 

Grat.  And  kiss  the  rod 
Of  a  proud  mistress  ? 

Tim.  Be  what  you  were  born,  sir. 

Phil.  Obedience  and  majesty  never  lodged 
In  the  same  inn. 

Theod.  No  more ;  he  never  learn'd 
\t«  Tight  way  to  command,  that  stopp'd  his  ears 
1' j  Aise  directions. 

Pul.  Read  o'er  the  papers 
I  left  upon  my  cabinet,  two  hours  hence 
I  will  examine  you. 

Flac.  We  spend  our  time  well ! 
Nothing  but  praying  and  poring  on  a  book. 
It  ill  agrees  with  my  constitution,  sister, 

Arcad.  \Vould   I  had  been  born  some  masking- 

lady's  woman, 
Only  to  see  strange  sights,  rather  than  live  thus  ! 

•  Yet ,  or  arraitjn'd  ;  your  lordship  may  tpealt  too  late 
else.]  This  is  a  severe  sarcasm  on  the  avidity  of  the  courti- 
ers in  Massinger's  time ;  unfortunately  too,  it  is  just.  The 
estates  of  many  condemned  persons  were  begged  with  scan- 
dalous precipitation  by  the  favourites  of  the  day,  and,  what 
to  worse,  were  justly  suspected,  in  more  than  one  instance, 
it  have  constituted  the  principal  part  of  the  crime  for  which 
the  possessors  guttered : 

"  Sir,  yon  are  rich ;  besides,  you  kuow  what  you 
Have  got  by  your  ward's  death :  I  fear  yon  will 
Be  beys' d  at  court."  The  Witt. 


Flac.  We  are  gone,  forsooth  ;  there  is  no  remedy, 
sister.  [Exeunt  Arcadia  and  Fiaccilla. 

Grat.  What  hath  his  eye  found  out? 
Tim.  'Tis  fix'd  upon 
That,  stranger  lady. 

Chry.  1  am  glad  yet,  that 
He  dares  look  on  a  woman. 

[All  this  time  the  Inftrrmer  is  kneeling  to  Pul- 

cheria,  and  delivering  papert. 
Theo.  Philanax, 
What  is  that  comely  stranger  ? 
Phil.  A  petitioner. 
CAn/.  Will  you  hear  her  case,  and  dispatch  her  in 

your  chamber  ? 
I'll  undertake  to  bring  her. 

Theo.  Bring  me  to 

Some  place  where  I  may  look  on  her  demeanour : 
'Tis  a  lovely  creature  ! 

Chry.  There's  some  hope  in  this  yet. 

[Flourish.  Exeunt  Theodosius,  Patriarch, 
Philanax,  Timantus,  Chrysapius,  and  Gro- 
tiauus. 

Pul.  No  :  you  have  done  your  parts. 

Paul.  Now  opportunity  courts  you. 
Prefer  your  suit. 

Athen.  As  low  as  misery 
Can  fall,  for  proof  of  my  humility, 
A  poor  distressed  virgin  bows  her  head, 
And  lays  hold  on  your  goodness,  the  last  altar 
Calamity  can  fly  to  for  protection, 
Great  minds  erect  their  never-falling  trophies* 
On  the  firm  base  of  mercy ;  but  to  triumph 
Over  a  suppliant,  by  proud  fortune  captived, 
Argues  a  bastard  conquest : — 'tis  to  you 
1  speak,  to  you,  the  fair  and  just  Pulcheria, 
The  wonder  of  the  age,  your  sex's  honour  ; 
And  as  such,  deign  to  hear  me.     As  you  have 
A  soul  moulded  from  heaven,  and  do  desire 
To  have  it  made  a  star  there,  make  the  means 
Of  your  ascent  to  that  celestial  height 
Virtue,  wing'd  with  brave  action  :  they  draw  near 
The  nature  and  the  essence  of  the  gods, 
Who  imitate  their  goodness. 

Pul.  If  you  were 

A  subject  of  the  empire,  which  your  habit 
In  every  part  denies 

Athen.  O,  fly  not  to 
Such  an  evasion  !  whate'er  I  am, 
Being  a  woman,  in  humanity 

You  are  bound  to  right  me.     Though  the  difference 
Of  my  religion  may  seem  to  exclude  me         [fined  ; 
From   your   defence,  which  you  would  have  con- 
The  moral  virtue,  which  is  general. 
Must  know  no  limits.     By  these  blessed  feet, 
That  pace  the  paths  of  equity,  and  tread  boldly 
On  the  stiff  neck  of  tyrannous  oppression, 
By  these  tears  by  which  I  bathe  them,  I  conjure  you 
With  pity  to  took  on  me  ! 

Pul.  Pray  you,  rise  : 

And,  as  you  rise,  receive  this  comfort  from  me. 
Beauty,  set  off  with  such  sweet  language,  never 
Can  want  an  advocate,  and  you  must  bring 
More  than  a  guilty  cause  if  you  prevail  not. 
Some  business  long  since  thought  upon  dispatch 'd, 

*  Great  minds  erect  their  never-falling  trophifs]  Ne- 
ver-falling is  the  reading  of  the  old  copies,  and  should 
not  be  changed.  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  exhibit  never- 
Jailing. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


289 


You  shall  have  hearing,  and,  as  far  as  justice 
Will  warrant  me,  my  best  aids. 

Aihen,  I  do  desire 
No  stronger  guard  ;  my  equity  needs  no  favour. 

.       [Walks  aside. 

Pnl.  Are  these  the  men  ? 

Proj.  We  were,  an't  like  your  highness, 
The  men,  the  men  of  eminence,  the  mark, 
And  may  continue  so,  if  it  please  your  grace. 

Mast.  This  speech  was  well  projected. 

Put.  Does  your  conscience, 
I  will  begin  with  you,  whisper  unto  you 
What  here  you  stand  accused  of?     Are  you  named 
The  President  of  Projectors  ? 

Infer.  Justify  it,  man, 
And  tell  her  in  what  thou'rt  useful. 

Proj.  That  is  apparent  ; 
And  if  you  please,  ask  some  about  the  court, 
And  they  will  tell  you,  to  my  rare  inventions 
They  owe  their  bravery,  perhaps  means  to  purchase, 
And  cannot  live  without  me.     I,  alas  ! 
Lend  out  my  labouring  brains  to  use,  and  sometimes 
For  a  drachma  in  the  pound,  —  the  more  the  pity. 
I  am  all  patience,  and  endure  the  curses 
Of  many,  for  the  profit  of  one  patron. 

Put.  I  do  conceive  the  rest.   What  is  the  second? 

Jnfor.  The  Minion  of  the  Suburbs. 

Put.  What  hath  he 
To  do  in  Constantinople  ? 

Men.  I  steal  in  now  and  then, 
As  I  am  thought  useful  ;  marry,  there  I  am  call'd 
The  Squire  of  Dames,  or  Servant  of  the  Sex, 
And  by  the  allowance  of  some  sportful  ladies, 
Honour'd  with  that  title. 

Pul.  Spare  your  character,  [peer. 

You  are  here  decipher'd  :  stand  by  with  your  com- 
What  is  the  third?  a  creature  I  ne'er  heard  of: 
The  Master  of  the  Manners  and  the  Habit  ! 
You  have  a  double  office. 

Mast.  In  my  actions 
I  make  both  good;  for  by  my  theorems, 
Which  your  polite  and  terser  gallants  practise, 
I  re-refine  the  court*,  and  civilize 
Their  barbarous  natures.     I  have  in  a  table, 
With  curious  punctuality,  set  down, 
To  a  hair's  breadth,  how  low  a  new-stamp'd  courtier 
May  vailf  to  a  country  gentleman,  and  by 
Gradation,  to  his  merchant,  mercer,  draper, 
His  linen-man,  and  tailor. 

Pi</.  Pray  you,  discover 
This  hidden  mystery. 

Mast.  If  the  foresaid  courtier 
(As  it  may  chance  sometimes)  find  not  his  name 
Writ  in  the  citizens'  books,  with  a  state  hum 
He  may  salute  them  after  three  days'  waiting  ; 
But,  if  he  owe  them  money,  that  he  may 
Preserve  his  credit,  let  him  in  policy  never 
Appoint  a  day  of  payment,  so  they  may  hope  still: 
But,  if  he  be  to  take  up  more,  his  piige 
May  attend  them  at  the  gate,  and  usher  them 
Into  his  cellar,  and  when  they  are  warm  'd  with  wine, 
Conduct  them  to  his  bedchamber  ;  and  though  then 
He  be  under  his  barber's  hands,  as  soon  as  seen, 
He  must  start  up  to  embrace  them,  vail  thus  low  ; 

*J  re-refine  the  court,}  So  the  old  copy:  the  modern  edi- 
tors read,  /  refine  the  court,  which  destroys  at  once  the  hu- 


luour  and  the  metre. 


how  tow  a  new-stamp'd  courtier 


^ 

May  vail  to  a  country  gentleman,}  i.  e.  bow  ;  the  word 
occurs  again,  in  the  same  sense,  a  few  lines  below. 


Nay,  though  he  call  them  cousins,  'tis  the  better, 
His  dignity  no  way  wroug'd  in't. 

Paul.  Here's  a  fine  knave  ! 

Pul.  Does  this  rule  hold  without  exception,  sirrah, 
For  courtiers  in  general  ? 

Mast.  No,  dear  madam, 
For  one  of  the  last  edition  ;  and  for  him 
I  have  composed  a  dictionary,  in  which 
He  is  instructed,  how,  when,  and  to  whom, 
To  be  proud  or  humble;  at  what  times  of  the  year 
He  may  do  a  good  deed  for  itself,  and  that  is 
Writ  in  dominical  letters  ;  all  days  else 
Are  his  own,  and  of  those  days  the  several  hours 
Mark'd  out,  and  to  what  use. 

Pul.  Show  us  your  method  ; 
I  am  strangely  taken  with  it. 

Mast.  'Twill  deserve 
A  pension,  I  hope.     First,  a  strong  cullis 
In  his  bed,  to  heighten  appetite  ;  shuttle-cock, 
To  keep  him  in  breath  when  he  rises  :  tennis  courts 
Are  chargeable,  and  the  riding  of  great  horses  [ones 
Too  boisterous  for  my  young  courtier  ;    let  the  old 
I  think  not  of,  use  it :  next,  his  meditation 
How  to  court  his  mistress,  and  that  he   may  seem 

witty, 

Let  him  be  furnish'd  with  confederate  jests 
Between  him  and  h«  friend,  that,  on  occasion,  [garb 
They  may  vent  them  mutually  :  what  his  pace  and 
Must  be  in  the  presence  ;  then  the  length  of  his  sword 
The  fashion  of  the  hilt — what  the  blade  is 
It  matters  not ;  'twere  barbarism  to  use  it, 
Unless  to  show  his  strength  upon  an  andiron  ; 
Sc,  the  sooner  broke  the  better. 

Pul.  How  I  abuse 

This  precious  time  !     Projector,  I  treat  first 
Of  you  and  your  disciples ;  you  roar  out, 
All  is  the  king's,  his  will  above  his  laws ; 
And  that  fit  tributes  are  too  gentle  yokes 
For  his  poor  subjects  :  whispering  in  his  ear, 
If  he  would  have  their  fear,  no  man  should  dare 
To  bring  a  salad  from  his  country  garden, 
Without  the  paying  gabel*  ;  kill  a  hen, 
Without  excise  :  and  that  if  he  desire 
To  have  his  children  or  his  servants  wear 
Their  heads  upon  their  shoulders,  you  affirm 
In  policy  'tis  fit  the  owner  should 
Pay  for  them  by  the  poll ;  or,  if  the  prince  want 
A  present  sum,  he  may  command  a  city 
Impossibilities,  and  for  non-performance, 
Compel  it  to  submit  to  any  fine 
His  officers  shall  impose.     Is  this  the  way 
To  make  our  emperor  happy  ?  can  the  groans 
Of  his  subjects  yield  him  music  ?  must  his  thresholds 
Be  wash'd  with  widows'  and  wrong'd  orphans'  tears, 
Or  his  power  grow  contemptible? 

Pny.  I  begin 
To  feel  myself  a  rogue  again. 

Pul.  But  you  are 

The  squire  of  dames,  devoted  to  the  service 
Of  gamesome  ladies,  the  hidden  mystery 
Discover'd,  their  close  bawd,  thy  slavish  breath 
Fanning  the  fire  of  lust ;  the  go-between 
This  female  and  that  wanton  sir ;  your  art 


no  man  should  dare 


To  bring  a  taladfrom  his  country  garden, 
Without  the  paying  gabel ;  &c.J  This  spirit  of  imposition 
is  well  touched  on  by  fionne  : 

" shortly,  boys  shall  not  play 

At  span-counter,  or  blow-point,  but    hall  pay 

Toll  to  some  cou-tier."  oat.  IV. 


S90 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Acrl. 


Can  blind  a  jealous  husband,  and.  disguised 

Like  a  milliner  or  shoemaker,  convey 

A  letter  in  a  pantofle  or  glove, 

Without  suspicion,  nay,  at  his  table, 

In  a  case  of  picktooths  ;  you  instruct  them  how 

To  parley  with  their  eyes,  and  make  the  temple 

A  mart  ot'looseness  : — to  discover  all 

Y<mr  subtile  brokages,  were  to  teach  in  public 

Those  private  practices  which  are,  in  justice, 

Severely  to  be  punished. 

Mm.  1  am  cast : 
A  jury  of  my  patronesses  cannot  quit  me. 

Put.   \  ou  are  master  of  the  mariners  and  the  habit ; 
Rather  the  scorn  of  such  as  would  live  men, 
And  not,  like  npe.s,  with  servile  imitation 
Studv  prodigious  fashions.     You  keep 
Intelligence  abroad,  that  may  instruct 
Our  giddy  youth  at  home  what  new-found  fashion 
Is  now  in  use,  swearing  he's  most  complete 
That    first   turns   monster.     Know,  villains,  I  can 

thrust 

This  arm  into  your  hparts,  strip  off  the  flesh 
That  covers  your  deformities,  and  show  you 
In  your  own  nakedness.     Now,  though  the  law 
Call  not  your  follies  death,  you  are  for  ever 
Banisli'd  mv  brother's  court.— Away  with  them; 
1  will  hear  no  reply. 

[Exeunt  Informer,  and  Officers  ivith  the  Projected, 
Minimi  "/'  the  Suburbs,  and  Master  of  the  Hatfit 
mi  i  Manners. 

Enter    abnvf    THEODOSIUS,     PIITLANAX,    TIMANTCS, 
CHHYSAPIUS,  and  GRATIANUS. 

Paul.  What  think  you  now  ? 

Cle.  That  1  am  in  a  dream ;  or  that  I  see 
A  second  I'allas. 

Put.  These  removed,  to  you 

I  clear  my  brow.   Speak  without  fear,  sweet  maid, 
Since,  with  n  mild  aspect,  and  ready  ear, 
I  sit  prepared  to  hear  you. 

Athen.  Know,  great  princess, 
My  father,  though  a  pagan,  was  admired 
For  his  deep  search  into  those  hidden  studies, 
Whose  knowledge  is  denied  to  common  men- 
The  motion,  witu  the  clivers  operations 
Of  the  superior  bodies,  by  his  long 
And  careful  observation  were  made 
Familiar  to  him;  all  the  secret  virtues 
Of  plants  and  simples,  and  in  what  degree 
They  were  useful  to  mankind,  he  could  discourse 

of: 

In  a  word,  conceive  him  as  a  prophet  honour'd 
In  his  own  country.     Hut  being  born  a  man, 
It  lay  not  in  him  to  defer  the  hour 
Of  his  approaching  death,  though  long  foretold  : 
In  this  so  fatal  hour  he  call'd  before  him 
His  txvo  sons  and  myself,  the  dearest  pledges 
Lent  him  by  nature,  and  with  his  right  hand 
Blessing  our  r-eveial  heads,  he  thus  began 

Chr\i.  Mark  his  attention. 

Phil.  Give  me  leave  to  mark  too. 

Athen.   If  I  could  leave  my  understanding  to  you, 
It  were  superfluous  to  make  division 
Of  whatsoever  rise  1  can  bequeath  you; 
liut.  to  avoid  contention,  I  all«t 
An  equal  portion  oj  my  possessions 
To  you,  my  sois ;  but  unto  thee,  my  daughttr. 


Mi/  joy,  my  darling  ("pardon  me,  though  I 
Repeat  his  words),  if  mi]  prophetic  soul, 
Ready  to  take  her  flight,  can  truly  guess  at 
Thif  future  fate,  I  leave  the*  strange  assurance 
Of  the  greatness  tliou  art  born,  to,  rinto  which 
Thy  brothers  shall  be  proud  to  paij  their  service : 

Paul.  And  all  men  else,  that  honour  beautv. 

Theo.  Umph! 

Athen.   Yet, to  prepare  thee  for  that  certain  fortune, 
And  that  I  muiij'rom  present  wants  defend  thee, 
I  leaie  ten  thousand  crowns: — which  said,  being  call'd 
To  the  fellowship  of  our  deities,  he  expired, 
And  with  him  ail  remembrance  of  the  charge 
Concerning  me,  left  by  him  to  my  brothers. 

Put.  Did  they  detain  your  legacy? 

Athen.  And  still  do. 
His  ashes  were  scarce  quiet  in  his  urn, 
When,  in  derision  of  my  future  greatness, 
They  thrust  me  out  of  doors,  denying  me 
One  short,  night's  harbour. 

Pnl.  Weep  not. 

Athen.  I  desire, 

By  your  persuasion,  or  commanding  power, 
The  restitution  of  mine  own;  or  that, 
To  keep  my  frailty  from  temptation, 
In  your  compassion  of  me,  you  would  please, 
I,  as  a  handmaid,  may  be  entertain'd 
To  do  the  meanest  offices  to  all  such 
As  are  honour'd  in  your  service. 

Pul.  Thou  art  welcome. 
What  is  thy  name  ? 

Athen.  The  forlorn  Athenais. 

Pul.  The   sweetness  of  thy  innocence  strangely 
takes  me.  [Takes  her  up,  and  kisses  her* 

Forget  thy  brothers'  wrongs ;  for  I  will  be 
In  my  care  a  mother,  in  my  love  a  sister  to  thee  ; 
And,  wero  it  possible  thou  couldst  be  won 
To  be  of  our  belief 

Paul.  May  it  please  your  excellence, 
That  is  an  easy  task;  I,  though  no  scholar, 
Dare  undertake  it ;  clear  truth  cannot  want 
Rhetorical  persuasions. 

Pul.  '  J'is  a  work, 
My  lord,  will  well  become  you. — Break   up  the 

court : 
May  your  endeavours  prosper  ! 

Paul.  Come,  my  fair  one  ; 
I  hope,  my  convert. 

Athen.  Never  :   I  will  die 
As  I  was  born. 

Paul.  Better  you  ne'er  had  been.  [Exeunt. 

Phil.   What   does   your   majesty  think  of  1 • 

The  maid's  gone. 

Theo.  She's  wondrous   fair,   and  in  her   speech 

appear'd 
Pieces  of  scholarship. 

Chry.  Make  use  of  her  learning 
And   beauty   together ;    on    my   life    she   will   be 

proud 
To  be  so  converted. 

Theo.  From  foul  lust  heaven  guard  me  ! 

[Exeunt. 

/  have  the  strange  aimrance,]  So 

the  old  copy.  The  modern  editors  read— J  leave  thee  itrange 
aixurancf :  but  the  whole  of  this  beautiful  scene  is  vilely  dis- 
graced by  numerous  errors  and  omissions  in  both  the  last 
editions. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


191 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 


Enter    PHILANAX,    TIMANTUS,   CHHYSAPIUS,   and 
GRATIANUS. 

Phil.  We  only  talk,  when  we  should  do 

Tim.  I'll  second  you ; 
Begin,  and  when  you  please. 

Grat.  Be  constant  in  it. 

Chry.  That  resolution  which  grows  cold  to-day, 
Will  freeze  to-morrow. 

Grat.  'Slight,  I  think  she'll  keep  him 
Her  ward  for  ever,  to  herself  engrossing 
The  disposition  of  all  the  favours 
And  bounties  of  the  empire. 

Chry.   We,  that,  by 

The  nearness  of  our  service  to  his  person, 
Should  raise  this  man,  or  pull  down  that,  without 
Her  license  hardly  dare  prefer  a  suit, 
Or  if  we  do,  'tis  cross'd, 

Phil.  You  are  troubled  for 

Your  proper  ends  ;  my  aims  are  high  and  honest. 
The  wrong  that's  done  to  majesty  I  repine  at : 
I  love  the  emperor,  and  'tis  my  ambition 
To  have  him  know  himself,  and  to  that  purpose 
I'Jl  run  the  hazard  of  a  check. 

Grot.  And  I 
The  loss  of  my  place. 

Tim.  I  will  not  come  behind, 
Fall  what  can  fall. 

Chry.  Let  us  put  on  sad  aspects, 
To  draw  him  on  ;  charge  home,  we'll  fetch  you  off, 
Or  lie  dead  by  you. 

Enter  THEODOSIUS. 

Tlteo.  How's  this  ?  clouds  in  the  chamber, 
And  the  air  clear  abroad  ! 

Ptdl.  When  you,  our  sun, 

Obscure  your  glorious  beams,  poor  we,  that  borrow 
Our  little  light  from  you,  cannot  but  suffer 
A  general  eclipse. 

Tim.  Great  sir,  'tis  true ; 
For,  till  you  please  to  know  and  be  yourself, 
And  freely  dare  dispose  of  what's  your  own, 
Without  a  warrant,  we  are  falling  meteors, 
And  not  fix'd  stars. 

Chry.  The  pale-faced  moon,  that  should 
Govern  the  night,  usurps  the  rule  of  day, 
And  still  is  at  the  full  in  spite  of  nature, 
And  will  not  know  a  change. 

Theo.  Speak  you  in  riddles? 
I  am  no  CEdipus.but  your  emperor, 
And  as  such  would  be  instructed. 

Phil.  Your  command 

Shall  be  obey'd  :  till  now,  I  never  heard  you 
Speak  like  yourself;  and  may  that  Power  by  which 
You  are  so,  strike  me  dead,  if  what  (  shall 
Deliver  as  a  faithful  subject  to  you, 
Hath  root  or  growth  from  malice,  or  base  envy 
Of  your  sister's  greatness  !   I  could  honour  in  her 
A  power  subordinate  to  yours ;  but  not. 
As  'tis,  predominant. 

Tim.  Is  it  fit  that  she, 

In  her  birth  your  vassal,  should  command  the  knees 
Of  such  as  should  not  bow  but  to  yourself? 


Grat.  She  with  security  walks  upon  the  heads 
Of  the  nobility  ;  the  multitude, 
As  to  a  deity,  offering  sacrifice 
For  her  grace  and  favour. 

Chry.  Her  proud  feet  even  wearied 
With  the  kisses  of  petitioners. 

Grat.  While  you, 

To  whom  alone  such  reverence  is  proper, 
Pass  unregarded  by  her. 

Tim.  You  have  not  yet 
Been  master  of  one  hour  of  your  whole  life. 

Chry.  Your  will  and  faculties  kept  in  more  awe 
Than  she  can  do  hev  own. 

Phil.  And  as  a  bondman 

(O  let  my  zeal  find  grace,  and  pardon  from  you, 
That  I  descend  so  low),  you  are  design'd 
To  this  or  that  employment,  suiting  well 
A  private  man,  I  grant,  but  not  a  prince. 
To  be  a  perfect  horseman,  or  to  know 
The  words  of  the  chase,  or  a  fair  man  of  arms, 
Or  to  be  able  to  pierce  to  the  depth, 
Or  write  a  comment  on  the  obscurest  poets, 
I  grant  are  ornaments  ;  but  your  main  scope 
Should  be  to  govern  men,  to  guard  your  own, 
If  not  enlarge  your  empire. 

Chry.  You  are  built  up 
By  the  curious  hand  of  nature,  to  revive 
The  memory  of  Alexander,  or  by 
A  prosperous  success  in  your  brave  actions, 
To  rival  Caesar. 

Tim.  Rouse  yourself,  and  let  not 
Your  pleasures  be  a  copy  of  her  will. 

Phil.  Your  pupilage  is  past,  and  manly  actions 
Are  now  expected  from  you. 

Grat.  Do  not  lose 
Your  subjects'  hearts. 

Tim.  What  is't  to  have  the  means 
To  be  magnificent,  and  not  exercise 
The  boundless  virtue? 

Graf.  You  confine  yourself 
To  that  which  strict  philosophy  allows  of, 
As  if  you  were  a  private  man. 

Tim.   No  pomp 

Or  glorious  shows  of  royalty  rendering  it 
Both  loved  and  terrible. 

Grut.  'Sli.lu  !  you  live,  as  it 
Begets  <-ome  doubt,  whether  you  have,  or  not, 
The  abilities  of  a  man. 

Chry.  The  firmament 

Hath  not  more  stars  than  there  are  several  beauties 
Ambitious  at  the  height  to  impart  their  dear 
And  sweetest  favours  to  you. 

Grat.  Yet  you  have  not 

Made  choice  of  one,  of  all  the  sex,  to  serve  you, 
In  a  ph)>ical  way  of  courtship. 

Theo.   But  that  1  would  not 
Begin  the  expression  of  my  being  a  man, 
In  blood,  or  stain  the  first  white  robe  I  wear 
Of  absolute  power,  with  a  servile  imitation 
Of  any  Uraniums  habit,  my  just  anger 
Prompts  me  to  make  you.  in  your  sufferings,  feel, 
And  not  in  words  to  instruct  you,  that  the  license 
Of  tin-  loose  and  saucy  language  you  now  practised 
Hath  forfeited  your  heads. 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Acr.  II. 


Graf.  How's  this ! 
Phil.  1  know  not 

What  the  play  may  prove,  but  I  assure  you  that 
I  do  not  like  the  prologue. 

Theo.  O  the  miserable 

Condition  of  a  prince  ;  who,  though  he  vary 
More  shapes  than  Proteus,  in  his  mind  and  manners, 
He  cannot  win  an  universal  suffrage 
From  the  many-headed  monster,  multitude! 
Like  .<Esop's  foolish  frogs,  they  trample  on  him 
As  a  senseless  block,  if  his  government  be  easy  ; 
And,  if  he  prove  a  stork,  they  croak  and  rail 
Against  him  as  a  tyrant.     I  will  put  off 
That  majesty,  of  which  you  think  I  have 
Nor  use  nor  feeling  ;  and  in  arguing  with  you, 
Convince  you  with  strong  proofs  of  common  reason, 
And    not    with    absolute    power,    against    which, 

wretches, 

You  are  not  to  dispute.     Dar»  YOU,  that  are 
My  creatures,  by  my  prodigal  favours  fashion'd, 
Presuming  on  the  nearness  of  your  service, 
Set  off  with  my  familiar  acceptance, 
Condemn  my  obsequiousness  to  the  wise  directions 
Of  an  incomparable  sister,  whom  all  parts 
Of  our  world,  that  are  made  happy  in  the  knowledge 
Of  her  perfections,  with  wonder  gaze  on  ? 
And  yet  you,  that  were  only  born  to  eat 
The  blessings  of  our  mother  earth,  that  are 
Distant  but  one  degree  from  beasts  (since  slaves 
Can  claim  no  larger  privilege),  that  know- 
No  further  than  your  sensual  appetites, 
Or  wanton  lusts,  have  taught  you,  undertake 
To  give  your  sovereign  laws  to  follow  that 
Your  ignorance  marks  out  to  him  !  [Walk*  by. 

Grat.  How  were  we 
Abused  in  our  opinion  of  his  temper  ! 

Phil.  We  had  forgot  'tis  found  in  holy  writ, 
That  kings'  hearts  are  inscrutable. 

Tim.  I  ne'er  read  it ; 
Mv  study  lies  not  that  way. 

'Phil.  By  his  looks, 
The  tempest  still  increases. 

Theo.  Am  I  grown 

So  stupid  in  your  judgments,  that  you  dare, 
With  su<  h  security  offer  violence 
To  sacred  majesty  ?  will  you  not  know 
The  lion  is  a  lion  though  he  show  not 
His  rending  paws,  or  fill  the  affrighted  air 

With  the   thunder  of  his  roarings  ? You  bless'd 

saints, 

How  am  I  trenched  on !     Is  that  temperance 
So  famous  in  your  cited  Alexander, 
Or  Roman  Scipio,  a  crime  in  me  ? 
Cannot  I  be  an  emperor,  unless 
Your  wives  and  daughters  bow  to  my  proud  lusts  1 
And,  cause  I  ravish  not  their  fairest  buildings 
And  fruitful  vineyards,  or  what  is  dearest,    = 
From  such  as  are  my  vassals,  must  you  conclude 
I  do  not  know  the  awful  power  and  strength 
Of  my  prerogative  ?     Am  I  close-handed," 
Because  I  scatter  not  among  you  that 
I  must  not  call  mine  own  ?  know,  you  court-leeches, 
A  prince  is  never  so  magnificent* 


As  when  he's  sparing  to  enrich  a  few 

With  the  injuries  of  many.     Could  your  hopes 

So  grossly  flatter  you,  as  to  believe 

I  was  born  and  train'd  up  as  an  emperor,  only 

In  my  indulgence  to  give  sanctuary, 

In  their  unjust  proceedings,  to  the  rapine 

And  avarice  of  my  grooms? 

Phil.  In  the  true  mirror 
Of  your  perfections,  at  length  we  see 
Our  own  deformities. 

Tim.  And  not  once  daring 
To  look  upon  that  majesty  we  now  slighted 

Chry.  With  our  faces  thus  glued  to  the  earth,  we 
beg 

Your  gracious  pardon. 

Grat.  Offering  our  necks 
To  be  trod  on,  as  a  punishment  for  our  late 
Presumption,  and  a  willing  testimony 
Of  our  subjection. 

Theo.  Deserve  our  mercy 
In  your  better  life  hereafter ;  you  shall  find, 
Though,  in  my  father's  life*,  I  held  it  madness 
To  usurp  his  power,  and  in  my  youth  disdain'd  not 
To  learn  from  the  instructions  of  my  sister, 
I'll  make  it  good  to  all  the  world  I  am 
An  emperor  ;  and  even  this  instant  grasp 
The  sceptre,  my  rich  stock  of  majesty 
Entire,  no  scruple  wasted. 

Phil.  If  these  tears 

I  drop  proceed  not  from  my  joy  to  hear  this, 
May  my  eyeballs  follow  them  ! 

Tim.  I  will  show  myself, 
By  your  sudden  metamorphosis,  transformed 
From  what  I  was. 

Grat.  And  ne'er  presume  to  ask 
What  fits  not  you  to  give. 

Tfieo.  Move  in  that  sphere, 

And  my  light  with  full  beams  shall  shine  upon  you. 
Forbear  this  slavish  courtship,  'tis  to  me 
In  a  kind  idolatrous. 

Phil.  Your  gracious  sister. 

Enter  PULCHEBIA,  and  Servantf. 

Pul.  Has  he  converted  her? 
Serv.  And,  as  such,  will 
Present  her,  when  you  please. 
Pul.  1  am  glad  of  it. 


-— know,  you  court-leechet, 


A  prince  it  never  to  magnificent 

At  whm  he's  tpariny  to  enrich,  &c.]  There  is  a  peculiarity 
in  the  use  of  this  word,  which  cannot  have  escaped  the 
reader's  notice.  In  Massinger  it  constantly  stands  for 
tnunifici-nt,  of  which  several  instances  have  already  oc 
•nirred  :  thus,  in  The  Duke  of  Milan  : 

\ 


"  Yet,  not  to  take 
From  others  to  give  only  to  myself, 
I  will  not  hinder  your  magnificence 
To  my  commanders."     Act  III.  Sc.  I. 
Again,  in  The  Renegado  : 

"  How  !ike  a  royal  merchant,  to  return 
_  Yon  great  magnificence."    Act.  II.  Sc.  4. 
Again,  in  The  Parliament  of  Love,  Dinaut  upon  Novall'i 
giving  him  his  purse,  exclaims, 

"  You  are  too  magnifictnt."    Act  IV.  Sc.  1. 
And  in  several  other  places. 

*  Though  in  my  father's  life,  I  held  it  madnett 
To  usurp  Ma  power,]  We  must  not  look  for  any  very 
rigid  adherence  to  dates  in  these  historical  dramas ;  a  few 
prominent  facts  were  generally  seized  on  ;  and  if  these  were 
distributed  among  the  real  actors,  it  was  all  the  poet  aimed 
at,  and  all  his  audience  expected.  At  the  death  of  Arcadius, 
Theodosius  was  a  child  of  seven  years  old,  and  was  more 
likely  to  have  passed  his  time  in  youthful  games  with  the 
women,  lhau  to  have  thought  of  dethroning  "his  father.  At 
the  period  of  (his  scene,  he  was  in  his  twentieth  year. 
Pulcheria  was  two  or  three  years  older. 

t  Enter  PULCHERIA,  and  Servant.]  To  the  speeches  of 
the  latter,  Mar.  is  prefixed  instead  of  Sen.;  and  the  going 
out  is  Exit  Mart.  There  is  no  name  of  this  kind  among 
the  dramatis  personse  :  perhaps  it  was  that  of  the  per 
former. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


293 


Command  my  dresser  to  adorn  her  with 
The  robes  that  I  gave  order  for. 
Serv.  I  shall. 

Put.  And  let  those  precious  jewels  I  took  last 
Out  of  my  cabinet,  ift  be  possible, 
Give  lustre  to  her  beauties  ;  and,  that  done, 
Command  her  to  be  near  us. 

Serv.  'Tis  a  province 
I  willingly  embrace.  [Eaif. 

Pul.  (J  my  dear  sir, 

You  have  forgot  your  morning  task,  and  therefore, 
With  a  mother's  love,  I  come  to  reprehend  you  ; 
But  it  shall  be  gently. 

Theo.  'Twill  become  you,  though 
You  said,  with  reverend  duty.     Know  hereafter, 
If  my  mother  lived  in  you,  howe'er  her   son, 
Like  you  she  were  my  subject. 
Put.  How! 
Theo.  Put  off 

Amazement ;  you  will  find  it.     Yet  I'll  hear  you 
At  distance,  as  a  sister,  but  no  longer 
As  a  governess,  I  assure  you. 
Grat.  This  is  put  home. 
Tim.  Beyond  our  hopes. 
Phil.  She  stands  as  if  his  words 
Had  powerful  magic  in  them. 

Thro.   Will  you  have  me 
Your  pupil  ever !  the  down  on  my  chin 
Confirms  I  am  a  man,  a  man  of  men, 
The  emperor,  that  knows  his  strength. 

Pul.  Heaven  grant 
You  know  it  not  too  soon  ! 

Theo.  Let  it  suffice 

My  wardship's  out.     If  your  design  concerns  us 
As  a  man,  and  not  a  boy,  with  our  allowance 
You  may  deliver  it. 

Put.  A  strange  alteration  ! 
But  I  will  not  contend.     Be  as  you  wish,  sir, 
Your  own  disposer  ;  uncompell'd  I  cancel 
yill  bonds  of  my  authority.  [Kneels. 

Theo.   You  in  this 

Pay  your  due  homage,  which  perform'd,  I  thus 
Embrace   you   as  a    sister;    [Raises  /!«/•.]    no   way 

doubting 

Your  vigilance  for  my  safety  as  my  honour; 
And  what  you  now  come  to  impart,  I  rest 
Most  confident,  points  at  one  of  them. 

Pul.  At  both  ; 

And  not  alone  the  present,  but  the  future 
Tranquillity  of  your  mind  ;  since  in  the  choice 
Of  her  you  are  to  heat  with  holy  fires. 
And  make  the  consort  of  your  royal  bed, 
The  certain  means  of  glorious  succession, 
With  the  true  happiness  of  our  human  being, 
Are  wholly  comprehended. 

Theo.  How  !  a  wife  ? 
Shall  I  become  a  votary  to  Hymen, 
Before  my  youth  hath  sacrificed  to  Venus? 
'Tis  something  with  the  soonest: — yet,  to  show, 
In  things  indifferent,  I  am  not  averse 
To  your  wise  counsels,  let  me  first  survey 
Those  beauties,  that,  in  being  a  prince,  I  know 
Are  rivals  for  me.     You  will  not  confine  me 
To  your  election  ;  I  must  see,  dear  sister, 
With  mine  own  eyes. 

Pul.  'Tis  fit,  sir.     Yet  in  this, 
You  may  please  to  consider,  absolute  princes 
Have,  or  should  have,  in  policy,  less  free  will 
Than  such  as  are  their  vassals  :  for,  you  must, 
As  you  are  an  emperor  in  this  high  business 
22 


Weigh  with  due  providence*  with  whom  alliantva 
May  be  most  useful  for  the  preservation 
Or  increase  of  your  empire. 

Then.  I  approve  not 
Such  compositions  for  our  moral  ends, 
In  n  hat  is  in  itself  divine,  nay,  more, 
Decreed  in  heaven.    Yet,  if  our  neighbour  princes, 
Ambitious  of  such  nearness,  shall  present 
Their  dearest  pledges  to  me  (ever  reserving 
The  caution  of  mine  own  content^,  I  will  ncf 
Contemn  their  courteous  offers. 

Pul.  Bring  in  the  pictures. 

[Two  pictures  brought  in. 

Tlieo.  Must  I  then  judge  the  substances  by  the 

shadows  ? 

The  painters  are  most  envious,  if  they  want 
Good  colours  for  preferment :  virtuous  ladies 
Love  this  way  to  be  flattered,  and  accuse 
The  workman  of  detraction,  if  he  had  not 
Some  grace  they  cannot  truly  call  their  own. 
Is't  not  so,  Gratianus  ?  you  may  challeng* 
Some  interest  in  the  science. 

Grat.  A  pretender 

To  the  art,  1  truly  honour  and  subscribe 
To  your  majesty's  opinion, 

Theo.  Let  me  see [Reads. 

Cleanthe,  daughter  to  the  king  of  Epire, 
sEtatii  sute,  the  fourteenth  :  ripe  enough, 
And  forward  too,  I  assure  you.     Let  me  examine 
The  symmetries.     If  statuaries  could 
By  the  foot  of  Hercules  set  down  punctually 
His  whole  dimensions,  and  the  countenance  be 
The  index  of  the  mind'J  this  may  instruct  me, 
With  the  aids  of  that  I've  read  touching  this  sub- 
ject, 

What  she  is  inward.     The  colour  of  her  hair, 
If  it  be,  as  this  does  promise,  pale  and  faint, 
And  not  a  glistering  white  :   her  hrow,  so  so  ; 
The  circles  of  her  sight,  too  much  contracted  ; — 
Juno's  fair  cow-eyes  by  old  Homer  are 
Commended  to  their  merit'  :  here's  a  sharp  frost, 
In  the  tip  of  her  nose,  which,  by  the  length,  assures  me 
Of  storms  at  midnight,  if  I  fail  to  pay  her 
The  tribute  she  expects,     i  like  her  not : 
What  is  the  other  ? 

Chry.  How  hath  he  commenced 
Doctor  in  this  so  sweet  and  secret  art, 
Without  our  knowledge-)-? 

Tim.  Some  of  his  forward  pages 
Have  robbed  us  of  the  honour. 


*  Juno's  fair  cow-eyes  by  old  Homer  are 

Commended  to  their  merit:]  Massinger  seems  pleased 
with  this  version  of  GowiriQ,  lor  lie  has  it  in  other  places. 
It  is  however  so  uncouth  a  translation,  that,  to  use  the  lan- 
guage of  the  author's  time,  the  ladies,  1  suspect,  "  conned 
him  little  thanks  for  it."  Homer's  peace  is  easily  made  : 
we  may  venlureto  affirm  that  in  applying  the  epithet  to  liis 
goddess,  he  thought  as  little  of  likening  her  ejes  to  a  cow'?, 
as  to  those  of  any  other  animal  :  lie  merely  meant  large  or 
rather  full  eyes:  'Ojjjjpoc.  fvSt^aQ^ai  gaXo/ifJ'OC  oif 
titicav  o^a\[j.oi  ry  Hpp  icaXot  re  /uyaXot  Tt, 
BOQIIIN  CIVTTJV  fKaXeat.  LIBAX.  So  the  word 
should  be  translated,  and  so,  indeed,  it  is  translated  by 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  in  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen. 

t  Chry.  How  hath  he  commenced 
Doctor  in  this  so  sweet  and  lecret  art  ; 
Without  our  knowledge?}    Thus  Fletcher: 

"  Come,  doctor  Andrew,  without  disputation 
Thou  shall  commence  in  the  cellar."   The  Elder  Brother. 
This  fondness   lor  the   introduction  of  college  language  Ii», 
been  already  noticed. 


894 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  ESAT. 


[Acr  II. 


Phil.  No  such  matter 
He  has  the  theory  only,  not  the  practick*. 

Theo.  [reads.]  Arnasia,  sister  to  the  Duke  of  Athens  ; 
Her  age  eighteen,  descended  lineally 
From  Theseus,  as  fti/  her  pedigree 
Will  be  made  apparent.     Of  his  lusty  kindred, 
And  lose   so  much   time!   'tis  strange!  —  as   I  live, 
A  philosophical  aspect  ;  there  is  [she  hath 

More  wit  than  beauty  in  her  face  ;  and  when 
I  court  her,  it  must  be  in  tropes,  and  figures, 
Or  she  will  cry,  Absurdf  !  she  will  have  her 

elenchsf 

To  cut  oft'  any  fallacy  I  can  hope 
To  put  upon  her,  and  expect  I  should 
Ever  conclude  in  syllogisms,  and  those  true  ones 
In  parte  et  toto  ;  or  she'll  tire  me  with 
Her  tedious  elocutions  in  the  praise  of 
The  increase  of  generation,  for  which 
Alone,  the  sport,  in  her  morality, 
Is  good  and  lawful,  and  to  be  often  practised 
For  fear  of  missing.     Fie  on't  !  let  the  race 
Of  Theseus  be  match'd  with  Aristotle's  : 
I'll  none  of  her. 

Pul.  You  are  curious  in  your  choice,  sir, 
And  hard  to  please  ;  yet,  if  that  your  consent 
May  give  authority  to  it,  I'll  present  you 
With  one  that,  if  her  birth  and  fortunes  answer 
The  rarities^  of  her  body  and  her  mind, 
Detraction  durst  not  tax  her. 

Theo.  Let  me  see  her. 

Though  wanting  those  additions,  which  we  can 
Supply  from  our  own  store  :  it  is  in  us 
To  make  men  rich  and  noble  ;  but  to  give 
Legitimate  shapes  and  virtues  does  belong 
To  the  great  Creator  of  them,  to  whose  bounties 
Alone  'tis  proper,  and  in  this  disdains 
An  emperor  for  his  rival. 

Pul.  I  applaud 

This  fit  acknowledgment  ;  since  princes  then 
Grow  less  than  common  men,  when  they  contend 
With  him,  by  whom  they  are  so. 

Enter  PAULINUS,  CLEON,  and  ATHENAIS  richly  habited. 
Theo.  I  confess  it 


*  He  htu  the  theory  only,  not  the  practick.]  Mr.  M. 
Mason  reads  practice.  All  the  copies  that  I  have  consulted, 
and  1  have  consulted  several,  concur  in  giving  practick: 
and  this  was  the  language  of  Massinger's  age. 

Or  the  will  cry,  Absurd  .']  Theodosius  is  here  got  into 
Ins  logical  phraseology.  A  bsurde  facii,  orabgurdecollims,  is 
a  term  nsud  in  disputation,  when  false  conclusions  are  drawn 
S-rmi.!j  "PP0"6"1'8  premises.  The  expression  occurs  in 
J  he  hfder  Brother  :  "Do  they  (i.  e.  "  academics") 
Do  they  know  any  thing  but  a  tired  hackney  7 

A";!,"",'1  &*!*?•  Absurd!  as  Ihe  horse  nnderstood  them." 
1  lit*  1  heobald  calls  nonsense  :  it  is,  however.the  absurde  facia 
of  the  schools;  and  is  meant  to  ridicule  that  perverse  and 
awkward  pedantry  which  applies  the  language  of  art  to  the 
trifling  occurrences  of  common  Hie. 

She  will  have  her  clenchs]  So  the  old  copy  :  ,  poor 
Coxeter,  who  seems  to  have  forgotten  his  logick,  as  well  as 
his  Greek,  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  this  word,  altered 
it  to  clenches!  the  most  unfortunate  term  that  he  could  have 
chosen.  Mr.  M.  Mason,  very  much  to  the  credit  of  his 
"  accuracy,"  continued  the  blunder,  of  course;  though  how 
a  clench,  of  which  the  property  is  to  fix  or  con/imf  an  ar- 
gument, is  to  destroy  it,  he  did  not  think  proper  to  enquire. 
Blench  (from  t\«y^o>)  is  a  sophistical  refutation  of  a  po- 
•ilioti  maintained  by  an  opponent. 

<  With  one  that,  if  her  birth  and  fortune  answer 

The  raritict,  &c.  |    So  read  the  old  copies,  and   so  reads 

Coxeter  :  for  answer  Mr    M.  Mason,  to  spoil  a   pretty  pas- 

sage, chooses  t'J   print    answer'd  f   but  indeed    he  has    cor- 

rupted all  this  scene  ;  in  the  next  speech,  for  our  own  itorg, 

has  our  itore,  which  utterly  subverts  the  melie. 


Pul.  Not  to  hold  you    in  suspence,  behold  the 

virgin, 

Rich  in  her  natural  beauties,  no  way  borrowing 
The  adulterate  aids  of  art.     Peruse  her  better  j 
She's  worth  your  serious  view. 

Phil.  1  am  amazed  too  : 
I  never  saw  her  equal. 

Grat.  Plow  bis  eye 
Is  fix'd  upon  her  ! 

Tim.  And,  as  she  were  a  fort 
He'd  suddenly  surprise,  he  measures  her 
From  the  bases  to  the  battlements. 

Chry.  Ha!  now  I  view  her  better, 
I  know  her ;  'tis  the  maid  that  not  long  sine* 
Was  a  petitioner  ;  her  bravery 
So  alters  her,  1  had  forgot  her  face 

Phil.  So  has  the  emperor. 

Paul.  She  holds  out  yet, 
And  yields  not  to  the  assault. 

Cle.  She's  strongly  guarded 
In  her  virgin  blushes. 

Paul.  When  you  know,  fair  creature, 
It  is  the  emperor  that  honours  you 
With  such  a  strict  survey  of  your  sweet  parts, 
In  thankfulness  you  cannot  but  return 
Due  reverence  for  the  favour. 

Athen.  I  was  lost 

In  my  astonishment  at  the  glorious  object, 
And  yet  rest  doubtful  whether  he  expects, 
Being  more  than  man,  my  adoration, 
Since  sure  there  is  divinity  about  him  : 
Or  will  rest  satisfied,  if  my  humble  knees 
In  duty  thus  bow  to  him. 

Theo.  Ha  !  it  speaks. 

Pul.  She  is  no  statue,  sir. 

Theo.  Suppose  her  one, 

And  that  she  had  nor  organs,  voice,  nor  heat, 
Most  willingly  1  would  resign  my  empire, 
So  it  might  be  to  aftertimes  recorded 
That  I  was  her  Pygmalion  ;  though  like  him, 
I  doted  on  my  workmanship,  without  hope  too 
Of  having  Cytherea  so  propitious 
To  my  vows  or  sacrifice,  in  her  compassion 
To  give  it  life  or  motion. 

Put.  Pray  you,  be  not  rapt  so, 
Nor  borrow  from  imaginary  fiction 
Impossible  aids:  she's  flesh  and  blood,  I  assure  you  : 
And  if  you  please  to  honour  her  in  the  trial, 
And  be  your  own  security,  as  you'll  find 
I  fable  not,  she  comes  in  a  noble  way 
To  be  at  your  devotion. 

Chry.  'Tis  the  maid 

I  offer'd  to  your  highness;  her  changed  shape 
ConceaFd  her  from  you. 

Theo.  At  the  first  I  knew  her, 
And  a  second  firebrand  Cupid  brings,  to  kindle 
My  flames  almost  put  out:  I  am  too  cold, 
And  play  with  opportunity. — May  I  taste  then 
The    nectar  of  her  lip? — [/usses  her.~\ — I  do   not 

give  it 

The  praise  it  merits :  antiquity  is  too  poor 
To  help  me  with  a  simile  to  express  her  : 
Let  me  drink  often  from  this  living  spring, 
To  nourish  new  invention. 

PuL  Do  not  surfeit 
fn  over-greedily  devouring  that 
Which  may  without  satiety  fenst  you  often. 
From  the  moderation  in  receiving  them. 
The  choicest  viands  do  continue  pleasing 
To  the  most  curious  palates.     If  you  think  her 


SctNE  I.I 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


295 


Worth  your  embraces,  and  the  sovereign  title 

Of  the  Grecian  Empress 

Theo.  If !  how  much  you  sin, 
Only  to  doubt  it;  the  possession  of  her 
Makes  all  that  was  before  most  precious  to  me, 
Common  and   cheap:   in  this  you've  shown  yourself 
A  provident  protectress.     I  already 
Grow  weary  of  the  absolute  command 
Of  my  so  numerous  subjects,  and  desire 
No  sovereignty  but  here,  and  write  down  gladly 
A  period  to  my  wishes. 

Pul.  Yet,  before 

It  be  »oo  late,  consider  her  condition  ; 
Her  father  was  a  pagan,  she  herself 
A  new-converted  Christian. 

Theo.  Let  me  know 

The  man  to  whose  religious  means  I  owe 
So  great  a  debt 

Paul.  You  are  advanced  too  high,  sir, 
To  acknowledge  a  beholdingness  ;  'tis  discharged, 
And  I  bevond  my  hopes  rewarded,  if 
My  service  please  your  majesty. 

Theo.  Take  this  pledge 
Of  our  assured  love.     Are  there  none  here 
Have  suits  to  prefer  ?  on  such  a  day  as  this 

Mv  bounty's  without  limit.     O  my  dearest! 

I  will  not  hear  thee  speak  ;  whatever  in 
Thy  thoughts  is  apprehended,  I  grant  freely : 
Thou  wouldst  plead  thy  unworthiness.     By  thyself, 
The  magazine  of  felicity,  in  thy  lowness 
Our  eastern  queens,  at  their  full  height,  bow  to  thee, 
And  are,  in  their  best  trim,  thy  foils  ana  siiadows ! 
Excuse  the  violence  of  my  love,  which  canno: 
Admit  the  least  delay.     Command  the  patriarch 
\Viih  speed  to  do  his  holy  office  for  us, 

That,  w  hi  n  we  are  made  one 

/•*((/.   You  must  forbear,  sir  ; 
She  is  not  yet  baptized. 
Theo.   In  the  same  hour 


In  which  she  is  confirmed  in  our  faith. 
We  mutually  will  give  away  each  other, 
And  both  be  gainers  ;  we'll  hear  no  reply 
That  may  divert  us.     On. 

Pul.  You  may  hereafter 
Please  to  remember  to  whose  furtherance 
You  owe  this  height  of  happiness. 

Athen.  As  I  was 

Your  creature  when  I  first  pe'.ition'd  you, 
I  will  continue  so,  and  you  shall  find  me, 
Though  an  empress,  still  your  servant. 

[All  go  off*   but  'Philanax    Gratianut,    and 
Timantus. 

Grat.  Here's  a  marriage 
Made  up  o*  the  sudden  ! 

Phil.  I  repine  not  at 

The  fair  maid's  fortune,  though  I  fear  the  princess 
Had  some  peculiar  end  in't. 

Tim.  Who's  so  simple 
Only  to  doubt  it? 

Grat.  It  is  too  apparent ; 
She  hath  preferr'd  a  creature  of  her  own, 
By  whose  means  she  may  still  keep  to  herself 
The  government  of  the  empire. 

Tim.  Whereas,  if 

The  emperor  had  espoused  some  neighbour  queen, 
Pulcheria,  with  all  her  wisdom,  could  not 
Keep  her  pre-eminence. 

Phil.  Be  it  as  it  will, 

'Tis  not  now  to  be  alter'd.     Heaven,  I  say, 
Turn  all  to  the  best ! 

Grat.  Are  we  come  to  praying  again  '.' 

Phil.  Leave  thy  profaneness. 

Grut.  Would  it  would  leave  mef! 
I  am  sure  I  thrive  not  by  it. 

Tim.   Come  to  the  temple. 

Grat.  Even  where  you  will — I  know  not  what  to 
think  on't.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  T.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  PAUMNUS  and  PHILANAX. 

Pmd.    Nor  this,    nor  the   age  before  us,  ever 

look'd  on 
The  like  solemnity. 

Phil.  A  sudden  fever 

Kept  me  at  home.     Pray  you,  my  lord,  acquaint  me 
With  the  particulars. 

Paul    You  may  presume 
No  pomp  nor  ceremony  could  be  wanting, 
Where  there  was  privilege  to  command,  and  means 
To  cherish  ran-  inventions. 

Phil.  I  believe  it; 
Bur  the  sum  of  all  in  brief. 

Paul.  Pray  you,  so  take  it : 
Fair  Athenais,  not  long  since  a  suitor, 
And  utmost  in  her  hopes  forsaken,  first 
Was  christen'd,  and  the  emperor's  mother's  name, 
Eudocia.  as  he  will'd,  imposed  upon  her; 
Pulcheria,  thf  ever-matchless  princess, 
Assisted  by  her  reverend  aunt  Maria, 
Her  gidmothers. 


Phil.  And  who  the  masculine  witness}? 

Paul.  At  the  new  empress'  suit,  I  had  the  honour ; 
For  which  I  must  ever  serve  her. 

Phil.  'Twas  a  grace 
With  justice  you  may  boast  of. 


•  All  go  off  but  Philanax,  &c.]  So  the  old  copies.  Coxeter, 
to  let  "  his  reading  and  writing  appear,"  translates  it  into 
Latin  an. I  piints.  X//exit  but  Philanax, &c.,  and  the  most 
correct  of  editors  follows  him ! 

t  Would  it  would  leave  me !]  So  the  old  copy  :  the 
modern  <-ditors,  without  regard  to  sense  or  metre,  read, 
If'ould  it  leave  me 

%  I'hil.  And  who  the  masculine  witness  T  And  who  the 
male,  tponinr .'  So  the  word  is  frequently  twd  by  our 
author  iind  I  is  contemporaries,  in  ridicule,  as  it  should  seem, 
of  the  puritans.  Tim-  Jonson  : 

"  And  that,  as  puritans  at  baptism  do,  4 

Thou  art  the  father  and  the  ttilnea  too."     Epig.  4. 
Again  : 

Quar.  His  Christian-name  is  Zeal-of-the-land  T 

l,it.  Yes,  sir,  Zeal-of-the-land  Busy. 

II  in-ii .  How  !  what  a  name's  there  ! 

Lit.  O,  they  have  all  such  names,  sir:  he  was  ttitnru  tot 
Win,  here,— l"hey  will  not  be  called  godfather*. 

Bartholomew  fair. 


296 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Acr  III. 


Paul.  The  marriage  follow'd  ; 
And,  as  'tis  said,  the  emperor  made  bold 
To  turn  the  day  to  night ;   for  to  bed  they  went 
As  soon  as  they  had  (lined,  and  there  are  wagers 
Laid  by  some  merry  lords,  he  hath  already 
Begot  a  boy  upon  her. 

Phil.  That  is  yet 

To  be  determined  of;  but  I  am  certain 
A  prince,  so  soon  in  his  disposition  alter'd. 
Was  never  heard  nor  read  of. 

Paul.  But  of  late, 

Frugal  and  sparing,  now  nor  bounds  nor  limits 
To  his  magnificent  bounties.     He  affirm'd, 
Having  received  more  blessings  by  his  empress 
Than  he  could  hope,  in  thankfulness  to  heaven 
He  cannot  be  too  prodigal  to  others. 
Whatever's  ofier'd  to  his  roy.il  hand, 
He  signs  without  perusing  it. 

Phil.  I  am  here 

Enjoin'd  to  free  all  such  as  lie  for  debt, 
The  creditors  to  be  paid  out  of  his  coffers. 

Paul.  And  I  all  malefactors  that  are  not 
Convicted  or  for  treason  or  foul  murder; 
Such  only  are  excepted. 

Phil.  Tis  a  rare  clemency  ! 

Paul.  Which  we  must  not  dispute,  but  put  in 
practice.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — Another  Room  in  the  tame. 

Loud  Music.  Shouts  within:  Heaven  preserve  the 
Emperor!  Heaven  bless  the  Empress!  Then 
enter  in  state ,  the  Patriarch,  CIIRYSAI-IUS,  PAUII- 
NUS,  THEODOSIUS,  EUDOCIA,  PULCHERIA  ;  ARCADIA 
and  FLACCILLA,  bearing  up  EUDOCIA'S  train  ;  followed 
by  PHILANAX,  GHATIANUS,  nut TiMANlWh  Several 
Suitors  present  petitions  to  the  Emperor,  which  he 
seals. 

Paul.  Sir,  by  your  own  rules  of  philosophy , 
You  know  things  violent  last  not.    Royal  bounties 
Are  great  and  gracious,  while  they  are  dispensed, 
With  moderation  ;  but,  when  their  excess 
*-  giving  giant-bulks  to  others,  takes  from 
The  prince's  just  proportion,  they  lose 
The  name  of  virtues,  and,  their  natures  changed, 
Grow  the  most  dangerous  vices. 

Theo.  In  this,  sister, 

Your  wisdom  is  not  circular*;  they  that  sow 
In  narrow  bounds,  cannot  expect  in  reason 
A  crop  beyond  their  ventures  :  what  I  do 
Disperse,  I  lend,  and  will  with  usury 
Return  unto  my  heap.     I  only  then 
Am  rich  and  happy  (though  my  coffers  sound 
With  emptiness)  when  my  giad  subjects  feel 
Their  plenty  and  felicity  is  my  gift ; 
And  they  will  find,  when  they  with  cheerfulness 
Supply  not  my  defects,  I  being  the  stomach 
To  the  politic  body  of  the  state,  the  limbs 
Grow  suddenly  faint  and  feeble  :  I  could  urge 
Proofs  of  more  fineness  in  their  shape  and  language, 
But  none  of  greater  strength. —  Dissuade  me  not ; 
What  we  will,  we  will  do  ;  yet,  to  assure  you 
Your  care  does  not  offend  us,  for  an  hour 
Be  happy  in  the  converse  of  my  best 
And  dearest  comfort.     May  you  please  to  license 
My  privacy  some  few  minutes  ? 

•  Theo.  In  f  Ait,  titter, 

Your ititdom  it   not  circular;]      A  pedantic  expression 
worthy  of  Johnson  :  Your  wisdom  is  nut  fit  1 1  and  perfect. 


Eud.  License,  sir  ! 

I  have  no  will  but  is  derived  from  yours, 
And  that  still  waits  upon  you  ;  nor  can  I 
Be  left  with  such  security  with  any 
As  with  the  gracious  princess,  who  receives 
Addition,  though  she  he  all  excellence, 
In  being  styled  your  sister. 

Theo.  O  sweet  creature  ! 
Let  me  be  censured  fond,  and  too  indulgent, 
Nay,  though  they  say  uxorious,  I    care  not — 
Her  love  and  sweet  humility  exact 
A  tribute  far  above  my  power  to  pay 
Her  matchless  goodness.     Forward. 

[Flourish.    Exeunt  all  but  Pulcheria,  Eudocia, 
Arcadia,  and  Flaccilla.'] 

Pul.  Now  you  find 

Your  dying  father's  prophecy,  that  foretold 
Your  present  greatness,  to  the  full  accomplished, 
For  the  poor  aids  and  furtherance  I  lent  you 
I  willingly  forget. 

Eud.  Even  that  binds  me 
To  a  more  strict  remembrance  of  the  favour ; 
Nor  shall  you,  from  my  foul  ingratitude, 
In  any  circumstance,  ever  find  cause 
To  upbraid  me  with  your  benefit. 

Pul.  I  believe  so. 
Pray  you  give  us  leave  : — [Arcadia  and  Flaccilla  walk 

uiide.]  —  What  now  I  must  deliver 
Under  the  deepest  seal  of  secrecy, 
Though  it  be  for  your  good,  will  give  assurance 
Of  what  is  look'd  for,  if  you  not  alone 
Hear,  but  obey  my  counsels. 

Eud.  They  must  be 

Of  a  strange  nature,  if  with  zealous  speed 
I  put  them  not  in  practice. 

Pul.  "T  were  impertinence 
To  dwell  on  circumstances,  since  the  wound 
Requires  a  sudden  cure  ;  especially 
Since  you,  that  are  the  happy  instrument 
Elected  to  it,  though  young,  in  your  judgment 
Write  far  above  your  years,  and  may  instruct 
Such  as  are  more  experienced. 

End.  Good  madam, 
In  this  1  must  oppose  you  :  I  am  well 
Acquainted  with  my  weakness,  and  it  will  not 
Become  your  wisdom,  by  which  I  am  raised 
To  this  titulary  height,  that  should  correct 
The  pride  and  overweening  of  my  fortune, 
To  play  the  parasite  to  it,  in  ascribing 
That  merit  to  me,  unto  which  1  can 
Pretend  no  interest :  pray  you,  excuse 
My  bold  simplicity,  and  to  my  weight 
Design  me  where  you  please,  and  you  shall  find, 
In  my  obedience,  1  am  still  your  creature. 

Pul.  'Tis  nobly  answer'd,  and  I  glory  in 
The  building  I  have  raised  :  go  on,  sweet  lady, 
In  this  your  virtuous  progress  :  but  to  the  point. 
You  know,  nor  do  I  envy  it,  you  have 
Acquired  that  power  which,  not  long  since  was  mine, 
In  governing  the  emperor,  and  must  use 
The  strength  you  hold  in  the  heart  of  his  affections, 
For  his  private,  as  the  public  preservation, 
To  which  there  is  no  greater  enemy 
Than  his  exorbitant  prodigality, 
Howe'er  his  sycophants  and  flatterers  call  it 
Royal  magnificence  ;  and  though  you*  may 

• •  and  though  you  may}    So  the  old  copies, 

and  rightly  :  the  modern  editors  read— and  thouylt  he  may  ; 
which  absolutely  destroys  the  author's  meaning. 


SOME  II.] 


THE  EiMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


297 


Urge  what's  done  for  your  honour  must  not  be 
Curb'd  or  controll'd  bv  you,  you  cannot  in 
Your  wisdom  but  conceive,  if  that  the  torrent 
Of  his  violent  bounties  be  not  stopp'd  or  lessen'd, 
It  will  (.rove  most  pernicious.     Therefore,  madam, 
Since  'tis  your  duty,  as  you  are  liis  wife, 
To  five  him  saving-  counsels,  and  in  being 
Almost  his  idol,  may  command  him  to 
Take  any  shape  you  please,  with  a  powerful  hand 
To  stop  him  in  his  precipice  to  ruin 

Eu>l.  Avert  it,  heaven  ! 

Put.  Heaven  is  most  gracious  to  you, 
In  choosing  you  to  be  the  instrument 
Of  such  a  pious  work.     You  see  he  signs 
What  suit  soever  is  preferr'd,  not  once 
Enquiring  what  it  is,  yielding  himself 
A  prey  to  all ;  I  would,  therefore,  have  you,  lady, 
As  I  know  you  will,  to  advise  him,  or  command  him, 
As  he  would  reap  the  plenty  of  your  favours, 
To  use  more  moderation  in  his  bounties; 
And  that,  before  he  gives,  he  would  consider 
The  what,  to  whom,  and  wherefore. 

End.  Do  you  think 
Such  arrogance,  or  usurpation  rather, 
Of  what  is  proper  and  peculiar 
To  every  private  husband,  and  much  more 
To  him,  an  emperor,  can  rank  with  the  obedience 
And  duty  of  a  wife?     Are  we  appointed 
In  our  creation  (let  me  reason  with  you) 
To  rule,  or  to  obey  1  or,  'cause  he  loves  me 
With  a  kind  impotence,  must  I  tyrannize 
Over  his  weakness,  or  abuse  the  strength 
With  which  he  arms  me,  to  his  wrong?  or,  like 
A  prostituted  creature,  merchandize 
Our  mutual  delight  lor  hire,  or  to 
Serve  mine  own  sordid  ends?     In  vulgar  nuptials 
Priority  is  exploded,  though  there  be 
A  difference  in  the  parties ;  and  shall  I, 
His  vassal,  from  obscurity  raised  by  him 
To  this  so  eminent  light,  presume  t'  appoint  him 
To  do,  or  not  to  do,  this,  or  that?     When  wives 
Are  well  accommodated  by  their  husbands 
With  all  things  both  for  use  and  ornament, 
Let  them  fix  there,  and  never  dare  to  question 
Their  wills  or  actions  :  for  myself,  I  vow, 
Though  now  my  lord  would  rashly  give  away 
His  s.-eptre  and  imperial  diadem, 
Or  if  there  could  be  any  thing  more  precious, 
I  would  not  cross  it: — but  1  know  this  is 
But  a  trial  of  my  temper,  and  as  such 
I  do  receive  it ;  or,  il't  be  otherwise, 
You  are  so  subtle  in  your  arguments, 
I  dare  not  stay  to  hear  them.  [Offers  to  retire. 

Pul.  Is  it  even  so  ? 

I  have  power  o'er  these  yet,  and  command  their  stay, 
To  hearken  nearer  to  me. 

Arcad.  \Ve  are  charged 
By  the  emperor,  our  brother,  to  attend 
The  empress'  service. 

Flic.  You  are  too  mortified,  sister 
(With  reverence  I  speak  it),  for  young  ladies 
To  keep  your  company.     I  am  so  tired 
With  your  tedious  exhortations,  doctrines,  uses, 
Of  your  religious  morality*, 

* /  am  so  tired 

H'ith  your  tedious  rrhiirtaliont,  doctrines,  uses, 
Of  your  religious  morality,]  These  lines  stand  thus   in 
Coxeti-r  and  M.  Mason  : 

I  am  so  tired 


That,  for  my  health's  sake,  I  must  take  the  freedom 
To  enjoy  a  little  of  those  pretty*  pleasures 
That  1  was  born  to. 

Arcad.  When  I  come  to  your  years, 
I'll  do  as  you  do  ;  but,  till  then,  with  your  pardon, 
I'll  lose  no  more  time.      I  have  not  learn'd  to  dance 

yet, 
Nor  sing,  but  holy  hymns,  and  those  to  vile  tunes 

too ; 

Nor  to  discourse  but  of  schoolmen's  opinions. 
How  shall  i  answer  to  my  suitors,  since,  I  hope, 
Ere  long  I  shall  have  many,  without  practice 
To  write  and  speak,  something  that's  not  derived 
From  the  fathers  of  philosophy  ? 

Flue.  We  shall  shame 
Our  breeding,  sister,  if  we  should  go  on  thus. 

Arcad.  "Tis  for  your  credit  that  we  study 
How  to  converse  with  men  ;  women  with  women 
Yields  but  a  barren  argument. 

Flac.  She  frowns 

But  you'll  protect  us,  madam  ? 

End.  Yes,  and  love 
Your  sweet  simplicity. 

Arcad.  All  young  girls  are  so, 
Till  they  know  the  way  of  itf. 

Flac,  But,  when  we  are  enter'd, 
We  shall  on  a  good  round  pace. 

End,  I'll  leave  you,  madam. 

Arcad.  And  we  our  duties  with  you. 

[Eietint  Eudocia,  Arcadia,  and  Flaccilla. 

Pul.  On  all  hands 

Thus  slighted  !  no  way  left?     Am  I  grown  stupid 
In  my  invention?  can  I  make  no  use 
Of  the  Emperor's  bounties?      Now  'tis  thought:— 
within  there  ! 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Alt,  Madam. 

Pul.  It  shall  be  so  : — nearer  ?  your  ear. 
—  Draw  a  petition  to  this  end. 

Atl.  Besides 

The  danger  to  prefer  it,  I  believe 
'Twill  ne'er  be  granted. 

Pul.  How's  this  !  are  you  grown, 
From  a  servant  my  director  ?  let  me  hear 
No  more  of  this.     Dispatch  ;  [Exit  Attendant."]     I'll 

master  him 
At  his  own  weapon. 


With  your  tedious  exhortations,  doctrine*, 
Uses  of  your  reliyious  morality 

To  say  nothing  of  the  total  disregard  of  metre.it  is  manifest 
that  the  sense  wa«  altogether  overlooked..  Uses,  which  they 
connect  with  the  following  words,  is  a  distinct  expression, 
adopted,  by  our  old  dramatists,  from  the  puritans,  who  usu- 
sally  divided  their  discourses  into  doctrines  and  uses;  by 
the  former  of  which  they  meant  the  explanation  of  their 
luhject,  and  by  the  latter,  the  practical  inferences  drawn 
from  it.  Thus,  in  The  Ordinary,  by  Carlwright:  Andrew 
tays  : 

"  Here's  no  proofs, 
No  doctrines,  nor  no  vses  ;  tutor,  I 
Would  fain  learn  some  religion." 
And  in  The  Magnetic  Lady,  by  Jonson  : 
"  The  parson  has  an  edifying  stomach, 
And  a  persuading  palate,  like  his  name  ; 
He  hath  begun  three  draughts  of  sack  in  doctrines, 
And  four  in  utes." 

*  To  enjoy  a  little  of  those  pretty  pleasures]  Pretty, 
which  completes  the  verse,  is  not  to  be  found  in  Mr.  M. 
Mason. 

t  Arcad.  All  youru/  yirls  are  so. 

'Till  they  know  the  icay  of  it.]  i.  e.  simple.  These  two 
lines,  without  which  the  next  speech  cannot  be  understood,  are 
wholly  omitted  in  the  "  correctest  of  all  editions,"  at'd  se 
veral  other  passages  miserably  mangled  and  corrupted,  both 
in  the  printing  and  pointing. 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Acr  III. 


Enter  THEODOSIUS,    PAULINUS*,  PHILANAX,  TIMAN- 
TUS,  and  GUATIANUS. 

Theo.  Let  me  understand  it, 
If  yet  there  be  aught  wanting  that  may  perfect 
A  general  happiness. 

Paul.  The  people's  joys 
In  seas  of  acclamations  flow  in, 
To  wait  on  yours. 

Phil.  Their  love  with  bounty  levied, ' 
Is  a  sure  guard  :  obedience  forced  from  fear, 
Paper  fortification,  which,  in  danger, 
Will  yield  to  the  impression  of  a  r«ed, 
Or  of  itself  fall  off. 

Theo.  True,  Philanax  ; 
And  by  that  certain  compass  we  resolve 
To  steer  our  bark  of  government. 

Re-enter  Attendant  with  the  petition, 

Pul.  'Tis  well. 

Theo.  My  dearest  and  my  all-deserving  sister 
As  a  petitioner  kneel !     It  must  not  be. 
Pray  you,  rise  ;  although  your  suit  were  half  my 

empire, 
'Tis  freely  granted. 

Pul.  Your  alacrity 

To  give  hath  made  a  beggar  ;  yet,  before 
My  suit  is  by  your  sacred  hand  and  seal 
Confirm'd,  'tis  necessary  you  peruse 
The  sum  of  my  request. 

Theo.  We  will  not  wrong 
Your  judgment  in  conceiving  what  'tis  fit 
For  you  to  ask,  and  us  to  grant,  so  much, 
As  to  proceed  with  caution  ;  give  me  my  signet : 
With  confidence  I  sign  it,  and  here  vow 
By  my  father's  soul,  butf  with  your  free  consent, 
It  is  irrevocable. 

Tim.  What  if  she  now, 
Calling  to  memory  how  often  we 
Have  cross'd  her  government,  in  revenge  hath  made 
Petition  for  our  heads  1 

Grat.  They  must  even  off  then ; 
No  ransome  can  redeem  us. 

Theo.  Let  those  jewels 
So  highly  rated  by  the  Persian  merchants, 
Be  bought,  and,  as  a  sacrifice  from  us, 
Presented  to  Eudocia,  she  being  only 
Worthy  to  wear  them.     I  am  angry  with 
The  unresistible  necessity 
Of  my  occasions  and  important  cares, 
That  so  long  keep  me  from  her. 

[Exeunt  Theodosius,  Paulinus,  Philanax, 

Timantus,  and  Grattanus. 
Pul.  Go  to  the  empress, 
And  tell  her,  on  the  sudden  I  am  sick, 
And  do  desire  the  comfort  of  a  visit, 
If  she  please  to  vouchsafe  it.     From  me  use 
Your   humblest   language— [Exit  Attendant.]    but, 

when  once  I  have  her 
In  my  possession,  I  will  rise  and  speak 
In  a  higher  strain  :  say  it  raise  storms,  no  matter; 
Fools  judge  by  the  event,  my  ends  are  honest. 

Exit. 


•  Enter  THSODOSIUS.  PACLINUS,  &c.)  All  the  copies  read, 
Enter  Theodosius,  Favorinus,  &c.;  but  as  this  Favorinus 
appears  not  in  the  list  of  dramatis  persona:,  nor  in  any 
Mher  part  of  the  play,  I  have  little  doubt  but  that  it  is  a 
misprint  for  Paulinus,  and  have  regulated  the  entrance  ac 
cordingly. 

t  but  with  your  free  content, 

It  it  irrevocable.]  i.  e.  except,  unless  with  your  free  con 
tent,  &c. 


SCENE  111. — Another  Rnom  in  the  same. 
Enter  THEODOSIUS,  TIMAMTUS,  and  PHILANAX. 

Theo.  What  is  become  of  her?     Can   she,    that 

carries 

Such  glorious  excellence  of  light  about  her, 
Be  any  where  conceal'd  ? 

Phil.  We  have  sought  her  lodgings, 
And  all  we  can  learn  from  the  servants,  is, 
She,  by  your  majesty's  sisters  waited  on, 
The  attendance  of  her  other  officers, 
By  her  express  command,  denied 

Theo.  Forbear 

Impertinent    circumstances, — whither    went     she? 
speak. 

Phil.  As  they  guess,  to  the  laurel  grove. 

Theo.  So  slightly  guarded  ! 
What  an  earthquake  I  feel  in  me  !  and,  but  that 
Religion  assures  the  contrary, 
The  poets'  dreams  of  lustful  fauns  and  satyrs 
Would  make  me  fear  I  know  not  what. 

Enter  PAULINUS*. 

Paul.  I  have  found  her, 
An  it  please  your  majesty. 

Theo.  Yes,  it  cloth  please  me . 
But  why  return'd  without  her'? 

Paul.  As  she  made 

Her  speediest  approaches  to  your  presence, 
A  servant  of  the  princess's,  Pulcheria, 
Encounter'd  her  :  what  'twas  he  whisper'd  to  her 
I  am  ignorant :  but  hearing  it,  she  started, 
And  will'd  me  to  excuse  her  absence  from  you 
The  third  part  of  an  hour. 

Theo.  In  this  she  takes 
So  much  of  my  life  from  me  ;  yet,  I'll  bear  it 
With  what  patience  I  may,  since  'tis  her  pleasure. 
Go  back,  my  good  Paulinusf.and  entreat  her 
Not  to  exceed  a  minute. 

Tim.  Here's  strange  fondness !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  PULCHEIUA  and  SERVANTS. 

Pul.  You  are  certain  she  will  come  ? 

1  Serv.  She  is  already 
Enter'd  your  outward  lodgings. 

Pul.  No  train  with  her'.' 

1  Serv.  Your  excellence'  sisters  only. 

Pul.  Tis  the  better. 

See  the  doors  strongly  guarded,  and  deny 
Access  to  all,  but  with  our  special  license  ; 
Why  dost  tliou  stay  ?  show  your  obedience, 
Your  wisdom  now  is  useless.  [Exeunt  Servants. 

Enter  EUDOCIA,  AUCAOIA,  and  FLACCILLA. 

Flac.  She  is  sick,  sure, 
Or,  in  fit  reverence  to  your  majesty, 
She  had  waited  you  at  the  door. 


*  Enter  PAULINUS.]  So  the  old  copies.  The  modern  editors 
(it  is  impossible  to  say  why)  read,  enter  Favorinus,  though 
the  servant,  a  little  below,  says, 

"  The  prince  Paulinus,  madam, 
Sent  from  the  emperor,"  &c. 

4  Go  back,  my  good  Paiiliniis,)  Coxeterand  M.  Mason,  in 
consequence  of  their  absurd  depaiture  from  the  old  copies 
and  substitution  of  one  name  for  another,  are  obliged  to 
omit  good,  and  read,  Go  back,  my  Favorinus  1  Pudet, 
jmiet. 


SCENE  IV. 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


S99 


Arcad.  "Twould  hardly  be    [PulcJieria  walking  by. 
Excused,  in  civil  manners,  to  her  equal : 
But  with  more  difficulty  to  you,  that  are 
So  far  above  her. 

End.  Not  in  her  opinion  ; 

She  hath  been  too  long;  accustom 'd  to  command, 
To  acknowledge  a  superior. 

Arcad.  There  she  walks. 

Flac.  If  she  be  not  sick  of  the  sullens,  I  see  not 
The  least  infirmity  in  her. 

Eud.  This  is  strange  ! 

A  read.   Open  your  eyes  ;  the  empress. 

Put.  Reach  that  chair  : 
Now,  sitting  thus  at  distance,  I'll  vouchsafe 
To  look  upon  her. 

Arcad.  How,  sister  !  pray  you,  awake; 
Are  you  in  your  wits  1 

Flac.  Grant,  heaven,  your  too  much  learning 
Does  not  conclude  in  madness  ! 

End.  You  entreated 
A  visit  from  me. 

Put.  True,  my  servant  used 
Such  language  ;  but  now,  as  a  mistress,  I 
Command  your  service. 

Eud.  Service ! 

Arcad.  She's  stark  mad,  sure. 

Put.  You'll  find  I  can  dispose  of  what's  mine  own, 
Without  a  guardian. 

Eud.  Follow  me. — I  will  see  you 
When  your  frantic  fit  is  o'er. — 1  do  begin 
To  be  of  your  belief. 

Put.  It  will  deceive  you. 

Thou  shalt  not  stir  from  hence  : — thus,  as  mine  own, 
I  seize  upon  thee. 

Flac.  Help,  help  !  violence 
Offer'd  to  the  empress'  person  ! 

Pnl.  Tis  in  vain  : 

She  was  an  empress  once,  but,  by  my  gift ; 
Which  being  abused,  I  recall  my  grant. 
You  are  read  in  story  ;  call  to  your  remembrance 
What  the  great  Hector's  mother,  Hecuba, 
Was  to  Ulysses,  Ilium  sack'd. 

Eud.  A  slave. 

Put.  To  me  thou  art  so. 

End.  Wonder  and  amazement 
Quite  overwhelm  me  :  how  am  I  transformed  ? 
How  have  I  lost  my  liberty?  [Knocking  within. 

Put.  Thou  shalt  know 
Too  soon  no  doubt. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Who's  that,  that  with  such  rudeness 
Beats  at  the  door  ? 

Serv.  The  prince  Paulinus,  madam  ; 
Sent  from  the  emperor,  to  attend  upon 
The  gracious  empress. 

Arcad.  And  who  is  your  slave  now  ? 

F'ac.  Sister,  repent  in  time,  and  beg  a  pardon 
or  your  presumption. 

Pul.  It  is  resolved  : 

From  me  return  this  answer  to  Paulinus, 
She  shall  not  come  ;  she's  mine  ;  the  emperor  hath 
Ko  interest  in  her.  [Exit  Servant. 

Eud.  Whatsoe'er  I  am, 

Yen  (ake  not  from  your  powei  o'er  me,  to  yield 
A  reason  for  this  usage. 

Pul.  Though  my  will  is 
Sufficient,  to  add  to  thy  affliction, 
Know,  wretched  thing,  'tis  not  thy  fate,  but  folly, 
Hath  made  thee  what  thou  art ;  'tis  some  delight 


To  urge  my  merits  to  one  so  ungrateful ; 

Therefore  with  horror  hear  it.     When  thou  wert 

Thrust,  as  a  stranger,  from  thy  father's  house, 

Exposed  to  all  calamities  that  want 

Could  throw  upon  thee,  thine  own  brothers'  scorn, 

And  in  thy  hopes,  as  by  the  world,  forsaken, 

My  pity  the  last  altar  that  was  left,  thee, 

I  heard  thy  syren  chnrms,  with  feeling  heard  them, 

And  my  compassion  made  mine  eyes  vie  tears 

With  thine,  dissembling  crocodile !  and  when  queens 

Were  emulous  for  thy  imperial  bed, 

The  garments  of  thy  sorrows  cast  aside, 

I  put  thee  in  a  shape*  as  would  have  forced 

Envy  from  Cleopatra,  had  she  seen  thee. 

Then,  when  I  knew  my  brother's  blood  was  warm 'd 

With  youthful  fires,  I  brought  thee  to  his  presence  ; 

And  how  my  deep  designs,  for  thy  good  plotted, 

Succeeded  to  my  wishes,  is  apparent, 

And  needs  no  repetition. 

Etui.  I  am  conscious 
Of  your  so  manv  and  unequall'd  favours; 
But  find  not  how  I  may  accuse  myself 
For  any  facts  committed,  that,  with  justice, 
Can  raise  your  anger  to  this  height  against  me. 

Pul.  Pride  and   forgetfulness  would  not   let  thee 

see  that, 

Against  which  now  thou  canst  not  close  thy  eyes. 
What  injury, could  be  equal  to  thy  late 
Contempt  of  my  good  counsel?  When  I  urged 
The  emperor's  prodigal  bounties,  and  entreated 
That  you  would  use  your  power  to  give  them  limits, 
Or,  at  the  least,  a  due  consideration 
Of  such  as  sued,  and  for  what,  ere  he  sign'd  it ; 
In  opposition,  you  brought  against  me 
The  obedience  of  a  wife,  that  ladies  were  not, 
Being  well  accommodated  by  tlieir  lords, 
To  question,  but  much  less  to  cross,  their  pleasures ; 
Nor  would  you,  though  the  emperor  were  resolved 
To  give  away  his  sceptre,  hinder  it, 
Since  'twas  done  for  your  honour ;  covering,  with 
False  colours  of  humility,  your  ambition. 

Eud.  And  is  this  my  offence  ? 

Pul.  As  wicked  counsel 
Is  still  most  hurtful  unto  those  that  give  it; 
Such  as  deny  to  follow  what  is  good, 
In  reason,  are  the  first  that  must  repent  it. 
When   I  please,  you  shall  hear  more ;  in  the  mean 

time, 

Thank  your  own  wilful  folly,  that  hath  changed  you 
From  an  empress  to  a  bondwoman. 

Tlieo.  [within]   Force  the  doors; 
Kill  those  that  dare  resist. 

Enter   THEODOSIUS,  PAULINUS,  PHILANAX,   CHHYSA- 
PIUS  and  GRATIANUS.  • 

Eud.  Dear  sir,  redeem  me. 

Flac.  O  suffer  not,  for  your  own  honour's  sale, 
The  empress,  you  so  late  loved,  to  be  made 
A  prisoner  in  the  court. 

Arcad.  Leap  to  his  lips, 
You'll  find  them  the  best  sanctuary. 

Flac.  And  try  then, 
What  interest  my  reverend  sister  hath 
To  force  you  from  them. 

Theo.  What  strange  May-game's  this? 
Though  done  in  sport,  how  ill  this  levity 
Becomes  your  wisdom ! 

4  /  put  thee  in  a  shape,   &c.'  i.  e.  a  magnificent  'Jreti 
habit.    Alluding  to  her  directions  to  the  nervaut. 


300 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Acr  IV 


Pul.  I  am  serious,  sir, 

And  have  done  nothing  but  what  you  in  honour, 
And  as  you  are  yourself  an  emperor, 
Stand  bound  to  justify. 

Theo.  Take  heed  ;  put  not  these 
Strange  trials  on  my  paiience. 

Put.  Do  not  you,  sir, 
Deny  your  own  act:  As  you  are  a  man, 
And  stand  on  your  own  bottom,  'twill  appear 
A  childish  weakness  to  nr-ike  void  a  grunt 
Sign'd  by  your  sacred  hand  and  seal,  and  strengthen'd 

vith  a  religious  oath,  but  with  mv  license 
Never  to  be  tecull'd.     For  some  few  minutes 
Let  reaaon  rule  your  passion,  and  in  this 

[Delivers  the  deed. 

Be  pleased  to  read  my  interest:  you  will  find  there, 
What  you  in  me  call  violence,  is  justice, 
And  that  I  may  make  use  of  what's  mine  own, 
According  to  my  will.     'Tis  your  own  gift,  sir  ; 
And  what  an  emperor  gives,  should  stand  as  firm 
As  the  celestial  poles  upon  the  shoulders 
Of  Atlas,  or  his  successor  in  that  office, 
The  great  Alcides. 

Theo.  Miseries  of  more  weight 
Thau  'tis  fei^n'd  they  supported,  fall  upon  me. 
What  hath  my  rashness  done  !   In  this  transaction, 
Drawn  in  express  and  formal  terms,  I  have 
Given  and  consign'd  into  your  hands,  Jto  use 
And,  observe,  as  you  please  my  dear  Eudocia ! 
It  is  my  deed,  I  do  confess  it  is, 
And,  as  I  am  myself,  not  to  be  cancell'd  : 
But  yet  you  may  show  mercy — and  you  will, 
When  you  consider  that  there  is  no  beauty 
So  perfect  in  a  creature,  but  is  soil'd 
With   some  unbeseeming  blemish.     You   have   la- 

bour'd 

To  build  me  up  a  complete  prince,  'tis  granted  ; 
Yet,  as  I  am  a  man,  like  other  monarchs 
I  have  defects  and  frailties  ;  my  facility 
To  send  petitioners  with  pleased  looks  from  me, 
Is  all  I  can  be  charged  with  ;  and  it  will 
Become  your  wisdom  (since  'tis  in  your  power), 
In  charity  to  provide  1  fall*  no  further 
Or  in  my  oath,  or  honour. 

Pul.  Royal  eir, 

This  was  the  mark  I  aim'd  at,  and  I  glory 
At  the  length,  you  so  conceive  it :  'twas  a  weakness 
To  measure  by  your  own  integrity 
The  purposes  of  others.     1  have  shown  you, 
In  a  true  mirror,  what  fruit  grows  upon 


The  tree  of  hoodwink'd  bounty,  and  what  dangers 
Precipitation,  in  the  managing 
Your  great  atfsirs,  produceth. 

Then.  1  embrace  it 

As  a  grave  advertisement,  and  vow  hereafter 
Never  to  sign  petitions  at  ibis  rate. 

Pul.  For    mine,  see,   sir,  'tis    cancell'd ,  on   my 

knees 
I  re-deliver  what  I  now  begg'd  from  you. 

[Tears  the  dee  i. 
She  is  my  second  gift*. 

Theo.  Which  if  I  part  from 
Till  death  divorce  us [fusses  Eudocia 

End.  So,  sir ! 

Theo.  Nay,  sweet,  chide  not, 
I  am  punish'd  in  thy  looks ;  defer  the  rest, 
Till  we  art-  more  private. 

Pul.  1  a?k  pardon  too, 
If,  in  my  personated  passion,  I 
Appear'd  too  harsh  and  rough. 

End.  'Twas  gentle  language, 
•What  I  was  then  consider'd. 

Pul.  O,  dear  madam, 
It  was  dei:orum  in  the  scene. 

End.  This  trial, 

When  I  was  Athenais,  might  have  pass'd, 
But  as  I  am  the  empress 

The:).  Nay,  no  anger. 
Since  all  good  was  intended. 

[EfMnt   Theodosius,  Eudocia,  Arcadia,  and 
Flaccilla. 

Pnl.  Building  on 
That  certain  base,  I  fear  riot  what  can  follow. 

[Exit. 

Paul  These  are  strange  dftv?~*s,  Philanax. 

Phil.  True  my  lord. 
May  all  turn  to  the  best ! 

Grat.  The  emperor's  looks 
Promised  a  calm. 

Chry.  But  the  vex'd  empress'  frowns 
Presaged  a  second  storm. 

Paul.  I  am  sure  1  feel  one 
In  my  leg  already. 

Phil.  Your  old  friend,  the  gout  1 

Paul.  My  forced  companion,  Philanax. 

Chry.  To  your  rest.  [diet, 

Paul.  Rest,  and  forbearing  wine,  with  a  temperate 
Though  many  mountebanks  pretend  the  cure  oft, 
I  have  found  my  best  physicians. 

Phil.  Ease  to  your  lordship.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  EUDOCIA  and  CunvsApius. 
Eud.  Make  me  her  property  ! 
Chry.  Your  Majesty 

Hath  just  cause  of  distaste ;  and  your  resentment 
Of  tho  affront  in  the  point  of  honour,  cannot 
But  meet  a  fair  construction. 


•  J  fall  no  further.]  Here,  as  in  several  other  place*,  Mr. 
M.  Mason  subslitutea  fail  (or  fall,  though  the  latter  be  mani- 
festly the  better  word,  and  what  is  of  more  importance,  the 
lather's. 


Eud.  I  have  only 

The  title  of  an  empress,  but  the  power 
Is  by  her  ravish'd  from  me  :  she  surveys 
My  actions  as  a  governess,  and  calls 
My  not  observing  all  that  she  directs, 
Folly  and  disobedience. 

Chry.  Under  correction, 
With  grief  IVe  long  observed  it ;  and,  if  you 
Stand  pleased  to  sign  my  warrant,  I'll  deliver, 

*  Sheii  my  second  gift]  i.  e.  (though  the  mode  of  e.xprc.- 
sion  is  rather  iucorrecl,)  she  is  now  given  to  you  by  me 
fecund  time. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


301 


In  my  unfeign'd  zeal  and  desire  to  serve  you 
(Howe'er  I  run  the  hazard  of  my  head  for't, 
Should  it  arrive  at  the  knowledge  of  the  princess), 
Wot  alone  the  reasons  why  things  are  thus  carried, 
But  give  into  your  hands  the  power  to  clip 
The  wings  of  her  command. 

End.  Your  service  this  way 
Cannot  offend  me. 

Cry.  Be  you  pleased  to  know  then, 
But  still  with  pardon,  if  I  am  too  bold. 
Your  too  much  sufferance  imps  the  broken  feathers 
Which  carry  her  to  this  proud  height,  in  which 
She  with  security  soars,  and  still  towers  o'er  you  : 
But  if  you  would  employ  the  strengths  you  hold* 
In  the  emperor's  affections,  and  remember 
The  orb  you  move  in  should  admit  no  star  else, 
You  never  would  confess,  the  managing 
Of  state  affairs  to  her  alone  are  proper, 
And  you  sit  by,  a  looker  on. 

F.ud.  I  would  not, 
If  it  were  possible  I  could  attempt 
Her  diminution,  without  a  taint 
Of  foul  ingratitude  in  myself. 

Chry.  In  this 

The  sweetness  of  your  temper  does  abuse  you  ; 
And  you  call  that  a  benefit  to  yourself. 
Which  she,  for  her  own  ends,  conferr'd  upon  you. 
'Tis  yielded  she  gave  way  to  your  advancement : 
But  for  what  cause?  that  she  might  still  continue 
Her  absolute  swav  and  swing  oYr  the  whole  state  j 
And  that  she  might  to  her  admirers  vaunt, 
The  empress  was  her  creature,  and  the  giver 
To  be  preferr'd  before  the  gift. 

Eud.  It  may  be. 

Chry.  Nay,  'tis  most  certain  ;  whereas,  would  you 

please 

In  a  true  glass  to  look  upon  yourself, 
And  view,  without  detraction,  your  own  merits, 
Which  all  men  wonder  at,  you  would  find  that  fate, 
Without  a  second  cause,  appointed  you 
To  the  supretnest  honour.     For  the  princess, 
She  hath  reign'd  long  enough,  and  her  remove 
Will  make  your  entrance  free  to  the  possession 
Of  what  vou  were  born  to  ;  and,  but  once  resolve 
To  build  upon  her  ruins,  leave  the  engines 
That  must  be  used  to  undermine  her  greatness, 
To  my  provision. 

Eud.  I  thank  your  care  ; 
But  a  design  of  such  weight  must  not  be 
Rashly  determined  of;  it  will  exact 
A  long  and  serious  consultation  from  me. 
In  the  mean  time,  Chrysapius,  rest  assured 
I  live  your  thankful  mistress.  [Exit. 

Chry.  Is  this  all  ? 

Will  the  physic  that  I  minister'd  work  no  further  ? 
I  have  play'd  the  fool;  and,  leaving  a  calm  port, 
Embark'd  myself  on  a  rough  sea  of  danger. 
In  her  silence  lies  my  safety,  which  how  can  I 
Hope  from  a  woman  ?  but  the  die  is  thrown, 
And  I  must  stand  the  hazard.  [Eaif. 

SCENE  II.— /I  Space  before  the  Palace. 

Enter  THEODOSIUS,    PHILANAX,  TIMANTUS,  GRATIA- 
NI  s,  and  Huntsmen. 

Theo.  Is  Paulinus 
So  tortured  with  his  gout  ? 

*  But  if  you  would  employ  the  strengths  j/ou  hold,  &c.] 
For  strenytht  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason   aa  I  have  already 


Phil.  Most  miserably. 
And  it  adds  much  to  his  affliction,  that 
The  pain  denies  him  power  to  wait  upon 
Your  Majesty. 

Theo.  I  pity  him  : — he  is 
A  wondrous  honest  man,  and  what  he  suffers, 
I  know,  will  grieve  my  empress. 

rim.  He,  indeed,  is 
Much  bound  to  her  gracious  favour. 

Theo.  He  deserves  it ; 
She  cannot  find  a  subject  upon  whom 
She  better  may  confer  it.     Is  the  stag 
Safe  lodged  ? 

Graf.  Yes,  sir,    and  the  hounds    and  huntsmen 
ready. 

Phil.  He  will  make  you  royal  sport.     He  is  a  deer 
Of  ten*  at  the  least. 

Enter  a  Countryman  with  an  apple. 

Grat.  Whither  will  this  clown? 

Tim.   Stand  back. 

Couiitr.  I  would   zee  the  emperor;  why  should 

you  courtiers 

Scorn  a  poor  countryman  ?    we  zweat  at  the  plough 
To  vill  your  mouihs,  you  and  your  curs  might  starve 

else : 

We  prune  the  orchards,  and  you  cranch  the  fruit , 
Yet  still  y'  are  snarling  at  us. 

Theo.   What's  the  matter  ? 

Countr.  I  would  look  on  ihy  sweet  face. 

Tim.   Unmannerly  swain  ! 

Countr.  Zwain  i  though  I  am  a  z\vain,  I  have  a 

heart  yet, 

As  ready  to  do  service  for  my  leegef, 
As  any  princox  peacock  of  you  all. 
Z  .-.okers  !  had  1  one  of  you  zingle,  with  this  twig 
I  would  so  veeze  vou. 

Tim.  Will  your  mnjesty 
Hear  this  rude  language? 

Theo.  Yes.  and  hold  it  as 
An  ornament,  not  a  blemish.     O,  Timantus, 
Since  that  dread  Power  by  whom  we  are,  disdains 

not 

With  an  open  ear  to  bear  petitions  from  us  ; 
Easy  access  in  us,  his  deputies, 
To  the  meanest  of  our  subjects,  is  a  debt 
Which  we  stand  bound  to  pay. 

Countr.   liy  my  granam's  ghost 
'Tis  a  holesome  zaying  !  our  vicar  could  not  mend  it 
In  the  pulpit  on  a  Zumlay. 

Theo.  What's  thy  suit,  friend  ? 

Countr.  Zute !    I  would    laugh   at  that.     Let  the 

court  beg  from  thee, 

What  the  poor  country  gives  :   I  bring  a  present 
To  thy  good  grace,  which  I  can  call  mine  own, 


observed,  constantly  read  ttrength ;  which  bears  a  very 
different  meaning.  Strengths  are  strong  holds,  fortresses, 
commanding  positions,  &c. 

He  is  a  deer 

Often,}  That  is,  a  deer  that  has  ten  branches  to  his  horn;, 
which  they  have  at  three  years  old.  M.  MASON. 

*  At  ready  to  do  tereice  for  my  leege.j  This  last  word 
Coxeter  blundered  into  ley  ;  Mr.  M.  Mason  copies  him,  but 
shrewdly  observes — "liege  is  the  word  intended  by  the 
speaker,  but  I  suppose  it  is  misspt It  on  purpose.'"  I  sup- 
pose, in  my  turn,  that  this  gentleman  is  a  >ingul.ir  instance 
of  criticizing  a  writer  without  looking  at  him  !  of  editing  an 
author  without  consulting  the  original  in  a  single  instance  ! 
All  the  copies  read  as  I  have  given  it.  In  the  next  line, 
both  he  and  Coxeter  absurdly  separate  princox  (or,  as  they 
choose  to  write  it,  priucock)  from  peacock,  to  which  it  it 
the  adjective. 


302 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Acr  IV. 


And  look  not,  like  these  gay  volk,  for  a  return 
Of  what  they  venture.     Have  1  giv'n't  you?  ha! 

Chry.  A  perilous  knave. 

Countr.  Zee  here  a  dainty  apple. 

[Presents  the  apple. 

Of  mine  own  grafting  ;  zweet  and  zound,  I  assure 
thee. 

Then.  It  is  the  fairest  fruit  I  ever  saw. 
Those  golden  apples  in  the  Hesperian  orchards, 
So  strangely  guarded*  by  th»  watchful  dragon, 
As  they  required  great  Hercules  to  get  them  ; 
Or  those  with  which  Hippomenes  deceived 
Swift-footed  Atalanla,  when  I  look 
On  this,  deserve  no  wonder.     You  behold 
The  poor  man  and  his  present  with  contempt ; 
I  to  tlieir  value  priz.^  both  :  he  that  could 
So  aid  weak  nature  by  his  care  and  labour, ' 
As  to  compel  a  crab-tree  stock  to  bear 
A  precious  fruit  of  this  large  size  and  beauty, 
Would  by  his  industry  change  a  petty  village 
Into  a  populous  city,  and  from  that 
Erect  a  flourishing  kingdom.     Give  the  fellow, 
For  an  encouragement  to  his  future  labours, 
Ten  Attic  talents. 

Countr.  I  will  weary  heaven 
\V  ith  my  prayers  for  your  majesty.  [  Exit. 

Theo.  Philanax, 

From  me  present  this  rarity  to  (he  rarest 
And  best  of  women  :  when  I  think  upon 
The  boundless  happiness  that  from  her  flows  to  me, 
In  my  imagination  I  am  rapt 
Beyond  myself:  but  I  forget  our  hunting. 
To  the  forest,  for  the  exercise  of  my  body ; 
But  for  my  mind,  'tis  wholly  taken  up 
In  the  contemplation  of  her  matchless  virtues. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  EUDOCIA,   PULCIIERIA,  ARCADIA,  and 
FLACCILLA. 

Eud.  You  shall  know  there's  a  difference  between 
us. 

Pvl.  There  was,   I  am  certain,  not  long  since, 

when  you 

Kneel'd  a  petitioner  to  me  :  then  you  were  happy 
To  be  near  my  feet;  and  do  you  hold  it,  now, 
As  a  disparagement,  that  I  side  you,  lady  ? 

Eud.  Since  you  respect  me  only  as  I  was, 
What  I  am  shall  be  remember'd. 

Pul.  Does  the  means 

I  practised,  to  give  good  and  saving  counsels 
To  the  emperor,  and  your  new-stamped  majesty, 
Still  stick  in  your  stomach  ? 

Eud.  'Tis  not.  yet  digested, 
In  troth  it  is  not.     Why,  good  governess, 
Though  you  are  held  for  a  grand  madam,  and  your- 
self 

The  first  that  overprize  it,  I  ne'er  took 
Your  words  for  Delphian  oracles,  nor  your  actions 
For  such  wonders  as  you  make  them  : — there  is  one, 
When  she  shall  see  her  time,  as  fit  and  able 
To  be  made  partner  of  the  emperor's  cares, 
As  your  wise  self,  and  may  with  justice  challenge 


•  So  strangely  guarded,  &c.]  Though  strangely  be  some- 
times used  by  our  old  w  iters  in  the  same  sense  here  required, 
yet  I  think  we  might  venture  to  read,  So  strongly  guarded. 
—I  have,  however,  made  no  change. 


A  nearer  interest. — You  have  done  your  visit, 
So,  when  you  ]>lea>e,  you  may  leave  me. 

Pul.  I'll  not  bandy 

Words  with  your  mightiness,  proud  one  ;  only  this, 
Yon  carry  too  much  sail  for  your  small  bark, 
And   that,  when  you  least  think  upon't,  may  sink 
you.  [Eiit. 

Flac.  1  am  glad  she's  gone. 

Arcad.  I  lear'd  she  would  have  read 
A  tedious  lecture  to  us. 

Enter  PHILANAX  tvith  the  apple. 

Phil.  From  the  emperor, 
T/iis  rare  fruit  to  the  rarest. 

Eud.  How,  my  lord  ! 

Phil.  I  use  his  language,  madam  ;  and  that  trust, 
Which  he  imposed  on  me,  discharged,  his  pleasure 
Commands  my  present  service.  [Exit. 

End.  Have  you  seen 
So  fair  an  apple  ? 

Flac.  Never. 

Arc  id.  If  the  taste 
Answer  the  beauty. 

Eud.  Prettily  begg'd  : — you  should  have  it, 
But  that  you  eat  too  much  rold  fruit,  and  that 
Changes  the  fresh  red  in  your  cheeks  to  paleness. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

I  have  other  dainties  for  you  : — You  come  from 
Paulinus ;  how  is't  with  that  truly  noble 
And  honest  lord,  my  witness  at  the  fount, 
In  a  word,  the  man  to  whose  bless'd  charity 
I  owe  mv  greatness!   How  is't  with  him? 

fierv.  Sprightly 

In  his  mind  ;  but,  by  the  r;igirig  of  his  gout, 
In  his  body  much  distemper'd  ;  that  you  pleased 
To  inquire  his  health,  took  oft'  much  from  his  pain, 
His  glad  looks  did  confirm  it. 

Eud.  Do  his  doctors 
Give  him  no  hope? 

Serv.  Little  ;  they  rather  fear, 
My  his  con  inual  burning,  that  he  stands 
In  danger  of  a  fever. 

Eud.  To  him  again, 
And  tell  him,  that  I  heartily  wish  it  lay 
In  me  to  ease  him  ;  and  from  me  deliver 
This  choice  fruit  to  him  ;  you  may  say  to  that, 
1  hope  it  will  prove  physical. 

Serv.  The  good  lord 
Will  be  o'erjoy'd  with  the  favour. 

Eud.  He  deserves  more.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  Paulinus'  House. 

PAULINUS  discovered  in  a  Chair,  attended  by  a 
Surgeon. 

Surg.  I  have  done  as  much  as  art  can  do,  to  stop 
The  violent  course  of  your  fit,  and  I  hope  you  feel  it: 
How  does  your  honour? 

Paul.  At  some  ease,  I  thank  you  ; 
I  would  you  could  assure  continuance  of  it, 
For  the  moiety  of  my  fortune. 

Surg.  If  I  could  cure 

The  gout,  my  lord,  without  the  philosopher's  stone 
I  should  soon  purchase,  it  being  a  disease 
In  poor  men  very  rare,  and  in  the  rich 
The  cure  impossible.     Your  many  bounties 
Bid  me  prepare  you  for  a  certain  truth, 
And  to  flutter  you  were  dishonest. 


Si  EXE  IV.J 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


503 


Paul.  Your  plain  dealing 

Deserves  a  fee*.   Would  there  were  manv  more  such 
Of  your  profession  !    Happy  are  poor  men  ! 
If  .sick  with  the  excess  of  heat  or  cold, 
CaH.ed  by  necessitous  labour,  not  loose  surfeits, — 
'J  hey,  when  spare  diet,  or  kind  nature  fail 
To  perfect  their  recovers1,  soon  arrive  at 
Their  rest  in  death  :  but,  on  the  contrary, 
The  great  and  noble  are  exposed  as  preys 
To  the  rapine  of  phvsicians  ;  and  they, 
In  lingering  out  what  is  remediless, 
Aim  at  their  profit,  not  the  patient's  health. 
A  thousand  trials  and  experiments 
Have  been  put  upon  me,  and  I  forced  to  pay  dear 
For  my  vexation  ;  but  I  am  resolved 
(I  thank  \our  honest  freedom)  to  be  made 
A  property  no  more  for  knaves  to  work  on. 

Enter  CLKON  with  a  parchment  roll. 
What  have  you  there? 

Cle.  The  triumphs  of  an  artsman 
O'er  all  infirmities,  made  authentical 
With  the  n:imes  of  princes,  kings,  and  emperors, 
That  were  his  patients. 
Paid.  Some  empiric. 
Cle.  It  may  be   so ;  but  he   swears,  within  three 

davs 
He'll  <jrub  up  your  gout  bv  the  roots,  and  make  you 

•Me 

To  march  ten  leagues  a  day  in  complete  armour. 
Paul.  Impossible. 

Cle.  Or,  if  you  like  not  him 

Surg.  Hear  .him,  my  lord,  for  your  mirth  ;  I  will 

take  order 

They  shall  not  wrong  you. 
Paul.   Usher  in  your  monster. 
Cle.  He  is  at  hand. — March  up :   now  speak  for 
yourself. 

Enter  EMPIRIC. 

Fmp.  I  come  not,  right  honourable,  to  your  pre- 
sence, with  liny  base  and  sordid  end  of  reward  ;  the 
immortality  of  my  fame  is  the  white  I  shoot  at : 
the  charge  of  my  most  curious  and  costly  ingredients 
frayed,  amounting  to  some  seventeen  thousand 
crowns — a  trifle  in  respect  of  health — writing  your 
noble  name  in  my  catalogue,  I  shall  acknowledge 
myself  amply  satisfied. 

SiiTjjf'I  believe  so. 

Emp.  For  your  own  sakef,  I  most  heartily  wish 


• II  ould  there icere  many  more  such 

Of  your  pi  njession  !  These  two  licini-iiclis  are  wholly 
dropt  by  Mr.  M.  Mason,  who  n-ads, 

P.iiil.   Your  plain  dealing 
Deserve*  a  fee.     Happy  are  poor  men  : 
though  the  lameness  of  the  metre  miylit  have  excited  a  sus- 
picion ot  Mime  detect.     This  is  the  fifth  passage  omitted  by 
him  in  the  compass  of  a  tew  p;iges ! 

t  Emp.  For  your  mm  sake,  &c.]  This  empiric  may 
be  considered  as  the  fruitful  parent  of  the  quack,  \\hich  for 
the  two  last  centuries,  has  poisoned  us  in  the  cluset,  and  en- 
tertained us  on  the  tiage:  a  proud  distinction  to  \\liuli  his 
ignorance  and  impndriice  fully  entitle  him  ! 

I  doubt  whether  Mas'inger  ever  fell  into  Moliere's  hands  ; 
there  is,  however,  us  Mr.  Gilchrist  has  will  observed,  so 
striking  a  rt.'cinbl.ince  between  a  passage  in  the  Malade 
Jmayinaire  •  ml  ihi*  before  us,  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe 
the  c<  incidence  accidental: 

T:>iiiftte  Jf  roitdrois  qye  rous  pussies  tout 1 1  let  maladies 
que  jr  Hens  de  dire  ;  que  nous  fussiez  abandons  de  tousles 
mi'decins,  dtse&pert,  A  t'agonif  pour  nous  montrer  I'ercel- 
lfiu-e  de.  me-,  remedes,  et  I  enr.ie  que  j  aurois  de  vous  rcndre 
tercicc. 

Argan.  Je  tons  suisobliye,  monsieur, des  bontes  que  tout 
are-  pcur  mot,  &c.  Acte  111.  Sc.  13. 


that  you  had  now  all  the  diseases,  maladies,  and 
infirmities  upon  you,  that  were  ever  remembered  by 
old  Galen,  Hippocrates,  or  the  later  and  more 
admired  Paracelsus. 

Paul.  For  your  good  wish,  I  thank  you  ! 

Emp.  Take  me  with  you,  I  beseech  your  good 
lordship. — I  urged  it,  that  your  joy,  in  being  cer- 
tainly and  suddenly  freed  from  them,  may  be  the 
greater,  and  my  not-to-be-paralleled  skill  the  more 
remarkable.  The  cure  of  the  gout — a  toy,  without 
boast  be  it  said,  my  cradle-practice  :  the  cancer,  the 
fistula,  the  dropsy,  consumption  of  lungs  and  kid- 
neys, hurts  in  the  brain,  heart,  or  liver,  are  things 
worthy  my  opposition  ;  but  i:i  the  recovery  of  my 
patients  I  ever  overcome  them.  But  to  your 
gout 

Paul.  Ay,  marry,  sir,  that  cured,  I  shall  be  apter 
To  give  credit  to  the  rest. 

Emp.  Suppose  it  done,  sir. 

Surg.  And  the  means  you  use,  I  beseech  you  ? 

Emp.  I  will  do  it  in  the  plainest  language,  and 
discover  my  ingredients.  First,  my  buleni  terebin- 
thitifi  of  Cypris*,  my  manna,  ros  cxlo,  coagulated 
with  vetitlos  ovorum,  vulgarly  the  yolks  of  eggs,  with 
a  little  cyath  or  quantity  of  my  potable  elixir,  with 
some  few  scruples  of  sassafras  and  guiacum,  so  taken 
every  morning  and  evening,  in  the  space  of  three 
days,  purgeth,  <  leanseth,  and  dissipateth  the  inward 
causes  of  the  virulent  tumour. 

Paul.   Why  do  you  smile? 

'S,;-£.    When  he  hath  done  I  will  resolve  you. 

Emp.  For  my  exterior  applications,  I  have  these 
balsum-unguentulurps,  extracted  from  Hferbs,  plants, 
roots,  seeds,  gums,  and  a  million  of  other  vegetables, 
the  principal  of  which  are,  Ulissipona,  or  serpentaria, 
sephia,  or  herbu  cmsfllidnrum,  parthenium,  or  com- 
maniUa  Romano,  mumia  transmarine,  mixed  with  my 
plumbum  philosophornm,  and  mater  metallorum,  cum 
ossa  pa'aleli,  est  universal.:  medicamentum  in  podagra. 

Cle.  A  conjuring  balsamum  ! 

Emp.  This  applied  warm  upon  the  pained  place, 
with  a  feather  of  struthio-cameli,  or  a  bird  of  para- 
dise, which  is  every  where  to  be  had,  shall  expulse 
this  tartarous,  viscous,  anatheos,  and  malignant  dolor 

Surg.  An  excellent  receipt !  but  does  your  lord- 
ship 
Know  what  'tis  good  for? 

Paul.  I  would  be  instructed. 

Surg.  For  the  gonorrhoea,  or,  if  you  will  hear  it 
In  a  plainer  phrase,  the  pox. 

Emp.  If  it  cure  his  lordship 
Of  that  by  the  way,  1  hope,  sir,  'tis  the  better. 
My  medicine  serves  for  all  things,  and  the  pox,  sir, 
Though  falsely  named  the  sciatica,  or  gout, 
Is  the  more  catholic  sickness. 

Paul.  Hence  with  the  rascal ! 
Yet  hurt  him  not,  he  makes  me  smile,  and  that 
Frees  him  from  punishment.        [They  thrust  him  off. 

Surg.  Such  slaves  as  this 
Render  our  art  contemptible. 

Enter  Servant  with  the  apple. 
Serv.  My  good  lord. 
Paul.  So  soon  return'd  ! 
Serv.  And  with  this  present  from 

*  First,  my  botcni    terebinthina  of  Cypris,  &c.]     At  I 

know  not  what  degree  of  learning  the  author  meant  to  givt 

•  this  impostor,  I  have  left  his  jargon  as  1  found  it,  content 

ing  myself  with  correcting  the  verbal  oversights  of  the  for 

iner  editor. 


304 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Acr  IV. 


Your  great  and  gracious  mistress,  with  her  wishes 
It  may  prove  physical  to  you. 

I'aul.  In  my  heart 

I  kneel,  and  thank  her  bounty.     Dear  friend  Cleon, 
Give  him  ihe  cuphoaid  of  plate  in  the  next  room. 
For  a  reward. — [Exeunt  Clean  and  Seruant.]  —  Most 

glorious  fruit !  but  made 

Move  precious  by  her  grace  and  love  that  sent  it : 
To  touch  it  only,  coming  from  her  hand, 
Makes  me  forget  all  pain.     A  diamond 
Of  this  large  size  (though  it  would  buy  a  kingdom), 
Hewed  from  the  rock,  and  laid  down  at  my  feet, 
Nay,  though  a  monarch's  gift,  will  hold  no  value, 
Compared  with  this — and  yet,  ere  I  presume 
To  taste  it,  though,  sans  question,  it  is 
Some  heavenly  restorative,  I  in  duty 
Stand  bound  to  weigh  my  own  unworthiness. 
Ambrosia  is  food  only  for  the  gods, 
And  not  by  human  lips  to  be  profaned. 
I  may  adore  it  as  some  holy  relic 
Derived  from  thence,  but  impious  to  keep  it 
In  my  possession  :  the  emperor  only 
Is  worthy  to  enjoy  it. — 

Re-enter  CLEON. 

Go,  good  Cleon, 

And  (cease  this  admiration  at  this  object), 
From  me  present  this  to  my  royal  master, 
I  know  it  will  amaze  him  :   and  excuse  me 
That  I  am  not  myself  the  bearer  of  it. 
That  I  should  be  lame  now,  when  with  wings  of 

duty 

I  should  fly  to  the  service  of  this  empress  ! 
Nay,  no  delays,  good  Cleon. 

Cle.  I  am  gone,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  THEODOSIUS,  CHRYSAPIUS,  TIMANTUS,  and 
GR  ATI  ANUS. 

Chry.  Are  you  not  tired,  sir? 

Theo.  Tired  !     I  must  not  say  so, 
However,  though  I  rode  hard.     To  a  huntsman, 
His  toil  is  his  delight,  and  to  complain 
Of  weariness,  would  show  as  poorly  in  him 
As  if  a  general  should  grieve  for  a  wound 
Received  upon  his  forehead,  or  his  breast, 
After  a  glorious  victory.     Lay  by 
These  accoutrements  for  the  chase. 

Enter  PULCHERIA. 

Pul.  You  are  well  return 'd,  sir, 
From  your  princely  exercise. 

Theo.  Sister,  to  you      x 
I  owe  the  freedom,  and  the  use  of  all 
The  pleasures  1  enjoy  :  your  care  provides 
For  my  security,  and  the  burthen,  which 
I  should  alone  sustain,  you  undergo, 
And,  by  your  painful  watching*,  yield  my  sleeps 
Both  sound  and  sure.     How  happy  am  1  in 
Your  knowledge  of  the  art  of  government ! 
And,  credit  me,  I  glory  to  behold  you 
Dispose  of  great  designs,  as  if  you  were* 
A  part,  and  no  subject  of  my  empire. 


•  Dispose  of  great  desigm,  as  if  you  were}  This  line,  too, 
which  makes  sense  of  (lie  passage,  is  wholly  omitted  by  Mr. 
M.  Mason.  I  have  im  pleasure  in  pointing  out  these  per- 
petual blunders  ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  pass  them  entirely 
over  in  an  editor  who  lays  cl.tim  to  our  gr.tlituile  solely  on  the 
score  of  superior  accuracy  and  attention  ! 


Pul.  My  vigilance,  since  it  hath  well  succeeded, 
I  am  confident  you  allow  of— yet  it  is  not 
Approved  by  all. 

Theo.  Who  dares  repine  at  that 
Which  hath  our  suffrage  ? 

Pul.  One  that  too  well  knows 
The  strength  of  her  abilities  can  better 
Mv  weak  endeavours. 

Theo.  In  this  you  reflect 
Upon  my  empress? 

Pnl.  True  ;   for,  as  she  is 
The  consort  of  your  bed,  'tis  fit  she  share  in 
Your  cares  and  absolute  power. 

Theo.  You  touch  a  string 
That  sounds  but  harshly  io  me  :  and  I  must, 
In  a  brother's  love,  advise  you,  that  hereafter 
You  would  forbear  to  move  it :  since  she  is 
In  her  pure  self  a  harmony  of  such  sweetness, 
Composed  of  duty,  chaste  desires,  her  beauty 
(Though  it  might  tempt  a  hermit  from  his  beads) 
The  least  of  her  endowments.     I  am  sorry 
Her  holding  the  first  place,  since  that  the  second 
Is  proper  to  yourself,  calls  on  your  envy. 
She  err  !  it  is  impossible  in  a  thought ; 
And  much  more  speak  or  do  what  may  offend  me. 
In  other  things  I  would  belietre  you,  sister ; 
But,  though  the  tongues  of  saints  and  angels  tax'd 

her 

Of  any  imperfection,  I  should  be 
Incredulous. 

Pul.  She  is  yet  a  woman,  sir. 

Theo.  The  abstract  of  what's  excellent  in  the  sex, 
But  to  their  mulcts  and  frailties  a  mere  stranger ; 
I'll  die  in  this  belief. 

Enter  CLEON  with  the  apple. 

Cleo.  Your  humblest  servant, 
The  lord  Paulinus,  as  a  witness  of 
His  zeal  and  duty  to  your  majesty, 
Presents  you  with  this  jewel. 

Theo.  Ha! 

Cle.  It  is 
Preferr'd  by  him 

Theo.  Above  his  honour? 

Cleo.  No,  sir ; 
I  would  have  said  his  patrimony. 

Theo.  'Tis  the  same. 

Cleo.  And  he  entreats,  since  lameness  may  excuse 
His  not  presenting  it  himself,  from  me 
(Though  far  unworthy  to  supply  his  place) 
You  would  vouchsafe  to  accept  it. 

Theo.  Further  off, 

You've  told  your  tale.     Staye  you  for  a  reward  ? 
Take  that.  [Srikes  him. 

Pul.  How's  this  ? 

Chry.  I  never  saw  him  moved  thus. 

Theo.  We  must  not  part  so,  sir ; — a  guard  upon 
him. 

Enter  Guard. 

May  I  not  vent  my  sorrows  in  the  air, 
Without  discovery  ?     Forbear  the  room  ! 

[Exeunt   Pul.  Chry.  Tim,  Grat.  and  Guard 

with  Cle. 
Yet  be  within  call. — What  an  earthquake  I  feel  in 

me ! 

And  on  a  sudden  my  whole  fabric  totters. 
My  blood  within  me  turns,  and  through  my  veins, 
Parting  with  natural  redness,  I  discern  it 
Changed  to  a  fatal  yellow.     What  an  army 


SCENE  V.] 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST, 


SOT 


Of  hellish  furies,  in  the  horrid  shapes  [rescue, 

Of  doubts  and  fears,  charge   on   me  !  rise   to   my 

Thou  stout  maintainer  of  a  chaste  wife's  honour, 

The  confidence  of  her  virtues  ;  be  not  shaken 

With  the  wind  of  vain  surmises,  much  less  suffer 

The  devil  jealousy  to  whisper  to  me 

My  curious  observation  of  that 

I  must  no  more  remember.     Will't  not  be? 

Thou  uninvited  guest,  ill-manner'd  monster, 

1  charge  thee,  leave  me !  wilt  thou  force  me  to 

Give  fuel  to  that  fire  I  would  put  out  ? 

The  goodness  of  my  memory  proves  my  mischief, 

And  I  would  sell  my  empire,  could  it  purchase 

The  dull  art  of  forgetfulness*. — Who  waits  there  ? 

Re-enter  TIMANTUS. 

Tim.  Most  sacred  sir 

Theo.  Sacredt,  as  'tis  accurs'd, 
Is  proper  to  me.     Sirrah,  upon  your  life, 
Without  a  word  concerning  this,  command 
Eudocia  to  come  to  me.    [Exit  Tim.~\     Would  I  had 
Ne'er  known  her  by  that  name,  my  mother's  name, 
Or  that  for  her  own  sake,  she  had  continued 
Poor  Athenais  still  !  —  No  intermission  ! 
Wilt  thou  so  soon  torment  me  ?  must  I  read, 
Writ  in  the  table  of  my  memory, 
To  warrant  my  suspicion,  how  Paulinus 
(Though  ever  thought  a  man  averse  to  women) 
First  gave  her  entertainment,  made  her  way 
For  audience  to  my  sister  ? — then  I  did 
Myself  observe  how  he  was  ravish'd  with 
The  gracious  delivery  of  her  story, 
Which  was,  I  grant,  the  bait  that  first  took  me  too : — 
She  was  his  convert ;  what  the  rhetoric  was 
He  used,  I  know  not ;  and,  since  she  was  mine, 
In  private  as  in  public  what  a  mass 
Of  grace  and  favour  hath  she  heap'd  upon  him  ! 
And  but  to  day  this  fatal  fruit — She's  come. 

Re-enter  TIMAXTUS  with   EUDOCIA,    FLACCILLA,   and 
ARCADIA. 

Can  she  be  guilty  ! 

End.  You  seem  troubled,  sir  ; 

*  To  account  for  this  paroxysm  of  jealous  fury  in  Theodo- 
tius,  we  must  call  to  mind  that  the  ancients  attached  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  mystical  consequence  to  the  presentation  of 
au  apple;  which  they  universally  agreed  to  consider  as  a 
tacit  confession  of  pa;sion  accepted  and  returned.  Catullus 
has  sonic  beautiful  lines  on  the  subject : 

lit  missum  sponsi  furtlvo  muriere  mal  tin 

frocurrit  casto  viryinis  e  yremio, 
(Jund  misercc  ohlita;  molli  suh  veste  locatum, 

Dum  udvcntn  matris  prosilit,  excutitur, 
*  •          Atque  illud  prono  prceceps  ayitur  decursu  : 

fluinmanat  trisfi  cojiscius  ore  rvbor.  Car.  63. 
Upon  which  Vossius  observes,  with  a  reference  to  the  im- 
mediate subject  of  this  scene  :  J\Fala  amantium  semper 
uisse  mtinera,  et  obscwnam  continere  siynijicationem,  satis 
vet.  FX  primo  patet  ('ntulli  epigrammate,  et  multa  satis  tie 
fits  Kolliynritnt  riri  docti.  Nee  ftorentibus  tantum  Gracite 
et  Koniana;  rebus,  sed  et  collapsa  utrorumque  fortuna ,  tan- 
dem permanissf,  si</n{ficationfm,  satis  docet  exemplum  Pau- 
liiti  interempti  propter  potman  missum  ab  Eudocia  impera- 
trice,  de  quo  vide  Chronicon  Alexandrimun,  et  complurei 
historia;  sariptoret.  Obser.  ad  C.  Val.  Catulluni. 

Maasinger,  therefore,  had  snflicient  authority  for  this  pnrt 
of  hi-  story.  The  f.tct,  however,  is  properly  discredited  by 
later  and  more  judicious  writers,  who  have  observed  that  it 
has  all  the  appearance  of  an  eastern  fiction  ;  and,  indeed,  an 
adventure,  with  no  very  distant  resemblance  to  it, is  found  in 
The  Arabian  Tales. 

T Sacratua,  in  Latin,  means  accursed  ;  to  this  Theodosius 
alludes,  when  he  says  that  Sacred  as  it  is  accursed,  is  pro- 
per to  him.  M.  MASON. 

I  recollect  no  instance  of  this  sense  of  sacratua  :  it  was  to 
nicer  that  Thcodosius  alluded;  and  30  perhaps  did  Mr.  M. 
Mason  if  he  had  known  it. 


My  innocence  makes  me  bold  to  ask  the  causr, 
That  I  may  ease  you  of  it.     No  salute, 
After  four  long  hours'  absence  ! 

Then.  Prithee,  forgive  me.  [/TissCT  «««•. 

Methinks  I  find  Paulinus  on  her  lips, 
And  the  fresh  nectar  that  I  drew  from  thence 
Is  on  the  sudden  pall'd.     How  have  you  spent 
Your  hours  since  I  last  saw  you  ? 

End.  In  the  converse 
Of  your  sweet  sisters. 

Theo.  Did  not  Philanax, 
From  me  deliver  you  an  apple  ? 

End.  Yes,  sir; 
Heaven,  how  you  frown  !    pray  you,  talk  of  some 

thing  else, 
Think  not  of  such  a  trifle. 

Theo.  How,  a  trifle  ! 

Does  any  toy  from  me  presented  to  you, 
Deserve  to  be  so  slighted  ?  do  you  value 
What's  sent,  and  not  the  sender  ?  from  a  peasant 
It  had  deserved  your  thanks. 

Eud.  And  meets  from  you,  sir, 
All  possible  respect, 

Theo.  I  prized  it,  lady, 

At  a  higher  rate  than  you  believe ;  and  would  not 
Have  parted  with  it,  but  to  one  I  did 
Prefer  before  myself. 

Eud.  It  was,  indeed, 
The  fairest  that  I  ever  saw. 

The-j.  It  was  ; 

And  it  had  virtues  in  it,  my  Eudocia, 
Not  visible  to  the  eye. 

Eud.  It  may  be  so,  sir. 

Theo.  What  did  you  with  it? — tell  me  punctually ; 
I  look  for  a  strict  accompt. 

Eud.  What  shall  I  answer? 

Theo.  Do  you  stagger  ?     Ha  ! 

Eud.  No,  sir  ;  I  have  eaten  it. 
It  had  the  pleasant'st*  taste  ! — I  wonder  that 
You  found  it  not  in  my  breath. 

Theo.  I'faith,  I  did  not, 
And  it  was  wondrous  strange. 

End.  Pray  you,  try  again. 

Theo.  I  find  no  scent  of  t  here  :  you  play  with  me  ; 
You  have  it  still? 

Eud.  By  your  sacred  life  and  fortune, 
An  oath  I  dare  not  break,  1  have  eaten  it. 

Theo.  Do  you  know  how  this  oath  binds? 

Eud.  Too  well  to  break  it. 

Theo.  That  ever  man,  to  please  his  brutish  sense, 
Should  slave  his  understanding  to  his  passions, 
And,  taken  with  soon-fading  white  and  red, 
Deliver  up  his  credulous  ears  to  hear 
The  magic  of  a  syren  ;  and  from  these 
Believet  there  ever  was,  is,  or  can  be 
More  than  a  seeming  honesty  in  bad  woman  ! 

Eud.  This  is  strange  language,  sir. 

Theo.  Who  waits  ?     Come  all. 

Re-enter  PULCIIERIA,  PHILANAX,  CHUVSAPIUS, 
GHATIANUS,  and  Guard. 

Nay,  sister,  not  so  near,  being  of  the  sex, 
I  fear  you  are  infected  too. 
PK/.  What  mean  you? 


*  It  had  the  pleasant'st  taste !]  Coxetcr  and  Mr.  M.  Ma- 
son  read,  It  had  \hep/easant  taste,  which,  if  not  nonsense, 
is  not  very  far  rt  moved  from  it. 

t  Believe  there  ever  wan,]  So  the  old  copy:  the  modern 
editors,  to  the  destruction  both  of  sense  and  metre,  read 
Believing  iher»  eve'  was,  &c. 


30t 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Acr  IV 


Theo.  'ic  snow  you  a  miracle,  a  prodigy 

Which  Afric  never  pquall'd  : Can  you  think 

This  masterpiece  of  heaven*,  this  precious  vellum, 
Of  siieb  u  purity  and  virgin  whiteness, 
Could  be  design'd  to  have  perjury  and  whoredom, 
In  capital  letters,  writ  upon't? 

Pnl.  Dear  sir. 

Theo.  Nay,  add  to  this,  an  impudence  heyond 
All  prostituted  boldness.     Art  not  dead  yet? 
Will  not  the  tempests  in  thy  conscience  rend  thee 
As  small  as  atoms,  that  there  mny  no  sign 
Be  left  thou  ever  wert  so?  wilt  thou  live 
Till  thou  art  blasted  with  the  dreadful  lightning 
Of  pregnant  and  unanswerable  proofs 
Of  thy  adulterous  twines  ?  die  yet,  that  I 
With  my  honour  may  conceal  it. 

End.  Would  long  since 

The  Gorgon  of  your  rage  had  turn'd  me  marble  ! 
Or,  if  I  have  offended 

Theo.  If! good  angels  ! 

But  1  am  tame ;  look  on  this  dumb  accuser. 

[Shouting  the  apple. 

End.  Oh,  I  am  lost ! 

Theo.  Did  ever  cormorant 
Swallow  his  prey,  and  then  digest  it  whole, 
As  she  bath  done  this  apple?  Philanax, 
As  'tis,  from  me  presented  it ;  the  good  lady 
Swore  she  had  eaten  it ;  yet,  I  know  not  how, 
It  came  entire  unto  Paulinus"  hands, 
And  I  from  him  received  it,  sent  in  scorn, 
Upon  my  life,  to  give  me  a  close  touch 
That  he  was  weary  of  thee.     Was  there  nothing 
Left  thee  to  fee  him  to  give  satisfaction 
To  thy  insatiate  lust,  but  what  was  sent 
As  a  dear  favour  from  me  ?   How  have  I  sinn'd 
In  my  dotage  on  this  creature  !  but  t  to  her, 
I  have  lived  as  I  was  horn,  a  perfect  virgin  : 
Nay.  more,  I  thought  it  not  ei.ough  to  be 
True  to  her  bed,  but  that  I  must  feed  high, 
To  strengthen  my  abilities  to  cloy 
Her  ravenous  appetite,  little  suspecting 
She  would  desire  a  change. 

End.  I  never  did,  sir. 

Theo.  Be  dumb ;  1  will  not  waste  my  breath  in 

taxing 
Thy  base  ingratitude.     How  I  have  raised  thee 


•  Can  you  think 


Thlt  matterpifce  of  heaven,  &c.j 

"  Wrt»  this  fair  paper,  this  most  goodly  book. 
Made  to  write  whore  upon?"  Othello. 


There  are  several  oilier  short  pa.-sages  in  this  scene  copie( 
or  Imitated  from  the  same  play  ;  which,  as  sufficiently  ob- 
vious, 1  have  forborne  to  notice. 

+ l>nt  to  hrr, 

I  have  lived  as  1  wax  born,  &c.J  i.  e.  except.-  'he  word 
occur;  in  tins  scuse  in  many  other  places. 


Will  by  the  world  be,  to  thy  shame,  spoke  often  : 

Hut  for  that  ribald,  who  held  in  mv  empire 

The  next  place  to  nuselt,  so  bound  unto  me 

Bv  all  the  ties  of  duty  and  al!e<;Lmre. 

He  shall  pay  dear  fb :'t.  and  feel  wliut  if  is. 

In  a  wrong  of  such  high  consequence,  to  pull  down 

His  lord's  slow  anger  on  him  !  —  Philanax. 

He's  troubled  with  the  gout,  let  him  be  cured 

With  a  violent  death,  and  in  the  other  world 

Thank  his  phvsicinn. 

Phil.  His  cause  unheard,  sir? 

Pnl.  Take  heed  of  rashness. 

Theo.   Is  what  I  command 
To  he  disputed  ? 

P/II'/.   Your  will  slisill  be  done,  sir: 
But  that  1  am  the  instrument 

Theo.   Do  you  murmur?      [Ljit  Phil,  nhh  Gi'O>d, 
What  couldst  thou  s;iy,  if  ilru  my  license  should 
Give  liberty  to  thv  tongue?  f  F.mloci'i  kifeling  i>oiut$ 
to  Thiodnsius'  sword]     thou  nouUUr.  die  ? 
1  am  not 

So  to  be  reconciled.     See  me  no  more  : 
The  sting  of  conscience  ever  gnawing  on  thee, 
A  long  life  he  thy  punishment !  [Exit. 

Flue.  O  sweet  lady, 
How  I  could  weep  Cor  her  ! 

Ai-cad.  Speak,  dear  inad'im,  speak. 
Your  tongue,  as  you  are  a  woman,  while  you  live 
Should  be  ever  moving,  at  the  least,  the  last  part 
That  stirs  about  you. 

Put.  Though  1  should,  sad  lady, 
In  policy  rejoice,  you,  as  a  rival 
Of  my  greatness,  are  removed,  compassion, 
Sinct-  I  believe  you  innocent,  commands  me 
To  mourn  your  fortune;  credit  me,  I  will  urge 
All  arguments  I  can  allege  that  may 
Appease  the  emperor's  fury. 

Arcud.  1  will  grern-  too, 
Upon  my  knees,  unless  he  bid  me  rise, 
And  swear  he  will  forgive  you. 

Flue.   And  repent  too  : 
All  this  pother  for  an  apple! 

[Eieunt  PuL-heria,  Arcadia, and  FlacciHa. 

Chru.  Hope,  dear  madam, 

And  yield  not   o  despair  ;   1  am  still  your  servant, 

And  never  will  forsake  you,  though  awhile 

You  leave  the  i  ourt  and'  city,  and  give  way 

To  the  violent  passions  of  the  emperor. 

Repentance,  in  his  want  of  you,  will  soon  find  him. 

In  the  mean  time,  I'll  dispose  of  vou,  and  omit 

No  opportunity  that  may  invite  him 

To  sue  his  error. 

End.  Oh!  [  IV ringing  her  haiidt, 

Chiy.  Forbear,  for  heaven's  sake.  [£j«u«. 


• 


SCENE  I 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


SOT 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  Paulinus'  House. 

Enter  PHILANAX,  PAULINUS,  Guard,  and 
Executioners. 

Paul.  This  is  most  barbarous  !  bow  have  you  lost 
All  feeling  of  humanity,  as  honour, 
In  your  consent  alone  to  have  me  used  thus  ? 
Hut  to  be,  as  ycu  are,  a  looker  on, 
N;iy,  more,  a  principal  actor  in't  (the  softness 
Of  your  former  life  consider'dj,  almost  turns  me 
Into  a  senseless  statue. 

Phil.   Would,  long  since, 

Death,  by  some  other  means,  h;td  made  you  one, 
That  you  might  be  less  sensible  of  what 
You  have,  or  are  to  sutler  ! 

Paul.  Am  to  suffer  ! 

Let  such,  whose  happiness  and  heaven  depend 
Upon  their  pri-sent  being,  fear  to  part  with 
A  fort  they  cannot  long  hold  ;  mine  to  me  is 
A  charoe  that  I  am  weary  of,  all  defences 
15v  pain  and  sickness  batter'd  : — yet  take  heed, 
Take  heed,  lord  Philanax,  that,  for  private  spleen, 
Or  any  false-conceived  grudge  against  me, 
(Since  in  one  thought  of  wrong  to  you  I  am 
Sincerely  innocent),  you  do  not  that 
My  ro\al  master  must  in  justice  punish, 
If  you  pass*  to  your  own  heart  thorough  mine  ; 
The  murder,  as  it  will  come  out,  discover'd.       [me, 

Phil.  1  murder  you,  my  lord  !  heaven  witness  for 
With  the  restoring  of  your  health,  I  wish  you 
Long  lire,  and  happiness  :   for  myself,  I  am 
Compell'd  to  put  in  execution  that 
\\  liicli  1  would  fly  from  ;   'tis  the  emperor, 
The  high  incensed  emperor's  will,  commands 
What  1  must  see  p^rtbrm'd. 

Paul.  The  emperor ! 
Goodness  and   innocence  guard   me!    wheels  nor 

racks 

Can  force  into  my  memory  the  remembrance 
Of  the  least  shadow  of  offence,  with  which 
1  ever  did  provoke  him.     1  hough  beloved 
(And  yet  the  people's  love  is  short  and  fatal), 
1  never  courted  popular  applause, 
Feasted  the  men  of  action,  or  labour'd 
By  prodigal  gifts  to  draw  the  needy  soldier, 
The  tribunes  or  centurions,  to  a  faction, 
Of  which  1  would  rise  up  the  head  against  him  ; 
1  hold  no  place  of  strength,  fortress,  or  castle, 
Jn  my  command,  that  can  give  sanctuary 
To  inalecontents.  or  countenance  rebellion. 
1  have  built  no  palaces  to  face  the  court, 
Nor  do  my  followers'  braveries  shame  his  train; 
And  though  1  cannot  blame  my  fate  for  want, 
My  competent  means  of  life  deserve  no  envy  ; 
In  what,  then,  am  1  dangerous? 

Phil.   His  di.>pleasure 
Reflects  on  none  of  those  particulars 
Which  you  have  mentioned,  though  some  jealous 

princes 
In  a  subject  cannot  brook  them. 


•  If  you  pass  to  your  own  hfart  thorough  mint ;]  Mr.  M. 
Mason  iiiM-i  t>  ,M)  beiore  you;  which  injures  both  the  <tnse  and 
the  nit t re.  W.is  he  nut  aware  that  tharouyh,  or  tkorow,  as 
the  quarto  IMS  it.  it  a  dissyllable  ? 


Paul.  None  of  these ! 
In  what,  then,  am  I  worthy  his  suspicion? 
But  it  may,  nay  it  must  be,  some  informer, 
To  whom  my  innocence  appear'd  a  crime. 
Hath  poison'd  his  late  good  opinion  of  me. 
'Tis  not  to  die,  but.  in  the  censure  of 
So  good  a  master,  guilty,  that  afflicts  me. 

Phil.  There  is  no  remedy. 

Paul.   No  ! — I  have  a  friend  vet, 
To  whom  the  state  I  stand  in  now  deliver'd 
(Could  the  strictness  of  your  warrant  give  way  to 

it), 

That,  bv  fair  intercession  for  me,  would 
So  far  prevail,  that,  my  defence  unheard, 
I  should  not,  innocent  or  guilty,  suffer 
Without  a  fit  distinction. 

Phil.  These  false  hopes. 

My  lord,  abuse  you.     What  man,  when  condemn'd, 
Did  ever  find  a  friend?  or  who  dares  lend 
An  eye  of  pity  to  that  star-cross'd  subject 
On  whom  his  sovereign  frowns  ? 

Paul.  She  that  dares  plead 
For  innocence  without  a  fee,  the  empress, 
My  great  and  gracious  mistress. 

Phil.  There's  your  error. 
Her  many  favours,  which  you  hoped  should  make 

you, 

Prove  your  undoing1.     She,  poor  lady,  is 
Banish 'd  for  ever,  from  the  emperor's  presence, 
And  his  confirmed  suspicion,  to  his  wrong, 
That  you  have  been  over-familiar  with  her. 
Dooms  you  to  death.     1  know  you  understand  me. 

Pnnl.  O ver- familiar ! 

Phil.  In  sharing  with  him 
Those  sweet  and  secret  pleasures  of  his  bed 
Which  can  admit  no  partner. 

Paul.  And  is  that 

The  crime  for  which  I  am  to  die  ?  of  all 
My  numerous  sins,  was  there  not  one  of  weight 
Enough  to  sink  me,  if  he  borrow'd  not 
The  colour  of  a  guilt  I  never  saw, 
To  paint  my  innocence  in  a  defbrm'd 
And  monstrous  shape  ?  but  that  it  were  profane 
To  argue  heaven  of  ignorance  or  injustice, 
I  now  should  tax  it.     Had  the  stars  that  reign'd 
At  my  nativity  such  cursed  influence, 
As  not  alone  to  make  me  miserable, 
But,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  her  goodness  to  me, 
To  force  contagion  upon  a  lady, 
Whose  purer  flames  were  not  inferior 
To  theirs  when  they  shine  brightest!  to  die  for  her, 
Compared  with  what  she  suffers,  is  a  trine. 
By  her  example  warn'd,  let  all  great  women 
Hereafter  throw  pride  and  contempt  on  such 
As  truly  serve  them,  since  a  retribution 
In  lawful  courtesies  is  now  styled  lust ; 
And  to  be  thankful  to  a  servant's  merits 
Is  grown  a  vice,  no  virtue. 
Phil.  These  complaints 
Are  to  no  purpose  :  think  on  the  long  flight 
Your  better  part  must  make. 

Pun/.  She  is  prepared  : 
Nor  can  the  freeing  of  an  innocent 
From  the  emperor's  furious  jealousy  hinder  her. 


' 


308 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[AcrV 


— It  shall  out,  'tis  resolv'd  ;  hut  to  be  whisper'd 
TII  you  alonf.     What  a  solemn  preparation 
Is  made  hurt*  to  put  forth  an  inch  of  taper* 
In  itself  almost  extinguish'd  !  mortal  poison! 
The  hangman's  sword  !  the  halter  ! 

Phil.   Tis  left  to  you 
To  make  choice  of  which  you  please. 

Paul.  Any  will  serve 
To  take  awav  my  gout  and  life  together. 
I  would  not  have  the  emperor  imitate 
Rome's  monster,  Nero,  in  that  cruel  mercy 
He  show'd  to  Seneca.     When  you  have  discharged 
Wh:it  you  are  trusted  with,  and  I  have  given  you 
Reasons  beyond  all  doubt  or  disputation, 
?f  the  empress'  and  my  innocence  ;  when  I  am  dead 
Since  'tis  my  master's  pleasure,  and  high  treason 
Tn  you  not  to  obey  it),  I  conjure  you, 
By  the  hopes  you  have  of  happiness  hereafter, 
Since  mine  in  this  world  are  now  parting  from  me, 
That  you  would  win  the  young  man  to  repentance 
Of  the  wrong  done  to  his  chaste  wife,  Eudocia, 
And  if  perchance  he  shed  a  tear  for  what 
In  his  rashness  he  imposed  on  his  true  servant, 
So  it  cure  him  of  future  jealousy, 
'Twill  prove  a  precious  balsamum,  and  find  me 
When  I  am  in  my  grave. — Now,  when  you  please, 
For  I  am  ready. 

Phil.  His  words  work  strangely  on  me, 
And  I  would  do,  but  I  know  not  what  to  think  on't. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  PULCHERIA,  FLACCILLA,  ARCADIA,   TIMAVTUS, 
GRATIANOS,  and  CHRYSAPIUS. 

Pitl.  Still  in  his  sullen  mood  1  no  intermission 
Of  his  melancholy  fit  1 

Tim.  It  rather,  madam, 
Increases,  than  grows  less. 

Grat.  In  the  next  room 

To  his  bedchamber  we  watch'd  ;  for  he  by  signs 
Gare  us  to  understand  he  would  admit 
Nor  company  nor  conference. 

Pul.  Did  he  take 
No  rest,  as  you  could  guess  1 

Chry.     Not  any,  madam. 
Like  a  Numidian  lion,  by  the  cunning 
Of  the  desperate  huntsman  taken  in  a  toil, 
And  forced  into  a  spacious  cage,  he  walks 
About  his  chamber  ;  we  might  hear  him  gnash 
His  teeth  in  rage,  which  open'd,  hollow  groans 
And  murmurs  issued  from  his  lips,  like  winds 
Imprison'd  in  the  caverns  of  the  earth 
Striving  for  liberty  :  and  sometimes  throwing 
His  body  on  his  bed,  then  on  the  ground, 
And  with  such  violence,  that  we  more  than  fear'd, 
And  still  do,  if  the  tempest  of  his  passions 
liy  your  wisdom  be  not  laid,  he  will  commit 
Some  outrage  on  himself. 

Pul.  His  better  angel, 

I  hope,  will  stay  him  from  so  foul  a  mischief; 
Nor  shall  my  care  be  wanting. 

Tim.  Twice  1  heard  Lim 
Say.  False  Eudocia,  how  much  art  thou 
Unworthy  of  these  tears  !  then  sigh'd,  and  straight 

•  ______  to  put  forth  on  inch  of  taper]  i.  e. 

to  put  our.     Forth,  for  out,  occurs  continually  in  our  old 
writers. 


Roar'd  out,  Paitlintts!  was  his  gouty  age 
To  be  prej'err'il  be/ore  my  strength  and  youth? 
Then  groan'd  again,  so  many  ways  expressing 
The  afflictions  of  a  tortured  soul,  that  we, 
Who  wept  in  vain  for  what  we  could  not  help, 
Were  sharers  in  his  sufferings. 

Pul.  Though  your  sorrow 
Is  not  to  he  condemn'd,  it  takes  not  from 
The  burthen  of  his  miseries  :  we  must  practise, 
With  some  fresh  object,  to  divert  his  thoughts 
From  that  they  are  wholly  fix'd  on. 

Chry.  Could  I  gain 

The  freedom  of  access,  I  would  present  him 
With  this  petition, —  Will  your  highness  please 
To  look  upon  it :  you  will  soon  fiud  there 
What  my  intents  and  hopes  are. 

Enter  THEODOSIUS. 

Grat.  Ha!  'tis  he. 

Pul.  Stand  close, 

And  give  wav  to  his  passions;  'tis  not  safe 
To  stop  them  in  their  violent  course,  before 
They  have  spent  themselves. 

Theo.  I  play  the  fool,  and  am 
Unequal*  to  myself :   delinquents  are 
To  suffer,  not  tiie  innocent.     I  have  done 
Nothing,  which  will  not  hold  weight  in  the  scale 
Of  my  impartial  justice  ;  neither  feel  I 
The  worm  of  conscience  upbraiding  me 
For  one  black  deed  of  tyranny  ;  wherefore  then, 
Should  I  torment  myself?     Great  Julius  would  not 
Rest  satisfied  that  his  wife  was  free  from  fact, 
But,  only  for  suspicion  of  a  crime. 
Sued  a  divorce  ;  nor  was  this  Roman  rigour 
Censured  as  cruel :  and  still  the  wise  Italian, 
That  knows  the  honour  of  his  family 
Depends  upon  the  purity  of  his  bed, 
For  a  kiss,  nay,  wanton  look,  will  plough  up  mis- 
chief, 

And  sow  the  seeds  of  his  revenge  in  blood. 
And  shall  I,  to  whose  power  the  law's  a  servant, 
That  stand  accountable  to  none,  for  what 
My  will  calls  an  offence  being  compell'd, 
And  on  such  grounds,  to  raise  an  aitar  to 
My  anger  ;  though,  1  grant,  it  is  cemented 
With  a  loose  strumpet  and  adulterer's  gore, 
Repent  the  justice  of  my  fury  1     No. 
I  should  not :  yet  still  mv  excess  of  love, 
Fed  high  in  the  remembrance  of  her  choice 
And  sweet  embraces,  would  persuade  me  that 
Connivance  or  remission  of  her  fault, 
Made  warrantable  by  her  true  submission 
For  her  offence,  might  be  excuseable, 
Did  not  the  cruelty  of  my  wounded  honour, 
With  an  open  mouth,  deny  it. 

Put.  1  approve  of 

Your  good  intention,  and  I  hope  'twill  prosper. — 

[To  Chrysapius 

He  now  seems  calm:  let  us,  upon  our  knees, 
Encompass  him. — Most  royal  sir 

Flac.  Sweet  brother 

Arcad.  As  you  are  our  sovereign,  by  the  ties  of 

nature 

You  are  bound  to  be  a  father  in  your  care 
To  us  poor  orphans. 

Tim.  Show  compassion,  sir, 
Unto  yourself. 


«  Theo.  J  play  the  fool,  and  am 
Unequal  to  myself;  i.  e.  unjust. 


:ESF.  III.] 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST 


SO* 


Grat.  The  majesty  of  your  fortune 
Should  fly  above  the  reach  of  grief. 

Chry.  And  'tis 
Impair'd,  if  you  yield  to  it. 

Theo.  Wherefore  pay  you 
This  adoration  to  a  sinful  creature*? 
I  am  flesh  and  blood,  as  you  are,  sensible 
Of  heat  and  cold,  as  much  a  slave  unto 
The  tyranny  of  my  passions,  as  the  meanest 
Of  my  poor  subjects.     The  proud  attributes, 
13y  oil-tongued  flattery  imposed  upon  us, 
As  sacred,  glorious,  high,  invincible, 
The  deputy  of  heaven,  and  in  that 
Omnipotent,  with  all  false  titles  else, 
Coin'd  to  abuse  our  frailty,  though  compounded, 
And  by  the  breath  of  sycophants  applied, 
Cure  not  the  least  fit  of  an  ague  in  us. 
We  may  give  poor  men  riches,  confer  honours 
On  uudeservers,  raise,  or  ruin  such 
As  are  beneath  us,  and,  with  this  puff 'd  up, 
Ambition  would  persuade  us  to  forget 
That  we  are  men .   but  He  that  sits  above  us, 
And  to  whom,  at  our  utmost  rate,  we  are 
But  pageant  properties,  derides  our  weakness : 
In  me,  to  whom  you  kneel,  'tis  most  apparent. 
Can  L  call  back  yesterday,  with  all  their  aids 
That  bow  unto  my  sceptre?  or  restore 
My  mind  to  that  tranquillity  and  peace 
It  then  enjoy'd? — Can  If  make  Eudocia  chaste, 
Or  vile  Paulintu  honest? 

Put.   If  I  might, 
Without  offence,  deliver  my  opinion 

Theo.   What  would  you  say? 

Pul.  That,  on  my  soul,  the  empress 
Is  innocent. 

Chry    The  good  Paulinus  guiltless. 

Grat.  And  this  should  yield  you  comfort. 

Theo.  In  being  guilty 
Of  »n  offence  far,  far  transcending  that 
They  stand  condemn'd  for!   Call  you  this  a  comfort? 
Suppose  it  could  be  true, — a  corsivef  rather, 
Not  to  eat  oul  dead  flesh,  but  putrifv 
What  yet  is  sound.     W'as  murder  ever  held 
A  cure  for  jealousy?  or  the  crying  blood 
Of  innocence,  a  balm  to  take  away 
Her  festering  anguish  ?     As  you  do  desire 
I  should  not  do  a  justice  on  myself, 
Add  to  the  proofs  by  which  Paulinus  fell, 
And  not  take  from  them  ;  in  your  charity 
Sooner  believe  that  they  were  false,  than  I 
Unrighteous  in  my  judgment?  subjects'  lives 
Are  not  their  prince's  tennis-balls,  to  be  bandied 
In  sport  away  :  all  that  I  can  endure 
For  them,  if  they  were  guilty,  is  an  atom 


*  Theo.   H'kerefnre  pay  you 

Tliis  adoration  to  a  sinful  creature  ?]  In  this  fine  speech 
Massinger  has  ventured  to  measure  weapons  with  Shak- 
tpeare,  and,  it'  I  may  trust  my  judgment,  not  unsuccess- 
fully. The  feelings,  indeed,  are  more  interested  by  the 
latter,  but  that  aiises  from  the  situation  of  his  chief  cha 

Can  I  make  Eudocia  cJiaite,]  The  quarto 

Can  it  make.  For  the  present  reading  1  i.m  answerable. 

+ ('all  you  this  a  comfort  ? 

Suppose  it  could  be  true, — a  corsivr.  rather, 

Aot  to  eat  out  dead  flesh,   &c.]     Our  old   write  s   used 


racttr 
t 

has 


corsive  or  corrosive,  indifferently,  as  it  united  the  vei 
I  should  make  no  difficulty  of  regulating  the  men 
cordingly,  in  defitince  of  the  vicious  spelling  of  li 
copies.  In  the  nexl  line,  for—  to  eat  out,  whi'  h 
phraseology  of  the  times,  and  perfectly  correct,  the 
tdit'.'rs  abouii  .ly  read-  -to  eat  our  deadjlah  I 

23 


e  ;  and 
ire  ac- 
early 
vas  Hie 
nodcru 


To  the  mountain  of  affliction  I  pull'd  on  me, 
Should  they  prove  innocent. 

Chry.  For  your  majesty's  peace, 
I  mote  than  hope  they  were  not :  the  false  oath 
Ta'en  by  the  empress,  and  for  which  she  can 
Plead  no  excuse,  convicted  her,  and  yields 
A  sure  defence  for  your  suspicion  of  her, 
And  yet  to  be  resolved,  since  strong  doubts  are 
More  grievous,  for  the  most  part,  than  to  know 
A  certain  loss 

Theo.  Tis  true,  Chrysapius, 
Were  there  a  possible  means. 

Chry.  'Tis  ofi'er'd  to  you, 

If  you  please  to  embrace  it.     Some  few  minutes 
Make  truce  with  passion,  and  but  read,  and  follow 
What's  there  projected — [Delivers  him  a  pa/;«-.],- 

you  shall  find  a  key 

Will  make  your  entrance  easy,  to  discover 
Her  secret  thoughts ;  and  then,  as  in  your  wisdom 
You  shall  think  tit,  you  may  determine  of  her; 
And  rest  confirm 'd,  whether  Paulinus  died 
A  villain  or  a  martyr. 

Theo.  It  may  do, 

Nay,  sure  it  must;  yet,  howsoe'er  it  fall  ; 
I  am  most  wretched.     Which  way  in  my  wishes 
I  should*   fashion  the  event,  I'm  so  distracted 
I  cannot  yet  resolve  of. — Follow  me  •, 
Though  in  my  name  ull  names  are  comprehended, 
1  must  have  witnesses  in  what  degree 
I  have  done  wrong,  or  suffer'd. 

Pul.  Hope  the  best,  sir.  [Exeunt 


SCENE  III. — .Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Ei.ter  Et'DociA  in  sackcloth,  her  hair  loose. 

[Sings.]   IF/ii/  art  thou  slow,  than  rest  of  trouble,  Death, 

To  stop  a  wretch's  breath. 
That  calls  on  thee,  and  ojf'rrs  her  sad  heart 

A  prey  unto  thy  dart? 
I  am  nor  young  nor  fair;  be,  therefore,  bold  : 

Sorrow  hath  made  me  old, 
Deform  d,  and  wrinkled ;  all  that  I  can  crave, 

Js,  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Such  as  live  hnpi>yt  hold  long  life  a  jewel ; 

But  to  me  tliou  art  cruel, 
If  thou  end  not  my  tedious  misery  ; 

And  I  soon  cease  to  be. 
Strike,  and  slrike  home,  then, ;  pity  unto  me, 

In  one  short  hour's  delay,  is  tyranny. 

Thus,  like  a  dying  swan,  to  a  sad  tune 

I  sing  my  own  dirge  ;  would  a  requiem  follow, 

Which  in  my  penitence  1  despair  not  of 

(This  brittle  glass  of  life  already  broken 

With  misery),  the  long  and  quiet  sleep 

Of  death  would  be  most  welcome  ! — Yet  before 

We  end  our  pilgrimage,  'tis  fit  that  we 

Should  leave  corruption  and  foul  sins  behind  us. 

But  with  wash'd  feet  and  Lands,  the  heathens  dare 

not 

Enter  their  profane  temples  :  and  for  me 
To  hope  my  passage  to  eternity 
Can  be  made  easy,  till  1  have  shook  off 


Which  way  in  my  wishe* 


I  shoulil/asAton  the  event,}  Mr.M.Mason  omits^owW,  which 
reduces  the  passage  to  nonsense  ;  but,  in  his  great  care  lor 
the  purity  of  his  author's  language,  alters,  in  the  next  line, 
—resolve  of,  to  resolve  on  1  it  is  much  to  be  regretted  that 
his  anxiety  should  appear  so  often  in  Uie  wrong  place. 


310 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


[Acr  \, 


The  burthen  of  my  sins  in  free  confession, 
Aided  with  sorrow  and  repentance  for  them, 
Is  against  reason.     '  1'is  not  laying  by 
My  royal  ornaments,  or  putting  on 
This  garment  of  humility  and  contrition, 
The  throwing  dust  and  ashes  on  my  head, 
Long  fasts  to  tame  my  proud  flesh,  that  can  make 
Atonement  for  my  soul ;  that  must,  be  humbled, 
All  outward  signs  of  penitence  else  are  useless. 
Chrysapius  did  assure  me  he  would  bring  me 
A  holy  man,  from  whom  (having  discover'd 
ly  secret  crying  sins)  I  might  receive 
Ail!  absolution — and  he  keeps  his  word. 

Enter  THEODOSIUS  disguised  as  a  Friar,  with 
CHRYSAPIUS. 

Welcome,  most  reverend  sir,  upon  my  knees 
I  entertain  you. 

Tlieo.  Noble  sir,  forbear 
The  place  ;  the  sacred  office  that  I  come  for 

[Exit  Chrysapius* 

Commands  all  privacy.     My  penitent  daughter, 
Be  careful,  as  you  wish  remission  from  me, 
That,  in  confession  of  your  sins,  you  hide  not 
One   crime,  whose    ponderous   weight,  when   you 

would  make 

Your  flights  above  the  firmament,  may  sink  you. 
A  foolish  modesty  in  concealing  aught, 
Is  now  far  worse  than  impudence  to  profess 
And  justify  your  guilt;  be  therefore  free  ! 
So  may  the  gates  of  mercy  open  to  you  ! 

Etui.  First  then,  I  ask  a  pardon,  for  my  being 
Ingrateful  to  heaven's  bounty. 

Then.  A  good  entrance. 

End.  Greatness  comes  from  above,  and  I,  raised 

to  it 

From  a  low  condition,  sinfully  forgot 
From  whence  it  came  ;  and,  looking  on  myself 
In  the  false  glass  of  flattery,  I  received  it 
As  a  debt  due  to  my  beauty,  not  a  gift 
Or  favour  from  the  emperor. 

Theo.  Twas  not  well. 

l-'.nd.  Pride   waited  on  unthankfulness ;    and  no 

more 

Remembering  the  compassion  of  the  princess, 
And  the  means  she  used  to  make  me  what  I  was, 
Contested  with  her,  and  with  sore  eyes  seeing 
Her  greater  light  as  it  dimm'd  mine,  I  practised 
To  have  it  quite  put  out. 

Theo.   \  great  offence  ; 
But.  on  repentance,  not  unpardonable. 
Forward. 

End.  O,  father! — what  I  now  must  utter, 
I  fear,  in  the  delivery  will  destroy  me, 
Before  you  have  absolved  me. 

The".  Heaven  is  gracious  ; 
Out  with  it. 

Eud.  Heaven  commands  us  to  tell  truth, 
Yet  I,  most  sinful  wretch,  forswore  myself. 

The>>.  On  what  occasion  ? 

End.  Quite  forgetting  that 
An  innocent  truth  can  never  stand  in  need 
Of  a  guilty  lie,  being  on  the  sudden  ask'd 
By  the  emperor,  my  husband,  for  an  apple 
Presente.l  by  him,  I  swore  I  had  eaten  it; 
When  my  grieved   conscience   too   well    knows  I 

uent  it 

To  comfort  sick  Paulinus,  being  a  man 
I  truly  loved  and  favour'd. 


Then.  A  cold  sweat, 
Like  the  juice  of  hemlock,  bathes  ine.  [Aside, 

Eud.  And  from  this 
A  furious  jealousy  getting  possession 
Of  the  good  emperor's  heart,  in  his  rage  be  doom'd 
The  innocent  lord  to  die  ;  my  perjury 
The  fatul  cause  of  murder. 

Theo.  Take  heed,  daughter, 

You  niggle*  not  with  your  conscience,  and  religion, 
In  styling  him  an  innocent,  from  your  fear 
And  shame  to  accuse  yourself.     The  emperor 
Had  many  spies  upon  you,  saw  such  graces, 
Which  virtue  could  not  warrant,  shower'd  upon  him  ; 
Glances  in  public,  and  more  liberal  favours 
In  your  private  chamber-meetings,  making  way 
For  foul  adultery  ;  nor  could  he  be 
But  sensible  of  the  compact  pass'd  between  you, 
To  the  ruin  of  his  honour. 

Etui.  Hear  me,  fathei  ; 
I  look'd  for  comfort,  but,  in  this,  you  come 
To  add  to  my  afflictions. 

Theo.  Cause  not  you 
Your  own  damnation,  in  concealing  that 
Which  may,  in  your  discovery,  find  forgiveness. 
Open  your  eyes ;  set  heaven  or  hell  before  you  ; 
In  the  revealing  of  the  truth,  you  shall 
Prepare  a  palace  for  your  soul  to  dwell  in 
Stored  with  celestial  blessings;  whereas,  if 
You  palliate  your  crime,  and  dare  beyond 
Playing  with  lightning,  in  concealing  it, 
Expect  a  dreadful  dungeon  filled  with  horror, 
And  never-ending  torments. 

Eud.  May  they  fall 
Eternally  upon  me,  and  increase, 
When  that  which  we  call  Time  hath  lost  its  name  ! 
May  lightning  cleave  the  centre  of  the  earth, 
Au'd  I  sink  quick,  before  you  have  absolved  me, 
Into  the  bottomless  abyss,  if  ever, 
In  one  unchaste  desire,  nay,  in  a  thought, 
1  wrong'd  the  honour  of  the  emperor's  bed  ! 
I  do  deserve,  I  grant,  more  than  I  suffer, 
In  that  my  fervour  and  desire  to  please  him, 
In  my  holy  meditations  press'd  upon  me, 
And  would  not  be  kept  out;  now  to  dissemble,        < 
When  1  shall  suddenly  be  insensible 
Of  what  the  world  speaks  of  me,  were  mere  mad- 
ness ; 

And,  though  you  are  incredulous,  I  presume, 
If,  as  I  kneel  now,  my  eyes  swoll'n  with  tears, 
My  hands  heaved  up  thus,  my  stretch 'd  heart-strings 

ready 

To  break  asunder,  my  incensed  lord 
(His  storm  of  jealousy  blown  o'er)  should  hear  me, 
He  would  believe  1  lied  not. 

Theo.  Rise,  and  see  him  [Discovers  himself. 

On  liis  knees,  with  joy  affirm  it. 

End.  Can  this  be? 

Tlieo.   My  sisters,  and  the  rest  there  ! — All  bear 
witness, 

Eater  PULCHERIA,    ARCADIA,    FLACCILLA,   CHRYSA- 
PIUS, TIMANTUS,  and  PHILANAX. 

In  freeing  this  incomparable  lady 


•  The.  Take  heed,  daughter, 

You  niggle  not  with  your  conscience,]  i.  e.  trifle,  play, 
with  it ;  tins  is  the  cant  t-cu-r  of  the  word  :  ils  proper  mean- 
ing is,  lo  deceive,  to  draw  out  Mirreplilioiisly,  &c.  Thus, 
in  The  Honest  H'hore,  I'art  II.:  "1  had  hut  one  poor 
penny,  unit  thai  I  was  glad  to  >iii/<//r  out,  and  buy  a  holly 
wand  to  grate  him  through  the  streets." 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  EMPKROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


311 


From  the  suspicion  of  guilt,  1  do 
Accuse  myself,  and  willingly  submit 
To  any  penance  she  in  justice  shall 
Please  to  impose  upon  me. 

F.ud.   Royal  sir, 
Your  ill  opinion  of  me's  soon  forgiven. 

Put.  But  how  you  can  make  satisfaction  to 
Tlie  poor  Paulinus,  he  being  dead,  in  reason 
Yon  must  conclude  impossible. 

Theo.   And  in  that 
I  am  most  miserable ;  the  ocean 
Of  joy,  which,  in  your  innocence,  flow'tl  high  to  me, 
Ebbs  in  the  thought  of  mv  unjust  command, 
By  which  he  died.     O,  Philanax  (as  thy  name 
Interpreted  speaks  tliee),  thou  hast  ever  been 
A  lover  of  the  king,  and  thy  whole  life 
Can  witness  thy  obedience  to  my  will, 
In  putting  that  in  execution  which 
Was  trusted  to  thee  ;  say  but  yet  this  once, 
Thou  hast  not  done  what  rashly  1  commanded, 
And  that  Paulinus  lives,  and  thy  reward 
For  not  performing  that  which  1  ocjodu'd  thee, 
Shall  centuple  whatever  yet  thy  duty 
Or  merit  challenged  from  me. 

Phil.  Tis  too  la'e,  sir: 

He's  dead  ;  and,  when  you  know  he  was  unable 
To  wrong  you  in  the  wav  that  you  suspected, 
You'll  wish  it  had  been  otherwise. 

Theo.  Unable ! 

Phil.  I  am  sure  he  was  an  eunuch,  and  might 

safely 

Lie  by  a  virgin's  side;  at  four  years  made  one, 
'1  hough,  to  hold  grace  with  ladies,  he  conceal'd  it. 
The  circumstances,  and  the  manner  how, 
You  may  hear  at  better  leisure. 

Tlieo.    How.  an  eunuch  ! 
The  more  the  proofs  are  that  are  brought  to  clear 

thee, 
My  best  Eudocia,  the  more  my  sorrows. 

F.i'd.  That  I  am  innocent' 

Theo.  That  I  am  guilty 
Of  murder,  my  Eudocia.     I  will  build 
A  glorious  monument  to  his  memory  ; 
And,  for  my  punishment,  live  and  die  upon  it, 
And  never  more  converse  with  men. 

Enter  PAUUSUS. 

Paul.  Live  long,  sir! 
May  I  do  so  to  serve  you  !  and,  if  that 
I  live  does  not  displease  you,  you  owe  for  it 
To  this  aood  lord. 

Theo.  Myself,  and  all  that's  mine. 

Phil.   Your  pardon  is  a  payment. 

Theo.   1  am  rapt 

With  jov  beyond  myself.     Now,  my  Eudocia, 
My  jealousy  puff'd  away  thus,  in  this  breath 
1  scent  the  natural  sweetness.  [Kisses  her. 

Arcad.  Sacred  sir, 

I  am  happy  to  beliold  this,  and  presume, 
Now  you  are  pleased,  to  move  a  suit  in  which 
My  sister  is  join'd  with  me. 

Then.  Prithee  speak  it; 
For  1  have  vow'd  to  hear  before  I  grant; — 
I  thank  your  good  instructions.  [To  PulcJieria. 

Arcad.  'Tis  but  this,  sir  : 
We  have  observed  the  falling  out  and  in 
Between  the  husband  and  the  wife  shows  rarely  ; 
Theii  jars  and  reconcilements  strangely  take  us. 

FLic.  Anger  and  jealousy  that  conclude  in  kisses 
Is  a  sweet  war,  iu  sooth. 


Arcad.   We  therefore,  brother, 

Most  humbly  beg  you  would  provide  us  husbands. 
That  we  may  taste  the  pleasure  oft. 

Flac.  And  with  speed,  sir; 
For  so  your  favour's  doubled. 

Theo.  Take  my  word, 

I  will  with  all  convenience  ;  and  not  blush 
Hereafter  to  be  guided  by  your  counsels: 
I  will  deserve  your  pardon.     Philanax 
Shall  be  remember'd,  and  magnificent  bounties 
Fall  on  Chrysapius  ;  my  grace  on  all. 
Let  Cleon  be  cleliver'd,  and  rewarded. 
My  grace  on  all,  which  as  I  lend  to  you, 
Return  your  vows  to  heaven,  that  it  mav  please, 
As  it  is  gracious,  to  quench  in  me 
All  future  sparks  of  burning  jealousy.  [Exeunt. 

EPILOGUE. 

WE  have  reason  to  be  doubtful,  whether  he, 
On  whom  (forced  to  it  from  necessity) 
The  mak^r  did  confer  hisernjreror's  part, 
Hath  given  you  satisfaction,  in  his  art 
Of  action  and  delivery  ,  'tis  sure  truth, 
The  burthen  was  too  heavy  for  his  youth 
To  undergo  :— but,  in  his  will,  we  know, 
He  was  not  wanting,  and  shall  ever  owe, 
With  his,  our  service,  if  your  favours  deign 
To  give  him  strength,  hereafter  to  sustain 
A  greater  weight.     It  is  your  grace  that  can 
In  your  allowance  of  this,  write  him  man 
Before  his  time;  which  if  you  please  to  do. 
You  make  the  player  and  the  poet  too*. 


'There  is  so  much  sterling  merit  in  several  of  the  incident! 
and  characters  of  this  pity,  tli.tt  the  reader  is  inclined  to 
overlook  the  want  of  unity  in  the  story  itself.  It  is  Irne, 
Mrfssinger  seems  to  have  been  conscious  of  this  defect,  and 
h  t>  endeavoured  to  remedy  it  liy  contriving  an  early  intro- 
duction of  Athcnais,  and  by  giving  her  some  slight  connec- 
tion with  Paulinus  ;  for  this  is  carefully  remembered  in  the 
last  act,  as  one  of  the  circumstances  which  justify  the  jea- 
lousy 01  Theodofiiis.  But  the  chief  and  characteristic  event 
can  InrilU  be  said  to  begin  till  the  fourth  act.  Most  of  the 
preceding  scenes  are  a  series  of  conversations  and  incidents, 
rather  illustrative  of  some  of  the  characters,  than  necessary 
to  the  subject :  previous  in  the  order  of  history,  but  not 
strictly  preparatory  to  the  plot  ;  more  occupied  with  the 
public  influence  of  I'nlcheria,  tlnn  with  the  private  affection 
of  Kudocia. 

This  reservation  being  made,  we  cannot  but  admire  (he  ge- 
nuine dignity  with  which  the  government  ami  personal  vir- 
tues of  the  Protectress  are  announced,  and  the  interesting 
contrast  of  the  beautiful  but  lighter  Athrnais.  Theodosi^  \t 
connected  with  both  ;  and  is  described  with  much  fidelity  of 
nature  in  every  situation.  K>s  characteristic  qual.ty  ii 
weakness.  His  implicit  obedience  to  his  sister  during 
a  long  pupilage  ;  liis  escape  from  it  through  the  interested 
persuasions  of  others  ;  his  facility,  profusion,  and  uxorioni. 
subjection  to  Eudocia,  are  true  marks  of  the  same  cha- 
racter. Nor  are  they  contradicted  by  the  vehemence  into 
which  he  falls  in  the  last  act.  Indeed,  during  this  pa- 
roxysm he  acts  with  a  power  apparently  beyond  himself. 
He  acciimnlites^Mrciimstaiices  of  jealousy  with  much  force 
and  quickness.  With  a  melancholy  ingenuity,  he  perverts 
the  consolations  of  his  friends  into  new  proofs  of  his  guilt ; 
and  he  compels  the  most  innocent  thoughts  of  other!)  to  wear 
Hie  stamp  of  his  own  inadnes<.  Still  ibis  is  the  vehemence 
of  Theodosius.  His  fury  is  the  mere  eltect  of  uxorionsi.ess 
disappointed.  He  is  enraged,  not  that  hi*  honour  is  tar- 
nished (for  this  he  would  fondly  overlook),  but  that  he  has 
lo»t  the  possession  of  Eudocia.  It  is  the  very  impotence  of 
his  mind  which  lends  him  a  momentary  vigour  ;  and  all  his 
apparent  power  is  founded  on  his  constitutional  failing.  IB 
the  confession  scene  he  quickly  loses  his  assumed  character 
in  the  anxious  husb.md  ;  and  at  the  assertion  of  her  inno. 
cence,  he  rushes  to  his  reconcilement  with  an  eagernes* 
which  shows  his  true  disposition,  and  renews  all  the  ascen- 
dancy of  her  ch.irin!. 

It  it  to  be  wished  that  this  grut  merit  were  not  »ccom- 


SIS 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST. 


panied  with  serious  blemishes  ;  but  sometimes  the  manners 
of  Massinger's  age  are  thrust,  with  more  than  their  usual 
ill  effect,  into  the  history  of  Theodosius ;  and  sometimes  his 
best  characters  ate  needlessly  debased.  Pulcheria  falls  into 
an  improper  discussion  of  modern  levities  with  the  Infor- 
mer, &c.  Her  sisters,  contr-iry  to  the  history  of  their  time, 
are  described  as  wanton,  and  rebellions  against  her  autho- 
rity :  nor  is  there  an  object  for  this  change  of  character ; 
they  are  merely  degraded.  The  Countryman  equals  the 
judgment  of  Theodosius  with  the  Sunday  maxims  of  the 
vicar  of  his  parish;  and  Theodo^iiis  himself,  pure  and  re- 
ligion; as  Massinger  really  meant  to  represent  him,  loses 
his  delicacy ;  and  when  he  has  to  choose  a  wife  from  the 
portraits  of  the  candidates,  enlarges  upon  their  properties 
with  the  licentiousness  of  an  experienced  debauche.  It  is 
observable,  that  in  one  part  of  this  scene  an  attention  to 
the  court  bursts  out.  Theodosius  is  impatient  that  he  must 
judge  the  "substance"  of  the  ladies  "  by  the  shadow,"  and 
demands  to  see  them  "  with  his  own  eyes."  Perhaps  the 
king  was  not  displeased  at  the  compliment  bestowed  by  a 
Greek  emperor  on  the  notable  project  of  courting  the 
Spanish  princess. 

A  word  must  be  added  concerning  the  sources  from  which 
Massinger  has  drawn  his  story.  Coxeter  briefly  informs  us 
that  the  plot  is  taken  from  the  7th  book  of  Socrates,  and 
the  5th  of  Theodoret :  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  neither  confirms 
nor  disproves  this  intelligence.  But  what  is  the  plot? 
Arcadia  truly  calls  it, 

" the  falling  out  and  in 

Between  the  husband  and  the  wife " 

and  of  the  quarrel  and  reconcilement  of  Theodosius  ami 
Eadocia,  the  two  writers  referred  to  say  not  a  word  I  It  is 


not  enough  that  they  mention  olhcr  circumstances  of 
Alhenais,  and  celebrate  the  virtues  of  Theodosius  and  ni* 
sisters.  The  plot  is  still  to  be  sought  for :  and  So/omen, 
the  other  principal  historian  of  that  age,  is  as  silent  as  the 
authorities  of  Coxeter.  It  will  only  be  found  in  the  later 
chroniclers.  It  does  not  appear  that  there  is  any  full  ac- 
count of  Athenais  earlier  than  the  time  ot  Malelas.  Her 
love  for  Paulinus,  equally  handsome  and  eloquent,  is  men- 
tioned by  Cedrenus  ;  and  the  memorable  apple,  the  cause 
of  his  death,  by  Theophanes.  Fabr.  Eib.  Grtec.  lib.  v. 
c.  1. 

There  seems  to  be  some  confusion  in  the  dramatis  per- 
sona; of  this,  as  well  as  of  a  former  historical  Play — Roman 
Actor. — Flaccilla  is  mentioned  as  one  of  the  younger  sisters 
of  Theodosius.  At  all  events  tl.is  is  wrong.  Whatever  tes- 
timony there  is  for  her  existence  makes  her  older  than 
Pulcheria.  But  Sozomen,  who  names  the  rest  of  the  family, 
says  nothing  of  her.  And  if  Philostorgius  is  to  be  believed, 
there  was  no  sister  of  that  name:  for,  in  his  account  of  thb 
disgrace  of  Eutropius,,  he  marks  the  time,  by  observing, 
that,  in  order  to  assiat  her  complaint  with  Arcadius,  she 
carried  with  her  the  twu  children  already  born  (Pulcheria 
and  Arcadia),  and  that  Marina  and  Theodosius  were  pro- 
duced after  that  event.  It  is  possible  that  the  name  of 
Marina,  omitted  by  Massinger  from  the  list  of  the  sisters, 
may  have  been  bestowed  on  the  waiting-woman  of  Pul- 
cheria.  If  so,  it  will  rectify  the  confusion  noticed  by  the 
editor,  Act  II.  Sc.  1.  The  "reverend  aunt,  Maria,"  who 
assists  at  the  baptism  of  Athenais,  was  perhaps  the  wife  of 
Honorius,  celebrated  by  Claudian. 

In  ttnui  labor- D».  IRELAND. 


THE   FATAL   DOWRY. 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY.]  This  most  excellent  Tragedy  does  not  appear  to  Lave  been  licensed  by  Sir  H 
Herbert ;  nor  is  it  accompanied  by  any  prologue  or  epilogue  ;  circumstances  from  which  Mr.  Malone  con- 
cludes that  it  was  produced  previous  to  1620.  However  this  be,  it  was  not  printed  till  1632,  before  which 
time,  the  title-page  says,  it  "  had  been  often  acted  at  the  private  house  in  Blackfriars,  by  his  Majesty's 
servants." 

Massinger  was  assisted  in  the  writing  of  it  by  Nathaniel  Field  (of  whom  some  mention  is  made  in  the 
Introduction.)  This  would  incline  me  to  adopt  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Malone;  for  the  author  seems  to  have 
trusted  to  his  own  resources  after  the  period  here  mentioned ;  all  the  pieces  licensed  by  the  master  of  the 
revels  being  his  own  composition. 

From  this  Play  Rowe  borrowed,  or,  according  to  Cicero's  distinction,  stole,  the  plan  of  The  Fair  Penitent, 
a  performance  by  which  he  is  now  chiefly  known.  The  relative  merits  of  the  two  pieces  are  discussed  by 
Mr.  Cumberland,  in  the  ingenious  analysis  which  follows  the  present  Tragedy ;  and  which  I  regret  that  he 
did  not  pursue  to  the  conclusion,  as  the  superiority  of  Massinger  would  have  been  still  more  apparent 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


ROCHFOHT,  ex  premier  president  of  the  parliament  of  I 

Dijon. 
CHAR  ALOIS,   a  noble  gentleman,  ton   to  the  deceased 

marshal. 

ROMOT,  a  brave  nfficur,  friend  to  Charalois. 
NOVALL  senior,  premier  president  of  the  parliament  of 

Dijon. 

NOVALL  junior,  hit  son,  in  love  with  Beaumelle. 
Du  CROY,  president  of  the  parliament  o/  Dijon. 
CHAIUII,  an  advocate. 
BEAVMONT,  Secretary  to  Rochfort. 


}/"""*•  rf  Novall  junior. 
LILADAU,  a  parasite,  dependent  on  Novalljunuw. 

SCENE, 


AYMER,   a  finger,  and  keeper  of  a  music-house,  also 

dependent  on  Novalljunwr. 
Advocates. 
Three  Creditort. 
A  Priest. 
Tailor. 
Barber. 
Perfumer. 
Page. 

BEAUMELLE,  daughter  to  Rochfort 
FLORIMEL,    j  tenants  to  Beaumelle;  the  latter  tin  st- 
BELLAPERT,  J      cret  agent  of  Novall  junior. 
Presidents,  Captains,  Soldiers,  Mourners,  Gaoler,  Bat* 

lijf'$,  Servants. 
Dijon. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— A  Street  before  the  Court  of  Justice. 
Enter  CHARALOIS  with  a  paper,  ROMONT,  and  CIIARMI. 

Char.  Sir,  I  may  move  the  court  to  serve  your 

will ; 
But  therein  shall  both  wrong  you  and  myself. 

Horn.  Why  think  you  so,  sir? 

Char.  'Cause  I  am  familiar 
With  what  will  be  their  answer:  they  will  say, 
Tis  against  law,  and  argue  me  of  ignorance, 
For  offering  them  the  motion. 

Rnm.  You  know  not,  sir, 

How,  in  this  cause,  they  may  dispense  with  law  ; 
And  therefore  frame  not  you  their  answer  from  them, 
But  do  your  parts. 


Char.  I  love  the  cause  so  well, 
As*  I  could  run  the  hazard  of  a  check  for't. 

Rom.  From  whom  ? 

Char.  Some  of  the  bench,  that  watch  to  give  it. 
More  than  to  do  the  office  that  they  sit  for : 
But  give  me,  sir,  my  fee. 

Rom.  Now  you  are  noble. 

Char.  I  shall  deserve  this  better  yet,  in  giving 
My  lord  some  counsel,  if  he  please  to  hear  it, 
Than  I  shall  do  with  pleading. 


•  As  /  could  run,  &c.]  Former  editors— That  /  could  run. 
1  do  not  love  this  modernising  ;  by  degrees  no  one  will  be  al- 
lowed to  speak  the  language  of  bis  age. 


514 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acr  I 


Rom.  VVhat  may  it  be,  sir? 

Char.  That  it  would  please  bis  lordsbip,  as  tbe 

presidents 

And  counsellors  of  court  come  by,  to  stand 
Here,  and  but  show  himself*,  and  to  some  one 
Or  two,  make  bis  request :  there  is  a  minute, 
When  a  man's  presence  speaks  in  his  own  cause, 
More  than  the  tongues  of  twenty  advocates. 
Horn.  1  have  urged  that. 

Eittrr  ROCHFORT  and  Dir  Cnov. 
Char.  Their  lordships  here  are  coming, 
I  must  go  get  me  a  place.     You'll  find  me  in  court, 
And  at  your  service.  [Exit. 

Rom.  Now,  put  onf  vour  spirits. 
Du  Croy.   The  ease  that  you  prepare  yourself,  my 
In  giving  up  the  place  you  hold  in  court,  [lord, 

Will  prove,  I  fear,  a  trouble  in  the  slate, 
And  that  no  slight  one. 

Roch.  Pray  you,  sir,  no  more. 
Ron.  Now,  sir,  lose  not  tins  ofFer'd  means  :  their 
Fix'd  on  you  with  a  pitying  earnestness,          [looks, 
Invite  you  to  demand  their  furtherance 
To  your  good  purpose  :  this  such  a  dulness, 

So  foolish  and  untimely,  as 

DM  Croif.  You  know  him  1 
Roch.  1  do  ;  and  much  lament  the  sudden  fall 
Of  this  brave  house.     It  is  young  Charalois, 
Son  to  the  marshal,  from  whom  he  inherits 
His  fame  and  virtues  only. 
Rom.  Ha  !  they  name  you. 

Du  Cray.  His  father  died  in  prison  two  days  since, 
Roch.  Yes,  to  the  shame  of  this  ungrateful  state  ; 
That  such  a  master  in  the  art  of  war, 
So  noble  and  so  highly  meriting 
From  this  forgetful  country,  should,  for  want 
Of  means  to  satisfy  his  creditors 
The  sums  he  took  up  for  the  general  good, 
Meet  with  an  end  so  infamous. 

Rom.  Dare  you  ever 
Hope  for  like  opportunity  ? 
Du  Cray.  My  good  lord  ! 
Roch.  My  wish  bring  comfort  to  you ! 
Du  Croy.  The  time  calls  us. 
Roch.  Good  morrow,  colonel ! 

[Exeunt  Rochfort  and  Du  Croy. 
Rom.  This  obstinate  spleen, 
You  think,  becomes  your  sorrow,  and  sorts  well 
With  your  black  suits :  but,  grant  me  wit  or  judg- 
And,  by  the  freedom  of  an  honest  man,  [ment, 

And  a  true  friend  to  boot,  I  swear  'tis  shameful. 
And  therefore  flatter  not  yourself  with  hope, 
Your  sable  habit,  with  the  hat  and  cloak,          [them 
No,  though  the  ribands  help,  have  power  to  work 
To  what  you  would  :  for  those  that  had  no  eyes 
To  see  the  great  acts  of  your  father,  will  not, 
From  any  fashion  sorrow  can  put  on, 
Be  taught  to  know  their  duties. 

Charal.  If  they  will  not, 
They  are  too  old  to  learn,  and  I  too  young 
To  give  them  counsel ;  since,  if  they  partake 
The  understanding:  and  the  hearts  of  men, 
They  will  prevent  my  words  and  tears  :  if  not, 
What  can  persuasion,  though  made  eloquent 
With  grief,  work  upon  such  as  have  changed  natures 
Wiih  the  most  savage  beast?   Blest,  blest  be  ever 

*  Here,  and  but  nhow  himself,]  Thi»  lias  been  hitherto 
printed  show  yourse'f.  The  necessity  of  the  alteration  will,  I 
trust,  be  readily  acknowledged. 

tRora.  Now,  yut  on  your  spirits.]  Route,  animate 
Uiem. 


The  memory  of  that  nappy  age,  when  justice 
Had  no  guards  to  keep  off  wrong'd  innocence 
From  flying  to  her  succours,  and,  in  that, 
Assurance  of  redress  !  where*  now,  Romont, 
The  damn'd  with  more  ease  may  ascend  from  hell, 
Than  we  arrive  at  her.     One  Cerberus  there 
Forbids  the  passage,  in  our  courts  a  thousand, 
As  loud  and  fertile-headed  ;  and  the  client 
That  wants  the  sops  to  fill  their  ravenous  throats, 
Must  hope  for  no  access  :   why  should  I,  then, 
Attempt  impossibilities;  you,  friend,  being 
Too  well  acquainted  with  my  dearth  of  means 
To  make  my  entrance  that  way  ? 

Rum.  Would  1  were  not ! 
But,  sir,  you  have  a  cause,  a  cause  so  just, 
Of  such  necessity,  not  to  be  deferr'd, 
As  would  compel  a  maid,  whose  foot  was  never 
Set  o'er  her  father's  threshold,  nor  within 
The  house  where  she  was  born,  ever  spake  word 
Which  was  not  usher'd  with  pure  virgin  blushes, 
To  drown  the  tempest  of  a  pleader's  tongue, 
And  force  corruption  to  give  back  the  line 
It  took  against  her.     Let  examples  move  you. 
You  see  men  great  in  birth,  esteem,  and  fortune, 
Rather  than  lose  a  scruple  of  their  right, 
Fawn  basely  upon  such,  whose  gowns  put  off, 
They  would  disdain  for  servants. 

Charal    And  to  these 
Can  I  become  a  suitor? 

Rom.   Without  loss : 

\Vould  you  consider,  that  10  gain  their  favours, 
Our  chastest  dames  put  off  their  modesties, 
Soldiers  forget  their  honours,  usurers 
Make  sacrifice  of  gold,  poets  of  wit, 
And  men  religious  part  with  fame  and  goodness. 
Be  therefore  won  to  use  the  means  that  may 
Advance  your  pious  ends. 

Charal.  You  shall  o'ercome. 

Rom.  And  you  receive  the  glory.     Pray  you,  now 
practise. 

Charal.  'Tis  wellf. 

Enter  NOVALL   senior,    Advocates,   LILADAM,    and 
three  Creditors. 

[Tenders  his  petition.]  Not  look  on  me! 

fiiwn.  You  must  have  patience 

Offer  it  again. 

Charal.  And  be  again  contemn'd  ! 

Nov.  sen.  I  know  what's  to  be  done. 

1  Cred.  And,  that  your  lordship 
Will  please  to  do  your  knowledge,  we  offer  first 
Our  thankful  hearts  here,  as  a  bounteous  earnest 
To  what  we  will  add. 

Nov.  sen.  One  word  more  of  this, 
I  am  your  enemy.     Am  1  a  man 
Your  bribes  can  work  on?   ha? 

Litud.   Friends,  you  mistake 
The  way  to  win  my  lord  ;  he  must  not  hear  this 
But  I,  as  one  in  favour  in  his  sight, 
May  hearken  to  you  for  my  profit.     Sir ! 
Pray  hear  them. 


*  Atsuraitce  of  redress !  where  now,  Romont,]  So  the 
qnarlo :  the  modern  editors,  in  their  rage  for  reformation, 
read, 

Assurance  of  redress:  whereas  now  Romont, 
which  reduces  the   line  to  very  homely  prose.      H  kerf  for 
whereas occurs  continually  ia  these  plays,  and,  indeed,  in  all 
our  old  writers. 

+  Chard.  'Tis  well.]  Tliefe  two  words  I  have  given  to 
Chiiraluis,  to  whom  they  of  right  belong:  they  have  hulitito 
been  allotted  to  Horaoiit. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


31.1) 


N»>.  ten.  It  is  well. 
l.ilad.  Observe  him  now. 

A'or.  sen.  Your  cause  being  good,  and  your  pro- 
ceedings so, 

Without  corruption  I  am  your  friend  ; 
Speak  your  desires. 

f.  Cred.  Oh,  they  are  charitable; 
The  marshiil  stood  engaged  unto  us  three 
Two   hundred   thousand  crowns,    which,    by  his 

death, 

We  are  defeated  of:  for  which  great  loss 
We  aim  at  nothing  but  his  rotten  flesh  : 
Nor  is  that  cruelty. 

1  Cred.  I  have  a  son 

That  talks  of  nothing  but  of  guns  and  armour, 
And  swears  he'll  be  a  soldier ;   'tis  an  humour 
I  would  divert  him  from  ;  and  I  am  told, 
That  if  I  minister  to  him,  in  his  drink, 
Powder  made  of  this  bankrupt  marshal's  bones, 
Provided  that  the  carcass  rot  above  ground, 
Twill  cure  his  foolish  frenzy. 

Nov.  ten.   You  show  in  it 
A  father's  care.     I  have  a  son  myself, 
A  fashionable  gentleman,  and  a  peaceful ; 
And,  but  I  am  assured  he's  riot  so  given, 
He  should  take  of  it  too. 

Choral.  Sir! 

AW  sen.  What  are  you? 

Choral.  A  gentleman*. 

A'w.  sen.  So  are  many  that  rake  dunghills. 
If  you  have  any  suit,  move  it  in  court : 
I  take  no  papers  in  corners.  [Exit. 

Rom.  Yes, 

As  the  matter  may  be  carried,  and  whereby 
To  manage  the  conveyance. Follow  him. 

Lilad.  You  are  rude  :   I  say  he  shall  not  pass. 

!  Exeunt  Charalois  and  Advocates. 
„....„    ^  „„  „„_,  ™ . 
On  what  assurance  1 

For  the  well  cutting  of  his  lordship's  corns, 
Picking  his  toes  or  any  office  else 
Nearer  to  baseness ! 

Lilad.  Look  upon  me  better  ; 
Are  these  the  ensigns  of  so  coarse  a  fellow? 
Be  well  advised. 

Rom,  Out,  rogue  !  do  not  I  know 
These  glorious  weeds  spring  from  the  sordid  dung- 
hill 

Of  thy  officious  baseness?  wert  thou  worthy 
Of  any  thing  from  me,  but  my  contempt, 
I  would    do   more   than  this — [Beats  h imJ] — more, 

you  court-spider ! 

Lilad.  But  that  this  man  is  lawless,  he  should  find 
That  1  am  valiant. 

1  Cred.  If  your  ears  are  fast, 

Tis  nothing.   What's  a  blow  or  two?  as  much. 

2  Cred.    These   chastisements    as   useful    are  as 
frequent, 

To  such  as  would  grow  rich. 

Horn.  Are  they  so,  rascals? 
I  will  befriend  you,  then.  [Kicks  them. 

I  Cred.  Bear  witness,  sirs! 


«  Charal.  Mir  ! 
Nov.  sen.   H  hat  are  you? 

Charal.  A  gentleman.  So  I  have  regulated  these  speeches ; 
they  formerly  siond  thus  : 

He  should  take  of  it  too. — Mir !  what  are  you  f 

Charal.  A  gentleman. 

I  believed  that  the  modest  Charalois,  encouraged  by  Romont, 
ventures  to  address  himself  tu  Novall. 


Lilad.  Truth,  I  have  borne  my  part  already,  friends. 
In  the  court  you  shall  have  more.  [Evif. 

Rom.  I  know  you  for 

The  worst  of  spirits,  that  strive  to  rob  the  tombs 
Of  what  is  their  inheritance,  the  dead: 
For  usurers,  bred  by  a  riotous  peace, 
That  hold  the  charter  of  your  wealth  and  freedom 
By  being  knaves  and  cuckolds  ;  that  ne'er  pray, 
But  when  you  fear  the  rich  heirs  will  grow  wise, 
To  keep  their  lands  out  of  your  parchment  toils  ; 
And  then,  the  devil  your  father's  call'd  upon. 
To  invent  some  ways  of  luxury  ne'er  thought  on. 
Begone,  and  quickly,  or  I'll  leave  no  room 
Upon  your  foreheads  for  your  horns  to  sprout  on— 
Without  a  murmur,  or  I  will  undo  you, 
For  I  will  beat  you  honest. 

1  Cred.  Thrift  forbid  ! 
We  will  bear  this,  rather  than  hazard  that. 

[Exeunt  Credittirr 
Re-enter  CHARALOIS. 

Rom:  I  am  somewhat  eased  in  this  yet. 

Char.  Only,  friend, 

To  what  vain  purpose  do  I  make  my  sorrow 
Wait  on  the  triumph  of  their  cruelty? 
Or  teach  their  pride,  from  my  humility, 
To  think  it  has  o'ercome?  They  aie  determined 
What  they  will  do  ;  and  it  may  well  become  me, 
To  rob  them  of  the  glory  they  expect 
From  my  submiss  entreaties. 

Horn.  Think  not  so,  sir: 
The  difficulties  that  you  encounter  with 
\\  ill  crown  the  undertaking : — heaven  !  you  weep  : 
And  I  could  do  so  too,  but  that  1  know 
There's  more  expected  from  the  son  and  friend 
Of  him  whose  fatal  loss  now  shakes  our  natures, 
Than  sighs  or  tears,  in  which  a  village  nui>e, 
Or  cunning  strumpet,  when  her  knave  is  Lang'd, 
May  overcome  us.     We  are  men,  young  lord, 
Let  us  not  do  like  women.     To  the  court, 
And   there   speak  like   your  birth  :   wake  sleeping 

justice. 

Or  dare  the  axe.     This  is  a  way  will  sort 
With  what  you  are  :  I  call  you  not  to  that 
I  will  shrink  from  myself;  I  will  deserve 
Your  thanks,  or  suffer  with  you. — 0  how  bravely* 
That  sudden  fire  of  anger  shows  in  you  ! 
Give  fuel  to  it.     Since  you  are  on  a  shelf 
Of  extreme  danger,  suffer  like  yourself.        [Exeunt 


SCENE  II.— The  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter  ROCHFORT,  NOVALL  senior,  Presidents,  CHARMI 
Du  CROY,  BEAUMONT,  Advocates,  three  Creditors 
and  Officers. 

Du  Cray.  Your  lordships  seated,  may  this  meet 

ing  prove 

Prosperous  to  us,  and  to  the  general  good 
Of  Burgundy  ! 

AT«r.  sen  .  Speak  to  the  point. 

Du  Cray.  Which  is 

With  honour  to  dispose  the  place  and  power 
Of  premier  president,  which  this  reverend  man, 
Grave  Rochfort,  whom  for  honour's  sake  I  name, 


*  O  how  bravely,  &c.]  This  Romont  is  a  noble  fellow. 
Warm,  generous,  high-spirited,  di.-intfiesied,  faithiul,  a&d 
affectionate,  his  copy,  or  rather  his  shadow,  Horatio,  dwin 
dies  into  perfect  iiiM^iutic.uicc  on  the  comparison. 


516 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


fs  purposed  to  resign  ;  a  place,  mv  lords, 
[u  which  he  Ir.itli  with  such  integrity 
Perform 'd  the  first  and  best  parts  oi  a  judge, 
That,  as  his  life  transcends  all  fair  examples 
Of  such  as  were  before  him  in  Dijon, 
So  it  remains  to  those  that  shall  succeed  him, 
A  precedent  they  may  imitate,  but  not  equal*. 

Roch.  I  may  not  sit  to  hear  this. 

Du  Croii.  Let  the  love 

And  thankfulness  we  are  bound  to  pay  to  goodness, 
In  this  o'ercome  your  modesty. 

Roch.  My  thanks 

For  this  great  favour  shall  prevent  your  trouble 
The  honourable  trust  that  was  imposed 
Upon  my  weakness,  since  you  witness  for  me 
It  was  not  ill  discharged,  1  will  not  mention ; 
Nor  now,  if  age  had  not  deprived  me  of 
The  litt'e  strengtli  I  had  to  govern  well 
The  province  that  I  undertook,  forsake  it. 

Nov.  sen.  That  we  could  lend  you  of  our  years  ! 

Du  Cray.  Or  strength  ! 

Nov.  sen.  Or,  as  you   are,  persuade  you  to  con- 
tinue 
The  noble  exercise  of  your  knowing  judgment ! 

Roch.  That  may  not  be  ;  nor  can  your  lordships' 

goodness, 

Since  your  employments  have  conferr'd  upon  me 
Sufficient  wealth,  deny  the  use  of  it : 
And,  though  old  age,  when  one  foot's  in  the  grave, 
In  many,  when  all  humours  else  are  spent, 
Feeds  no  affection  in  them,  but  desire 
To  add  height  to  the  mountain  of  their  riches, 
In  me  it  is  not  so.    I  rest  content 
With  the  honours  and  estate  I  now  possess  : 
And,  that  I  may  have  liberty  to  use 
What  heaven,  still  blessing  my  poor  industry, 
Hath  made  me  master  of,  I  pray  the  court 
To  ease  me  of  my  burthen,  that  1  may 
Employ  the  small  remainder  of  my  life 
In  living  well,  and  learning  how  to  die  so. 
Enter  ROMONT  and  CHARALOIS. 

Rom.  See,  sir,  our  advocate. 

Du  Cray.  The  court  entreats 
Your  lordship  will  be  pleased  to  name  the  man, 
Which  you  would  have  your  successor,  and  in  me, 
All  promise  to  confirm  it. 

Roch.  I  embrace  it 

As  an  assurance  of  their  favour  to  me, 
And  name  my  lord  No  vail. 

Du  Cray.  The  court  allows  it. 

Ro.h.  but  there  are  suitors  wait  here,  and  their 

causes 

May  be  of  more  necessity  to  be  heard  ; 
I  therefore  wish  that  mine  may  be  deferr'd, 
And  theirs  have  hearing. 

Du  Cray.  If  your  lordship  please  [To  Nov.  sen. 
To  take  the  place,  we  will  proceed. 

Char.  The  cause 

We  come  to  oft'er  to  your  lordships'  censure, 
Is  in  itself  so  noble,  that  it  needs  not 
Or  rhetoric  in  me  that  plead ,  or  favour 
From  your  grave  lordships,  to  determine  of  it; 
Since  to  the  praise  of  your  impartial  justice 
(Which    guilty,  nay,    condemn'd  men,    dare    not 
scandal), 

•  A  precedent  they  may  imitate,  but  not  equal.]  So  the  old 
.opy.  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason,  with  equal  advantage  to 
J»e  sense  and  harmony  of  the  line,  read, 

A.  precedent  thai"  they  may  imitate,  but  not  equal'. 


It  will  erect  a  trophy  of  your  mercy, 
Which  married  to  that  justice 

Nov.  sen.  Speak  to  the  cause. 

Char.  I  will,  my   lord.     To  say,  the   lat«   dead 

marshal, 

'I  he  father  of  this  young  lord  here,  my  client. 
Hath  done  his  country  great  and  faithful  service, 
Might  task  me  of  impertinence,  to  repeat 
What  your  grave  lordships  cannot  but  remember. 
He,  in  his  life,  became  indebted  to 
These  thrifty  men  (I  will  not  wrong  their  credits, 
By  giving  them  the  attributes  they  now  merit), 
And  failing,  by  the  fortune  of  the  wars, 
Of  means  to  free  himself  from  his  engagements, 
He  was  arrested,  and,  for  want  of  bail, 
Imprison'd  at  their  suit  ;  and,  not  long  after, 
With  loss  of  liberty,  ended  his  life. 
And,  though  it  be  a  maxiin  in  our  laws, 
All  suits  die  with  the  person,  these  men's  malice 
In  death  rinds  matter  for  their  hate  to  work  on, 
Denying  him  the  decent  rites  of  burial*, 
Which  the  sworn  enemies  of  the  Christian  faith 
Grant  freely  to  their  slaves.     May  it  therefore  pleas* 
Your  lordships  so  to  fashion  your  decree, 
That,  what  their  cruelty  doth  forbid,  your  pity 
May  give  allowance  to. 

Nov.  sen.  How  long  have  you,  sir, 
Practised  in  court? 

Char.  Some  twenty  years,  my  lord. 

Nov.  sen.  By  your  gross  ignorance,  it  should  ap- 
pear 
Not  twenty  days. 

Char.  I  hope  I  have  given  no  cause 
In  this,  my  lord. 

Nov.  sen.  How  dare  you  move  the  court 
To  the  dispensing  with  an  act  confirm "d 
By  parliament,  to  the  terror  ot  all  bankrupts  ? 
Go  home  ;  and  with  more  care  peruse  the  statutes 
Or  the  next  motion,  savouring  of  this  boldness, 
May  force  you,  sir,  to  leap,  against  your  will, 
Over  the  place  you  plead  at. 

CAar.  I  foresaw  this. 

Rom.  Why,  does  your  lordship  think  the  moving  of 
A  cause  more  honest  than  this  court  had  ever 
The  honour  to  determine,  can  deserve 
A  check  like  this? 

Nov.  sen.  Strange  boldness  ! 

Horn.  'Tis  fit  freedom  : 

Or,  do  you  conclude  an  advocate  cannot  hold 
His  credit  with  the  judge,  unless  he  study 
His  face  more  than  the  cause  for  which  he  pleads  ? 

Char.  Forbear. 

Rom.  Or  cannot  you,  that  have  the  power 

*  Denying  him  the  decent  rites  of  burial,]  Herodotas 
tells  us  that  Asychis,  the  grandson  of  Cheops,  to  facilitate 
the  borrowing  of  money,  allowed  the  Egyptians  to  pledge 
the  dead  bodies  of  their  parents,  which,  until  redeemed  by 
payment  of  the  sums  advanced,  could  not  be  deposited  in 
the  sepulchres  of  their  fathers.  In  imitation  of  this  mo- 
narch, modern  states  have  sanctioned  the  anotof  a  per- 
son's dead  body  till  his  debts  be  paid  :  but  what  was  in  Asy-' 
chis  a  wise  institution,  is  in  his  followers  a  gratuitous  act  of 
absurd  and  savage  barbarity,  \\itu  the  ancients  the  fate 
of  a  human  being  was  not  decided  by  death  ;  his  entrance 
into  a  state  of  rest  depended  upon  a  due  performance  ot  lii« 
obsequies;  and  his  relations  and  friends  were,  therefore,  im- 
pelled by  the  most  powerful  motives,  to  discharge  his  obli- 
gations, and  seal  his  doom.  We,  on  the  contrary,  know 
from  divine  authority,  that  "  as  the  tree  lalleth,  so  it  must 
lie,"  and  ihat  no  action,  subsequent  to  a  man's  decease,  can 
aftect  his  destiny 

4.Or  the  next  motion,  savouring  qf  this  boldness,]  So  lha 
old  copy;  the  moderns  read,  favouring. 


SCKVE  II.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


317 


To  qualifv  the  rigour  of  the  laws 
When  you  are  p'eased,  take  a  little  from 
The  strictness  of  your  sour  decrees,  enacted 
In  favour  of  the  greedy  creditors, 
Against  the  o'erthrown  debtor] 

Nov.  sen.  Sirrah  !  you  that  prate 
Thus  saucily,  what  are  you? 

Rom.  Why,  I'll  tell  thee, 

Thou  purple-colour'd  man  !  I  am  one  to  whom 
Thou  ow'st  the  means  thou  hast  of  sitting  there, 
A  corrupt  elder. 

CAar.  Forbear. 

Rom.  The    nose  thou  wear'st  is   my   gift ;    and 

those  eyes, 

That  meet  no  object  so  base  as  their  master, 
Had  been  long  since  torn  from  that  guiltv  head, 
And  thnu  thyself  slave  to  some  needy  Swiss*, 
Had  I  not  worn  a  sword,  and  used  it  better 
Than,  in  thy  prayers,  thou  erer  didst  thy  tongue. 

Nov.  sen.  Shall  such  an  insolence  pass  unpunish'd  ! 

Char.   Hear  me. 

Rom.   Yet  I,  that,  in  my  service  done  my  country, 
Disdain  to  be  put  in  the  sc-.ile  with  thee, 
Confess  myself  unworthy  to  be  valued 
Wirh  the  least  part,  nay,  hair  of  the  dead  marshal ; 
Of  whose  so  many  glorious  undertakings, 
Make  choice  of  any  one,  and  that  the  meanest, 
Perform'd  against  the  subtle  fox  of  France, 
The  politic  Louis,  or  the  more  desperate  Swiss, 
And  'twill  outweigh  all  the  good  purposes, 
Though  put  in  act,  that  ever  gownman  practised. 

Noo.  sen.  Away  with  him  to  prison  ! 

Rom.   If  that  cursest. 

Urged  justly,  nnd  breath 'd  forth  so,  ever  fell 
On  those  that  did  deserve  them,  let  not  mine 
Be  spent  in  vain  now,  that  thou  from  this  instant 
Mayst,  in  thy  fear  that  they  will  fall  upon  thee, 
Be  sensible  of  the  plagues  they  shall  bring  with  them. 
And  for  denying  of  A  little  earth 
To  cover  what  remains  of  our  great  soldier, 
May  all    your  wives   prove   whores,  your   factors 

thieves, 

And,  while  you  live,  your  riotous  heirs  uudo  you ! 
And  thou,  the  patron  of  their  cruelty, 
Of  all  thy  lordships  live  not  to  be  owner 
Of  so  much  dung  as  will  conceal  a  dog, 
Or,  what  is  worse,  thyself  in  !  And  thy  vears, 
To  th'  end  thou  mavst  be  wretched,  I  wish  many; 
And,  as  thou  hast  denied  the  dead  a  grave, 
May  misery  in  thy  life  make  thee  desire  one, 
Which  men  and  nil  the  elements  keep  from  ihee ! 
— I  have  begun  well ;.  imitate,  exceed. 

[To  Ctiaralois. 

Each.  Good  counsel,  were  it  a  praiseworthy  deed. 
[Exeiuit  (>fficers  vhh  Runwnt. 
•  Du  C'Y>iy.  Remember  what  we  are. 

Chaial.  Thus  low  my  duty 
Answers  your  lordship's  counsel.     I  will  use, 
In  the  few  words  with  which  I  am  to  trouble 


•  And  thou  thi/sflf  stave  to  some  needy  Swiss,]  It  may  not 
be  ami**  to  observe  here,  ilia;  Burgundy  (in  llie  capital  of 
•which  the  scene  is  laid)  was  a  powerful  and  independent 
state.  It  illicit,  perhaps,  have  coiilinm-d  so,  but  fur  the  am- 
bitions and  destructive  waif  ire  which  the  last  of  its  so- 
vereigns madly  carried  on  against  the  confederated  cantons. 

+  Rom.  If  that  curias,  &c.]  To  this  most  animated  .-pei  ch 
Otway  seems  indebted  tor  the  imprecations  which  he  makes 
the  indignant  Piene  pour  apua  the  government  of  Venice. 
The  reader,  whom  curiosity  may  le.id  to  compare  the  two 
»cene«,  will  rind  how  much  the  iopy  falls  bcueaiu  tiir.  origi- 
nal, not  only  in  delicacy,  but  in  spirit. 


Your  lordships'  ears,  the  temper  that  you  wish  me  ; 

Not  that  I  fear  to  speak  my  thoughts,  as  loud, 

And  with  a  liberty  beyond  Romont ; 

But  that  I  know,  for  me,  that  am  made  up 

Of  all  that's  wretched,  so  to  haste  my  end, 

Would  seem  to  most  rather  a  willingness 

To  quit  the  burthen  of  a  hopeless  life, 

Than  scorn  of  death,  or  duty  to  the  dead. 

I,  therefore,  bring  the  tribute  of  my  praise 

To  your  severity,  and  commend  the  justice 

That  will  not,  for  the  many  services 

That  any  man  hath  done  the  commonwealth, 

Wink  at  his  least  cf  ills.     What  though  my  father 

Writ  man  before  he  was  so,  and  confirm'd  it, 

By  numbering  that  day  no  part  of  his  life, 

In  which  he  did  not  service  to  his  country  ; 

Was  he  to  be  free,  therefore,  from  the  laws 

And  ceremonious  form  in  your  decrees  ; 

Or  else,  because  he  did  as  much  as  man 

In  those  three  memorable  overthrows 

At  Granson,  Morat,  Nancy,  where  his  master*, 

The  warlike  Charalois  (with  whose  misfortunes 

I  bear  his  name),  lost  treasure,  men,  and  life, 

To  be  excused  from  payment  of  those  sums 

Which  (his  own  patrimony  spent)  his  zeal 

To  serve  his  country  forced  him  to  take  up ! 

Nov.  sen.  The  precedent  were  ill. 

Charal.  And  yet,  my  lord,  this  much, 
I  know,  you'll  grant;  after  those  great  defeatures, 
Which  in  their  dreadful  ruins  buired  quick 

Re-enter  Officers. 

Courage  and  hope  in  all  men  but  himself, 

He  forced  the  proud  foe,  in  his  height  of  conquest, 

To  yield  unto  an  honourable  peace  ; 

And  in  it  saved  an  hundred  thousand  lives, 

To  end  his  own,  that,  was  sure  proof  a  .-ainst 

The  scalding  summer's  heat,  and  winter's  frost, 

111  airs,  the  cannon,  and  the  enemy's  sword, 

In  a  most  loathsome  prison. 

Du  Cray.  'Twas  his  fault 
To  be  so  prodigal. 

A'oi;.  sen.   He  had  from  the  state 
Sufficient  entertainment  for  the  army. 

Charal.  Sufficient,  my  lords!   You  sit  at  home, 
And,  though  your  fees  are  boundless  at  the  bar, 

Are  thrifty  in  the  charges  of  the  war 

But  your  wills  be  obev'd.     To  these  I  turn, 
To  these  soft-hearted  men,  that  wisely  know 
They're  only  good  men  that  pay  what  they  owe. 

2  Cm/.  And  so  they  are. 

1  CreiL  It  is  the  city  doctrine*; 
We  stand  bound  to  maintain  it. 


•  In  those  three  memorable  overthows 

At  Granson,  Moral,  Nancy,  &c.]  These  were  indeed  me- 
morable, since  they  were  given  by  ill-armed  and  undiscip- 
lined rustics  (invigorated,  indeed,  by  the  calm  and  fearless 
spirit  of  genuine  liberty)  to  armies  superior  to  themselves  in 
numbers,  and  composed  of  regular  troops  from  some  of  the 
most  warlike  nations  in  Europe.  The  overthrow  of  Granson 
took  place  March  ad,  1470;  that  of  Morat,  June  2*1, 
in  the  same  year;  and  that  of  jVane//,  January  5ih,  H77. 
lu  this  Charles  (or,  as  he  is  here  called,  Charalois)  duke  of 
Burgundy  fell;  and  the  subtle  fox  of  France,  Louis  XI. 
shortly  at'ler  seized  upon  the  defenceless  duchy,  and  united 
it  to  liis  own  kingdom. 

-  It  is  the  city  doctrine ;j  Thus  in  The  Merchant  of  Ve- 
nice : — 

"  fitly.  Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

"  Bass.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation   to  the  con- 
trary I 

"'Shy.  No,  no,  no;— my  meaning  in  saying  he   is  a 
good  mau,  is  to  have  you  understand  me  that  he  \<.  sufficient." 


318 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acrl 


Choral.  Be  constant  in  it ; 
And  since  you  are  as  merciless  in  your  natures, 
As  base  and  mercenary  in  your  means 
By  which  you  get  your  wealth,  1  will  not  urge 
The  court  to  take  away  one  scruple  from 
The  right  of  their  laws,  or  [wish*]  one  good  thought 
In  you  to  mend  your  disposition  with. 
I  know  there  is  no  music  to  your  ears 
So  pleasing  as  the  groans  of  men  in  prison, 
And  that  the  tears  of  widows,  and  the  cries 
Of  famish M  orphans,  are  the  feasts  that  take  you. 
That  to  be  in  your  dangerf,  with  more  care 
Should  be  avoided  than  infectious  air, 
The  loathed  embraces  of  diseased  women, 
A  flatterer's  poison,  or  the  loss  of  honour. — 
Yet  rather  than  my  father's  reverend  dust 
Shall  want  a  pla<  e  in  that  fair  monument 
In  which  our  noble  ancestors  lie  entoinb'd, 
Before  the  court  I  offer  up  myself 
A  prisoner  for  it.     Load  me  with  those  irons 
That  have  worn  out  his  life  ;  in  my  best  strength 
I'll  run  to  the  encounter  of  cold,  hunger, 
And  choose  my  dwelling  where  no   sun  dares  enter 
So  he  may  be  released. 

1  Cred.  What  mean  you,  sir? 

Adco.  Only  your  fee  again  :  there's  so  much  said 
Already  in  this  cause,  and  said  so  well, 
That,  should  I  only  offer  to  speak  in  it, 
I  should  be  or  not  heard,  or  laugli'd  at  for  it.  [back, 

1  Cred.  'Tis  the  first  money  advocate  e'er   gave 
Though  he  said  nothing. 

Koch.  Be  advised,  young  lord, 
And  well  considerate;  you  throw  away 
Your  liberty  and  joys  of  life  together  : 
Your  bounty  is  employed  upon  a  subject 
That  is  not  sensible  of  it,  with  which  wise  man 
Never  abused  his  goodness.     The  great  virtues 
Of  your  dead  father  vindicate  themselves 
From  these  men's  malice,  and  break  ope  the  prison, 
Though  it  contain  his  body. 

Nov.  sen.  Let  him  alone  : 

If  he  love  coids,  in  God's  name  let  him  wear  them ; 
Provided  these  consent. 

Charal.  I  hope  they  are  not 
So  ignorant  in  any  way  of  profit, 
As  to  neglect  a  possibility 
To  get  their  own,  by  seeking  it  from  that 
Which  can  retuin  them  nothing  but  ill  fame, 
And  curses,  for  their  barbarous  cruelties. 

3  Cred.  What  think  ye  of  the  offer  1 

2  Cred.  Very  well. 

1  Cred.  Accept  it  by  all  means.     Let's  shut  him 

up; 

He  is  well  shaped,  and  has  a  villanous  tongue, 
And,  should  he  study  that  way  of  revenge, 
As  I  dare  almost  swear  he  loves  a  wench, 
We  have  no  wives,  nor  never  shall  get  daughters, 
That  will  hold  out  against  him. 
Dn  Cioy.  What's  your  answer? 

2  Cred.  Speak  you  for  all. 

1  Cred.  Why,  let  our  executions 

*  The  riyht  nf  their  laws,  or  [wish]  r.ne  gnod  thouyht 
In  you,  <Scc.]  A  monosyllable  has  rtropt  out  at  llie  press. 
I  have  endeavoured  to  complete  the  metre,  and,  perh.ips, 
(he  sense,  by  the  addition  in  brackets  :  it  is  a  liberty  tli.it 
1  seldom  take,  and  never  without  giving  the  reader  no- 
Cice  of  it. 

f to  be  in  your  danger.]  i.  e.  to  be  in  your 

debt:  a  common  expression  in  our  old  writers;  ihus  Portia: 
"You  stand  within  his  danyer,i\<>  >on  not  ! 

Merchant  of  Venice. 


That  lie  upon  the  father,  be  return'd 
Upon  the  son,  and  we  release  the  body. 

A'OD.  sen.  The  court  must  grant  you  that. 

Charul.  I  thank  your  lordships. 
They  have  in  it  confirm 'd  on  me  such  glory 
As  no  time  can  take  from  me:   I  am  ready. 
Come,  lead  me  where  you  please.     Captivity, 
That  comes  with  honour,  is  true  liberty. 

Fieiuit  Charaloh,  Charmi,  Officers,  and  Creditor*. 

Nov.  sen.  Strange  rashness  ! 

lioch    A  brave  resolution  rather, 
Worthy  a  better  fortune  :  but,  however, 
It  is  not  now  to  be  disputed  ;  therefore 
To  my  own  cause.     Already  I  have  found 
Your  lordships  bountiful  in  your  favours  to  me, 
And  that  should  teach  my  modesty  to  end  here, 
And  press  your  loves  no  further. 

Du  Cray.  There  is  nothing 
The  court  can  grant,  but  with  assurance  you 
May  ask  it,  and  obtain  it. 

Iloch.  You  encourage 
A  bold  petitioner,  and  'tis  not  fit 
Your  favours  should  be  lost:  besides,  't  'as  been 
A  custom  many  years,  at  the  surrendering 
The  place  I  now  give  up,  to  grant  the  president 
One  boon,  that  parted  with  it  :  and,  to  confirm 
Your  grace  towards  me,  against  all  such  as  may 
Detract  my  actions  and  life  hereafter, 
I  now  prefer  it  to  you. 

Du  Ctvy.  Speak  it  freely. 

Ritch.   I  then  desire  the  liberty  of  Romont, 
And  that  my  lord  Novall,  whose  private  wrong 
Was  equal  to  the  injury  thai  was  done 
To  the  dignity  of  the  court,  will  pardon  it, 
And  now  sign  his  enlargement. 

Nov.  sen.   Pray  you  demand 
The  moiety  of  my  estate,  or  any  thing, 
Wi  bin  my  power  but  this. 

Roch.  Am  1  denied  then 
i\Iy  first  and  last  request  ? 

Du  C  roi/.   It  must  not  be. 

2  Pre.  I  have  a  voice  to  give  in  it. 

3  Pre.  And  I. 

And  if  persuasion  will  not  work  him  to  it, 
We  will  make  known  our  power. 

Nov.  Sen.  You  are  too  violent; 
You  shall  have  my  consent :  but  would  you  had 
Wade  trial  of  my  love  in  any  thing 
But  this,  you  should  have  found  then — but  it  skills 

not ; 
You  have  what  you  desire. 

Roch.  I  thank  your  lordships. 

Du  Croy.  The  court  is  up.     Make  way. 

[Exeunt  all  hut  Roclifort  and  Beaumont 

Roch.  I  follow  you.     Beaumont! 

Bean.  My  lord. 

Roch.  Y'ou  are  a  scholar,  Beaumont ; 
And  can  search  deeper  into  the  intents  of  men, 
Than  those  that  are  less  knowing. — How  appear'd 
The  pietv  and  brave  behaviour  of 
Young  Charalois  to  you  1 

Beau.    It  is  my  wonder, 
Since  I  want  language  to  express  it  fully : 
And  sure  the  colonel 

Koch.  Fie  !   he  was  faulty. 
What  presi-nt  money  have  1? 

Beau.  There's  no  want 
Of  any  sum  a  private  man  liaa  use  for. 

liuch.  'Tis  we]J- 


I. 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY 


I  im  strnnjrelv  t.iken  with  this  Cl    ralois. 
JMethinks,  from  his  example  the  whole  age 
Should  learu  to  be  good,  and  continue  so. 


319 


Virtue  works  strangely  with  us  ;  and  his  goodness 
Rising  ubove  his  fortune,  seems  to  rne, 
Prince-like,  to  will,  not  ask,  a  courtesy.        [Ei«u«l. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Street  before  the  Prison. 
Enter  PONTAUEH,  MALOTIN,  and  BEAUMONT. 

Mai.  'Tis  strange. 
Beait.  Methinks  so. 
Pont,  la  a  man  but  young, 
Vet  old  in  judgment ;  iheoric  and  practic 
In  all  humanity*,  and,  to  increase  the  wonder, 
Keligious,  yet  a  soldier  ;  that  he  should 
Yield  his  free-living  youth  a  captive  for 
The  freedom  of  his  aged  father's  corpse, 
And  rather  c'noose  to  want  life's  necessaries, 
Libetty,  hope  of  fortune,  than  it  should 
lii  ceath  he  kept  from  Christian  ceremony. 

Mai.  Come,  'tis  a  golden  precedent  in  a  son, 
To  let  strong  nature  have  the  better  hand, 
Jn  such  a  case,  of  all  affecied  reason. 
'\Yli-.tt  vt-ars  sit  on  this  Cbaraiois  ? 

Brau.  Twenty-eight : 
For    since    the   clock   did    strike    him    seventeen 

old. 

Under  his  father's  wing  this  son  hath  fought, 
Served  and  commanded,  and  so  aptly  both, 
That  sometimes  he  appear'd  his  father's  father, 
And  never  less  than's  son  ;  the  old  man's  virtues 
So  recent  in  him,  as  the  world  may  swear, 
Nought  but  a  fair  tree  could  such  fair  fruit  bear. 
Punt.   But   wherefore   lets  he  such   a  barbarous 

law, 

And  men  more  barbarous  to  execute  it, 
Prevail  on  his  soft  disposition, 
'J  hat  he  hud  rather  die  alive,  for  debt 
Of  the  old  man,  in  prison,  than  they  should 
Rob  him  of  sepulture  ;  considering 
These  monies  borrow'd  bought  the  lenders  peace, 
And  all  the  means  they  enjoy,  nor  were  diffused 
In  any  impious  or  licentious  path? 

Beau.  True  !    fur   my   part,  were  it   my    father's 

trunk, 
The  tyrannous  ram-heads  with  their  horns  should 

gore  it. 

Or  cast  it  to  their  curs,  than  they  less  currish, 
Kre  prey  on  me  so  with  their  lion-law, 
Being  in  my  free  will,  as  in  his,  to  shun  it. 

Pont.  Alas!  he  knows  himself  in  poverty  lost : 
For  in  this  partial  avaricious  age 
What  price  bears  honour  ?  virtue?  long  ago 
Jt  was  but  praised,  and  freeze,! ;  but  now-a-days 
'Tis  colder  fur,  and  has  nor  love  nor  praise  : 
The  very  praise  now  freezeth  too  ;  for  nature 
Did  make  the  heathen  far  moie  Christian  then, 
Than  knowledge  us.  less  heathenish,  Christian. 
Mat    This  morning  is  the  funeral  ? 
Pont.  Certainly, 
And  from  this  prison  — 'twas  the  son's  request. 

•  In  all  humanity,]  i.  e.  in  all  polite  literature. 


That  his  dear  father  might  interment  hare, 

See,  the  young  son  enter'd  a  lively  grave*  ! 

Beau.  They  come — observe  their  order. 

Solemn  Music.  Enter  the  Funeral  Procession.  The 
Coffin  borne  by  four,  preceded  by  a  Priest.  Captains, 
Lieutenants,  Ensigns,  and  Sotdic'-s  ;  Mourners,  Scut- 
cheons, $c.,  and  very  good  order.  R.OMOXT  and 
CHARALOIS,  followed  by  the  Gaolers  and  Officers, 
with  Creditors,  meet  it. 

Choral.  How  like   a   silent   stream  shaded  with. 

night, 

And  gliding  softly  with  our  windy  sighs, 
Moves  the  whole  frame  of  this  solemnity  ! 
Tears,  sigts,  and  blacksf  filling  the  simile  ; 
Whilst  1,  the  only  murmur  in  this  grove 
Of  death,  thus  hollowly  break  forth.     Vouchsafe 

[To  the  Beare-t. 

'I-  S  uy  awhile — Rest,  rest  in  peace,  dear  earih'. 
Thou  that  brought'st  rest  to  their  unthankful  lives, 
Whose  cruelty  denied  thee  rest  in  death  ! 
Here  stands  thy  poor  executor,  thy  son, 
That  makes  his  life  prisoner  to  bail  thy  death ; 
Who  gladlier  puts  on  this  captivity, 
Than  virgins,  long  in  love,  their  wedding  weeds. 
Of  all  that  ever  thou  hast  done  good  to, 
These  only  have  good  memories;  for  they 
Remember  best  forget  not  gratitude. 
I  thank  you  for  this  last  and  friendly  love: 

[To  the  Soldier  $ 

And  though  this  country,  like  a  viperous  mother, 
Not  only  hath  eat  up  ungratefully 
All  means  of  thee,  her  son,  but  last,  thyself, 
Leaving  thy  heir  so  bare  and  indigent, 
He  cannot  raise  thee  a  poor  monument, 
Such  as  a  flatterer  or  a  usurer  hath  ; 
Thy  worth,  in  every  honest  breast,  builds  one, 
Making  their  friendly  hearts  thy  funeral  stone*. 

•  See  the  young  son  enter'd  a  lively  grace'.]  i.  e.   a  living 
grave,  so  he  calls  the  prison.     The  quarto  has: 

See  the  younif  son  inter'd  a  lively  yrave. 

The  small  change  here  made  restores  the  passage  to  sense. 
Mr.  M.  .Mason  would  read — enters  alive  the  grave,  which  I 
should  like  better,  if  ihe  preceding  line  had  dead,  instead  o» 
dear  father.  The  old  reading,  however,  is  defended  by  Mr. 
Giichris-t,  who  observes  that  there  is  a  similar  combination 
of  words  ju*t  above, 

"  He  had  rather  die  alive  for  debt." 
And  also  in  Samson  Ayonistes  : 

"  Myself  my  sepulchre,  a  moving  grave."  v.  102. 
These  passages  are,  indeed,  .strikingly  similar:  but  they  are 
not  for  that  the  more  intelligible. 

t  Tear*,  sighs,  and    blacks,  &c.l  Blacks  are  constantly 
used  by  our  old  writers  for  mourning  weeds. 

I  Thy  worth,  in  every  honest  breast,  builds  one, 

Ma/ting  their  friendly  hearts  thy  funeral  stone.]  Had 
Pope  Massingcrin  his  thoughts  when  he  wrote  his  epitaph 
on  Gay  ! 

"  These  are  thy  honours!  not  that  here  thy  bust 
I.  mix'd  with  heroes,  or  with  kinge  thy  dust; 


3*0 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acr  II, 


Pont.  Sir. 

Charal.  Peace !    O,  peace !  this  scene  is  wholly 

mine.  , 

What!    weep   ye,    soldiers?   blauch   not. — Romont 

weeps. 

Ha  !  let  me  see  !  my  miracle  is  eased, 

The  gaolers  and  the  creditors  do  weep  ; 

Even  they  that  make  us  weep,  do  weep  themselves. 

Be  these  thy  body's  balm !  these  and  thy  virtue 

Keep  thy  fame  ever  odoriferous, 

Whilst  the  great,  proud,  rich,  undeserving  man, 

Alive  slinks  in  his  vices,  and,  being  vanish'd, 

The  golden  calf,  that  was  an  idol  deck'd 

With  marble  pillars,  jet,  and  porphyry, 

Shall  quickly,  both  in  bone  and  name,  consume, 

Though  wruptin  lead,  spice,  searcloth.and  perfume  ! 

1  Cred.  Sir. 

Choral.  What?    away,  for  shame!    you   profane 

rogues. 

Must  not  be  mingled  with  these  holy  relics  : 
This  is  a  sacrifice*  ; — our  shower  shall  crown, 
His  sepulchre  with  olive,  myrrh,  and  bays, 
The  plants  of  peace,  of  sorrow,  victory  ; 
Your  tears  would  spring  but  weeds. 

1  Cred.  Would  they  so ! 

We'll  keep  them  to  stop  bottles  then. 

Rom.  No,  keep  them 

For  your  own  sins,  you  rogues,  till  you  repent  j 
You'll  die  else,  and  be  dumn'd. 

2  Cred.  Damn'd !—  ha!  ha!  ha! 
.Rom.  Laugh  ye  ? 

3  Cred.  Yes,  faith,  sir ;  we  would  bo  very  g'ad 
To  please  you  either  way. 

1  Cred.  You  are  ne'er  content, 
Crying  nor  laughing. 

Rom.  Both  with  a  birth,  ye  rogues  ? 

2  Cred.  Our  wives,  sir,  taught  us. 

Ram.  Look,  look,   you   slaves!    your  thankless 

cruelty, 

And  savage  manners  of  unkind  Dijon, 
Exhaust  these  floods,  and  not  his  father's  death. 

1  Cred.  "Slid,  sir!   what  would  you?  you're  so 
choleric ! 

2  Cred.  Most    soldiers  are  so,   i'faith ; — let  him 
alone. 

They  have  little  else  to  live  on.     We've  not  had 
A  penny  of  him,  have  we  ? 

3  Cred.  'Slight !  would  you  have  our  hearts  ? 

\  Cred.  We  have  nothing  but  his  body  here  in 

durance 
For  all  our  money. 

Priest.  On. 

Charal.  One  moment  more, 
But  to  bestow  a  few  poor  legacies, 
All  I  have  left  in  my  dead  father's  rights, 
And  I  have  done.     Captain,  wear  thou  these  spurs, 
That  yet  ne'er  made  his  horse  run  from  a  foe. 
Lieutenant,  (hou  this  scarf;  and  may  it  tie 
Thy  valour  and  thy  honesty  together! 
For  so  it  did  in  him.     Ensign,  this  cuirass, 
Your  general's  necklace  once.    You,  gentle  bearers, 
Divide  this  purse  of  gold  ;  this  other,  strew 

But  that  the  virtuous  and  the  good  shall  say, 
Striking  their  pensive  bosoms — Here  lies  Gay !" 
1  cannot  avoid  adding,  that  Johnson  must  have  written  his 
comments  on   this  little  production,  in  a   fit  of  the   spleen, 
and  a  very  dull  one  too.     They  cannot  injure  Pope,  but  they 
may  do  some  harm  to  himself. 

•  Thit  in  a  sacrifice;)  From  which  the  profane  were  ex- 
cluded. He  alludes  to  the  ancient  form  of  adjuration, 
Ejcac,  iKac;,  tart,  /3t£/;\ci. 


Among  the  pooi      'tis  all  1  have.     Homont 

Wear  thou  this  medal  of  himself— — that,  like 
A  hearty  oak,  grevr'st  close  to  this  tall  pine, 
Even  in  the  wildost  wilderness  of  war, 
Whereon  foes  broke  their  swords,  and   tired  them- 
selves; 
Wounded  and  hack'd  ye  were,  but  never  fell'd. 

For  me,  my  portion  provide  in  heaven  !  

My  root  is  eurth'd,  and  I,  a  desolate  branch, 
Left  scatter'd  in  the  highway  of  the  world, 
Trod  under  foot,  that  might  have  been  a  column 
Mainly  supporting  our  demolish 'd  house. 

This  would  I  wear*  as  my  inheritance 

And  what  hope  can  arise  to  me  from  it, 
When  I  and  it  are  both  here  prisoners! 
Only  may  this,  if  ever  we  br  free, 
Keep  or  redeem  me  from  all  infamy. 

A  DIHGE,  to  solemn  Afusicf. 

1  Cred.  No  further ;   look  to  them  at  your  own 

peril. 

2  Cred.  No,  as  they  please:  their  master's  a  good 

man. • 

I  would  they  were  at  the  Bermudas ! 

Gaol.  You  must  no  further. 
The  prison  limits  you,  and  the  creditors 
Exact  the  strictness. 

Rom.  Out,  you  wolviiih  mongrels  ! 
Whose  brains  should  be  knock  d  out,  like  dogs  in 

July, 
Lest  your  infection  poison  a  whole  town. 

Charal.  They  grudge  our  sorrow.    Your  ill  wills, 

perforce, 

Turn  now  to  charity:  they  would  not  have  us 
Walk  too  far  mourning ;  usurers'  relief 
Grieves,  if  the  debtors  have  too  much  of  grief. 

[Eieunt, 


SCENE  II*. — A  Room  in  Rochfort's  House. 
Enter  BEAUMELLF.,  FLORIMEL,  and  BELLAPEKT. 

Beaumel.  I  prithee  tell  me,  Florimel,  why  do 
women  marry 'J 

Flor.  Why  truly,  madam,  I  think,  to  lie  with  their 
husbands. 

Bell.  You  are  a  fool.  She  lies,  madam  ;  women 
marry  husbands,  to  lie  with  other  men. 

Flor.  "Faith,  even  such  a  woman  wilt  thou  make. 
By  this  light,  madam,  this  wagtail  will  spoil  you,  if 
you  take  delight  in  her  license. 

Beaumel.  'Tis  true,  Florimel ;  and  thou  wilt  make 
rne  too  good  for  a  young  lady.  What  an  electuary 
found  my  father  out  for  his  daughter,  when  he  com- 
pounded you  two  my  women  !  for  thou,  Florimel, 
art  even  a  grain  too  heavy,  simply,  for  a  waiting 
gentlewo'iran 

Flor.  And  thou,  Bellapert,  a  grain  too  light. 


•  This  would  J  wear,  &c.]  i.  e.  his  father's   sword.     M. 

MASON. 

t  I  have  followed  the  quarto,  in  throwing  these  rhymet 
together  at  the  end  oft  e  play.  I  «'ish  I  could  have  thrown 
them  quite  away,  lor,  to  confess  the  truth,  they  are  good  for 
nothing. 

\  I  will  not  venture  to  pronounce  the  fine  scene  we  have 
just  finished  to  be  written  by  Kield,  though  I  emertun  few 
doubts  of  it;  but  I  am  confident  th.it  not  a  line  of  this  to 
which  \ve  are  now  arrived  w.is  composed  by  MnwlugiT.  It 
is  not  in  hit  manner.  Unluckily  the  port's  a>si»-i.u«  s  were 
somewhat  like  Dr.  Johnson's  patrons — they  encumbered  him 
with  their  assistance. 


SCEIfE    II.] 


THE  IATAL  DOVVRV. 


Hell,  Well,  go  thy  ways,  goody  wisdom*,  whom 
nobody  regard?.  I  wonder  whether  be  elder,  thou 
or  thy  hood?  You  think,  because  you  served  my 
lady's  mother,  are  thirty-two  years  old,  which  is  a 
pipf  out,  you  know 

Flor.  Well  said,  whirligig. 

Bell.  You  are  deceived :  I  want  a  peg  in  the 
middle. — Out  of  tbeae  prerogatives,  you  think  to  be 
mother  of  the  maids  here,  and  mortify  them  with 
proverbs  :  go,  go,  govern  the  sweetmeats,  and  weigh 
the  sugar,  that  tho  wenches  steal  none ;  say  your 
prayers  twice  a-day,  and,  as  I  take  it,  you  have  per- 
formed your  function. 

Flor.  I  may  be  oven  with  you. 

Bell.  Hark  !  tho  court's  broke  up.  Go,  help  my 
0  d  lord  out  of  his  caroch,  and  scratch  his  head  till 
dinner-time. 

Flor.  Well.  [Exit. 

Bell.  Fie,  madam,  how  you  walk  !  By  my  maiden- 
head, you  look  seven  years  older  than  you  did  this 
morning.  Why  there  can  be  nothing  under  the  sun 
valuable  to  make  you  thus  a  minute. 

Beaitmel.  Ah,  my  sweet  Bellapert,  thou  cabinet 
To  all  my  counsels,  thou  dost  know  the  cause 
That  makes  thy  lady  wither  thus  in  youth. 

Bell.  Uds-light !  enjoy  your  wishes  :  whilst  I  lire, 
One  way  or  other  you  shall  crown  your  will. 
Would  you  have  him  your  husband  that  you  love, 
And  can  it  not  be  ?  he  is  your  servant,  though, 
And  may  perform  the  office  of  a  husband. 

Beaumel.  But  there  is  honour,  wench. 

Bdl.  Such  a  disease 
There  is  indeed,  for  which  ere  I  would  die 

Beaumel.  Prithee,  distinguish  me  a  maid  and  wife. 

Bell.  'Faith,  madam,  one  may  bear  any  man's 
children,  t'other  must  bear  no  man's. 

Beaumtl.  What  is  a  husband? 

Bell.  Physic,  that,  tumbling  in  your  belly,  will 
make  you  sick  in  the  stomach.  The  only  distinction 
betwixt  a  husband  and  servant  is,  the  first  will  lie 
with  you  when  he  pleases;  the  last  shall  lie  with 
you  when  you  please.  Pray  tell  me,  lady,  do  you 
love,  to  marry  after,  or  would  you  marry,  to  love 
after? 

Beaumel.  I  would  meet  love  and  marriage  both  at 
once. 

Bell.  Why  then  you  are  out  of  the  fashion,  and 
will  be  contemn'd :  for  I  will  assure  you,  there  are 
few  women  in  the  world,  but  either  they  have  married 
first,  and  love  after ;  or  love  first,  and  married  after. 
You  must  do  as  you  may,  not  as  you  would ;  j'our 
father's  will  is  the  goal  you  must  fly  to.  If  a  hus- 
band approach  you,  you  would  have  further  off,  is 
he  you  love,  the  less  near  you  ?  A  husband  in  these 
days  is  but  a  cloak,  to  be  oftenerlaid  upon  your  bed, 
than  in  your  bed. 

Beaumel.  Hum ! 

Bell.  Sometimes  you  may  wear  him  on  your 
shoulder ;  now  and  then  under  your  arm ;  but 


*  Bell.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  goody  wisdom,  whom  nobody 
regard!.]  This  flippant  allusion  to  Scripture,  were  there  no 
other  proofs,  would  be  sufficient  to  convince  every  attentive 
reader,  that  it  could  not  proceed  from  Massinger.  He  has, 
indeed,  a  thousand  references  to  holy  writ ;  but  they  are 
constantly  made  with  a  becoming  seriousness  and  so- 
lemnity. 

f  Which  is  a  pip  out.]  A  pip  is  a  spot  upon  a  card.  The 
allusion  is  to  the  very  ancient  game  of  Om-and-thirty :  it 
was  once  a  favorite  diversion,  and  is  mentioned,  among 
otheru,  in  Green's  Art  of  Coney  Catching. 


seldom  or  never  let  him  cover  you,  for  'tis  not  the 
fashion. 

Enter  NOVALL  junior,  PONTALIER,  MALOTIN, 
LILADAM,  and  AYMER. 

Not.jun.  Best  dny  to  nature's  curiosity, 
Star  of  Dijon,  the  lustre  of  all  France  ! 
Perpetual  spring  dwell  on  thy  rosy  cheeks, 
Whose  breath  is  perfume  to  our  continent ! — 
See  !  Flora  trimm'd*  in  her  varieties 

Bell.  O,  divine  lord  I 

Nov.jun.  No  autumn  nor  no  age  ever  approach 
This  heavenly  piece,  which  nature  having  wrought, 
She  lost  her  needle,  and  did  then  despair 
Ever  to  work  so  lively  and  so  fair ! 

Lilail.  Uds-light!  my  lordf,  one  of  the  purls  of 
your  band  is,  without  all  discipline,  fallen  out  of  his 
rank. 

Nov.  jun.  How !  I  would  not  for  a  thousand 
crowns  she  had  seen't.  Dear  Liladam,  reform  it. 

Bel/.  Oil  lord  per  M,  lord  !  quintessence  of  honour  ! 
she  walks  not  under  a  weed  that  could  deny  thee 
any  thing. 

Beaumel.  Prithee  peace,  wench  ;    thou  dost  but 

blow  the  fire 
That  flames  too  much  already. 

[Liladam  and  Aymer  trim  Novall,  while  Bella- 
pert  dresses  her  lady. 

Aym.  By  gad,  my  lord,  you  have  the  divinest 
tailor  in  Christendom;  he  hath  made  you  look 
like  an  angel  in  your  cloth-of-tissue  doublet. 

Pont.  This  is  a  three-legg'd  lord  ;  there's  a  fresh 
assault.  Oh !  that  men  should  spend  time  thus ! 
See,  see,  bow  her  blood  drives  to  her  heart,  and 
straight  vaults  to  her  cheeks  again! 

Malot.  What  are  these? 

Pont.  One  of  them  there,  the  lower,  is  a  good, 
foolish,  knavish,  sociable  gallimaufry  of  a  man,  and 
has  much  caught  my  lord  with  singing ;  he  is  master 
of  a  music-house.  The  other  is  his  dressing  block, 
upon  whom  my  lord  lays  all  his  clothes  and  fashions 
ere  he  vouchsafes  them  his  own  person  :'  you  shall 
see  him  in  the  morning  in  the  Galley-foist,  at  noon 
in  the  Bullion,  in  the  evening  in  Quirpof,  and  all 
night  in 


*  See!  Flora  trimm'd  in  her  varieties.]  The  old  copy  read< 
turn'd,  and  was  followed  by  Coxeter  :  the  alteration  is  by 
Mr.  M.  Masiin. 

T  Lilad.  Udt-light!  my  lord,  &c.J  If  this  ridiculous  in- 
terruption furnished  Sterne  with  the  hint  for  that  humor- 
ous une  by  the  Count  de  Faineant,  when  he  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  dissertation  on  the  necessity  of  a  First  Cause, 
it  must  be  allowed  that  he  has  greatly  improved  on  his 
original. 

J : •  you  shall  see  him  in  the  morning  in  the 

Galley-foist,  at  noon  in  the  Bullion,  in  the  evening  in  Quirpo, 
&c.J  1  know  not  what  to  make  of  this  passage.  Mr.  M. 
Mason  thinks  the  placts  here  mentioned  \\ere  taverns;  it  is 
full  as  likely  that  they  were  houses  of  public  resort  for  some 
kind  of  amusement.  Our  old  writers  give  the  name  of  yal- 
ley-foiit  to  the  Lord  Mayor's  barge ;  but  I  see  not  how  this, 
or  any  other  of  the  city  barges,  can  be  meant  here.  On  re- 
considering the  whole  of  this  passage,  1  am  inclined  to  tliink 
that  (he  allusion  is  to  particular  modes  of  dress.  The  galley- 
foist,  when  employed,  was  always  aduined  with  Hags, 
streamers,  &c.  This  is  sufficiently  manifest  from  many  old 
views  of  the  river;  and  it  may  be,  that  some  gaudy  dress  set 
off  with  scarfs  and  ribands,  took  its  name  from  the  holiday 
appearance  of  this  vessel.  The  Bullion  seems  to  be  a  piece 
of  finery,  which  derived  its  denomination  from  the  large 
globular  gilt  buttons,  still  in  use  on  the  continent  (particularly 
in  Holland),  and  of  which  a  diminutive  specimen  mav  yet  be 
seen  on  the  clothes  of  ourchildren.  This  explains  ap;»- 
sage  in  Jouson  ; 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acr  II. 


Malot.  A  bawdyhouse. 

Pout.  If  my  lord  deny,  they  deny;  if  he  affirm, 
they  affi-m;  they  skip  into  my  lord's  cast  skins 
some  twice  a  year  ;  and  thus  they  flatter  to  eat,  eat 
to  live,  and  live  to  praise  my  lord. 

Muli>t.  Good  sir,  tell  me  one  thing. 

P,.,it.  What's  that? 

Malot.  Dare  these  men  ever  fight  on  any  cause  ? 

Pont.  Oh,  no!  'twould  spoil  their  clothes,  and 
put  their  hands  out  of  order. 

Nov.  jun.  Mistress*,  you  hear  the  news?  your 
father  lias  resign'd  his  presidentship  to  my  lord  my 
father. 

Mai.  And  lord  Charalois 
Undone  for  ever. 

Pont.  Troth,  'tis  pity,  sir, 
A  braver  hope  of  so  assured  a  father 
Did  never  comfort  France. 

Lilad.  A  good  dumb  mourner. 

Aum.  A  silent  black. 

Nov.  jun.  Oh,  fie  upon  him,  how  he  wears  his 

clothes ! 

As  if  he  had  come  this  Christmas  from  St.  Omers, 
To  see  his  friends,  and  return 'd  after  Twelfth-tide. 

Lilad.  His  colonel  looks  finely  like  a  drover — 

Noo.jun.  That  had  a  winter  lain  perdue  in  the 
rain. 

Aum.  What,  he  that  wears  a  clout  about  his  neck, 
His  cuffs  in's  pocket,  and  his  heart  iu's  mouth? 

Nov.  jun.  Now,  out  upon  him  ! 

Beaumel.  Servant,  tie  my  hand. 

[Kov.jun.  Idssei  her  hand. 

How  your  lips  blush,  in  scorn  that  they  should  pay 
Tribute  to  hands  when  lips  are  in  the  way  ! 

Nov.  jun.    I  thus   recaut;    yet  now  your  hand 

looks  white, 

Because  your  lips  robb'd  it  of  such  a  right. 
Monsieur  Aymer,  I  prithee  sing  the  song 
Devoted  to  my  mistress. 

Music — and  a  SONG  by  Aymtr. 
Enter  ROCHFORT  and  BEAUMONT 

Bean.  Romont  will  come,  jir,  straight. 

Roc/i.  'Tis  well. 

Beaumel.  My  father! 

Nov.  jun.  My  honourable  lord. 

Roch.  My  lord  Novall,  this  is  a  virtue  in  you  ; 
So  early  up,  and  ready  before  noon, 
That  are  the  map  of  dressing  through  all  France  ! 


"While  yon  do  eat.  and  lie  about  the  town  here, 
And  cozen  in  your  JJullions." 

The  Devil's  an  Ass. 

Here  bullion  is  evidently  used  for  tome  dress  of  parade, 
put  on  by  gamblers,  &r.,  for  the  sake  of  imposing  on  the  un- 
wary. It  is  applied  in  a  kindred  sense  by  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher: 

"  That  ape  had  paid  it — O  what  dainty  tricks, 
In  his  French  doublet,  with  his  blistered  (blown  up,  hol- 
low) bullions, 
In  a  long  stock  tied  up." 

Brgijar's  Busk. 

Qniipo  (cuerpo)  isannndress;  the  Spaniards, from  whom  we 
borrowed  the  word,  apply  it  to  a  person  in  a  light  jacket 
justiare-corps),  without  his  calot  or  cloak;  but  our  old  dra- 
matists, who  use  the  expression  upon  all  occasions,  mean 
by  it  any  state  from  nakedness  to  imperfect  clotliing.  \V  hat 
the  night  rfref*  of  Aymer  ("my  lord's  third  leg")  was, 
the  adroit  ibtrrrnption  of  Malotin  prevents  us  from  ascer- 
taining, nor,  indeed,  would  I  have  the  reader  to  accept  the 
explanation  of  the  others  as  aiiythinu  more  than  conjecture. 
*  Nov.  jun.  Mistress,  you  hrar  the  newt .']  r'or  this  sim- 
ile express-oil  tl>'.  modern  editors  most  strangely  and  cor- 
puy  ••-;ia,  .>/  ^t  >"'i  he*r  the  newst 


Nov.jnn.  I  rise  to  say  my  prayers,  sir ;    here's 

my  saint. 
Rock.  'I  is  well  and  courtly: — you  must  give  me 

leave, — 

I  have  some  private  conference  with  my  daughter; 
Pray  use  my  garden  :  you  shall  dine  with  me. 
lAlad.   We'll  wait  on  you, 
Nov.jun.  Good  morn  unto  your  lordship; 
Remember,  what  you  have  vow'd. —  [To  Bcanmelle. 
Beaumel.   Perform  I  must. 

[Exeunt  nil  but  Rockfort  and  Peaumelle. 
Roch.  Why,  how  now,  Beaumelle*  .'  thou  look'st 

not  well. 
Thou  art  sad  of  late ;— come,  cheer  thee,   I   hare 

found 

A  wholesome  remedy  for  these  maiden  fits : 
A  goodly  oak  whereon  to  twist  my  vine, 
Till  her  fair  branches  grow  up  to  the  stars. 
Be  near  at  hand. — Success  crown  my  intent! 
My  business  fills  my  little  time  so  full, 
I  cannot  stand  to  talk  !  I  know  thy  duty 
Is  handmaid  to  my  will,  especially 
When  it  presents  nothing  but  good  and  fit. 

Beaumel.  Sir,  1  am  yours.  — Oh  !  if  my  fears  prova 

true, 
Fate  hath  wrong'd  love,  and  will  destroy  me  too. 

[L'jit 
Enter  RowOmmid  G-aoler. 

Rom.  Sent  you  for  me,  sir 

7ii)c/i.  Yes. 

J?om.  Your  lordship's  pleasure? 

Roch.  Keeper,    this    prisoner    I  will    see    forth- 
coming, 
Upon  my  word  : — sit  down,  good  colonel. 

[Exit  Gaoler. 

Why  I  did  wish  you  hither,  noble  sir, 
Is  to  advise  yon  from  this  iron  carriage, 
Which,  so  affected,  Romont,  you  will  wear; 
To  pity,  and  to  counsel  you  submit 
With  expedition  to  the  great  Nuvall : 
Recant  your  stern  contempt,  and  siiglit  neglect 
Of  the  whole  court  and  him,  and  opportunely, 
Or  you  will  undergo  a  heavy  censure 
In  public,  very  shonly. 

Rom.  Reverend  sir, 

I  have  observed  you.  and  do  know  you  well ; 
And  am  now  more  afraid  you  know  not  me, 
By  wishing  my  submission  to  Novall, 
Thau  I  can  be  of  all  the  bellowing  mou'hs 
That  wait  upon  him  to  pronounce  the  censure 
Could  it  determine  me  torments  and  shame. 

Submit,  and  crave  forgiveness  of  a  beast! 

'Tis  true,  this  boil  of  state  wears  purple  tissue, 
Is  high  fed,  proud  ;  so  is  his  lordship's  horse, 
And  bears  as  rich  caparisons.     1  know 
This  elephant  carries  on  his  back  not  only 
Towers,  castles,  but  the  ponderous  republic, 
And  never  stoops  for't;    with  his  strong-breath 'd 

trunk 

Snuffs  others'  titles,  lordships,  offices, 
Wealth,  bribes,  and  lives,  under  his  ravenous  jaws 
What's  this  unto  my  freedom  1     I  dare  die  ; 
And  theiefore  ask  this  camelf,  if  these  blessings 


•  Roch.  Why,  hou<  norr,  Bcaun.elle  t  thott  tuok'st  not 
well.]  It  may  be  necessary  here  to  remind  UK-  rea.ler  that 
Massinger  generally  uses  lieaumelle  as  a  trisyllable,  vhici., 
indeed,  is  its  proper  measure. 

T  And  therefore  ask  this  camel,  &C.1  In  Ids  indignation 
(and  it  is  the  indignation  of  viituf)  the  oudrfiiutw!  Komout 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


S23 


(For  so  they  would  be  understood  by  a  man ) 

But  mollify  one  rudeness  in  his  nature, 

Sweeten  the  eager  relish  <.f  the  law, 

At  whose  great  helm  he  sits.     Helps  he  the  poor 

In  a  just  business?  nay,  does  he  not  cross 

Every  deserved  soldier  and  scholar, 

As  it,  when  nature  made  him,  she  had  made 

The  general  antipathy  of  all  virtue'! 

How  savagely  and  blasphemously  he  spake 

Touching  the  general,  the  brave  general  dead  ! 

I  must  weep  when  I  think  on't. 

Rnch.  Sir. 

Rom.  My  lord, 

I  am  not  stubborn  :   I  can  melt,  you  see, 
And  prize  a  virtue  better  than  mv  life  : 
For  though  I  be  not  learn 'd,  1  ever  loved 
That  holy  mother  of  all  issues  u,ood, 
\\hose  white  hand,  fora  sceptre,  holds  a  file 
To  polish  roughest  customs  ;    and  in  you 
She  has  her  right :  see  !    I  am  calm  as  sleep. 
But  when  1  think  of  the  gross  injuries, 
The  godless  wrong  done  to  my  general  dead, 
1  rave  indeed,  and  could  eat  this  Novall ; 
"A  soulless  dromedary  ! 

Roch.  Oh  !  be  temperate. 

Sir,  though  I  would  persuade,  I'll  not  constrain  : 
Eiich  man's  opinion  freely  is  his  own 
Concerning  any  tiling,  or  any  body  ; 
Be  it  right  or  wrong,  'tis  at  the  judge's  peril. 

Re-enter  BEAUMONT. 

Beau.  These  men,  sir,  wait  without;  my  lord  is 

come  too. 

Roch.  Pay  them  those  sums  upon  the  table  ;  take 
Their  full  releases  : — stay,  I  want  a  witness  : 
Let  me  entreat  you,  colonel,  to  walk  in, 
And  stand  but  by  to  see  this  money  paid  ; 
Jt  does  concern  you  and  \our  friend  ;  it  was 
The  better  cause  you   were  sent  for,   though   said 

otherwise. 

The  deed  shall  make  this  my  request  more  plain. 
Horn.  I    shall    obey   your   pleasure,   sir,    though 

ignorant 
To  wiiat  it  tends.         [Exeunt  Romont  and  Bejumont. 

Enter  CHAR. \LOIS. 

Rocfi.  Worthiest  sir, 

You  ate  most  welcome.     Fie,  no  more  of  this  ! 
You  have  outwept  a  woman,  noble  Cbaralois. 
No  man  but  has  or  must  bury  a  father. 

Churul.  Grave  sir,  1  buried  sorrow  for  his  death, 
In  the  grave  with  him.     1  did  never  think 
He  was  immortal  —  though  I  vow  I  grieve, 
And  see  no  reason  why  the  vicious, 
Virtuous,  valiant,  and  unworthy  man, 
Should  die  alike. 

Ro  h.  '1  hey  do  not. 

Churul.  In  the  manner 
Of  dying,  sir,  they  do  not ;  but  all  die, 
And  thi-rein  differ  not  :  but  1  have  done. 
I  spied*  the  lively  picture  of  my  father, 
Passing  your  gallery,  and  that  cast  this  water 
Into  mine  eyes. — See, — foolish  that  1  am, 
To  let  it  do  so  ! 

passes  rapidly  from  one  strong  metaphor  to  another.    This  is 
perplexing;  but  is  not  therefore  the  lessnalnr.il. 

*  1  itp-til,  &c.]  This  is  a  pretty  circumstance,  and  isc.ilru- 
lateil  nul  mil}'  to  show  the  li.i.il  piety  of  Cliaralois,  but  to 
inteicst  his  teelin^s  in  favour  of  llochfort,  by  ihc  respect 
(ho  ;>  n  to  his  father. 


Roch.  Sweet  and  gentle  nature  ! 
How  silken  is  this  well*,  comparatively 
To  other  men  !  I  have  a  suit  to  you,  sir. 

Choral.  Take  it,  'tis  granted. 

Roch.   What? 

Churul.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Roch.  Nothing  is  quickly  granted. 

Churtd.   Fai'h,  my  lord, 
That  nothing  granted  is  even  all  I  have, 
For,  all  know,  I  have  nothing  left  to  grant. 

Roch.  Sir,  have  you  any  suit  to  me  ?  I'll  grant 
You  something,  any  thing. 

Charal.  Nay,  surely,  I  that  can 
Give  nothing,  will  but  sue  for  that  again. 
No  man  will  grant  me  any  thing  I  sue  for, 
But  beguinsj  nothing,  every  man  will  give  it. 

TJ        I      ^o  •  *  I 

Keek,  Sir ! 

The  love  I  bore  your  father,  and  the  worth 

I  see  in  you,  so  much  resembling  his, 

Made  me  thus  send  for  you  : — and  tender  here 

[Drairs  a  curtain,  and  discovers  a  table  with 

man c  11  ami  jeiceli  upon  it. 
Whatever  you  will  take,  gold,  jewels,  both, 
All,  to  supi>'y  your  wants,  and  free  yourself. 
Where  heavenly  virtue  in  high-blooded  veins 
Is  lodged,  and  can  agree,  men  should  kneel  down, 
Adore,  and  sacrifice  all  that  they  have ; 
And  well  they  may,  it  is  so  seldom  seen. 
Put  off  vour  wonder,  and  here  fieely  take, 
Or  send  your  servants  :   nor,  sir,  shall  you  use 
In  aught  of  this  a  poor  man's  fee.  or  bribe 
Unjustly  taken  of  the  rich,  but  what's 
Directly  gotten,  and  yet  by  the  law. 

Chariil.  How  ill,  sir,  it  becomes   those  hairs  to 
mock ! 

Roch.  Mock  !  thunder  strike  me  then  ! 

Charal.  You  do  amaze  me  : 
But  you  shall  wonder  too.     I  will  not  take 
One  single  piece  of  this  great  heap.   U'bv  should  I 
Borrow,  ti  at  have  no  means  to  pay  ?  nay,  am 
A  very  bankrupt,  even  in  flattering  hope 
Of  ever  raising  any.     All  my  begging 
Is  Romont's  liberty. 

Re-enter  ROMONT  and  BEAUMONT,  icith  Creditors. 

Roch.  Here  is  your  friend, 

Enfranchised  ere  you  spake.     I  give  him  to  you ; 
And,  Charalois,  I  give  you  to  your  friend, 
As  free  a  man  as  he.     Your  father's  debts 
Are  taken  off. 

Chiiral.  How! 

Rom.  Sir,  it  is  most  true; 
I  am  the  witness. 

1  Cred.  Yes,  faith,  we  are  paid. 

2  Cred.  Heaven  bless   his  lordship  !  I  did  think 
him  wiser. 

3  Cred.  He  a  statesman !  he's  an  ass.    Pay  other 
men's  debts ! 


*  How  silken  is  this  Wfll,  &o.]  I  suspect  that  there  is  some 
conception  in  this  pa.-sage  ;  but  if  well  be  the  i  ight  reading,  it 
is  a  quaint  allusion  to  the  tears  ot  Charalois,  and  must  be  con- 
sidered as  a  nuun  substantive.  M.  MASON. 

1  know  not  what  Mr.  M.  Mason  means  by  conception; 
though  I  am  inclined  to  think  he  has  given  the  sense  of  the 
passage,  such  as  it  is.  If  we  understand  welt  to  signify  (as, 
liy  a  violeni  but  not  nnprecedented  catachreMS,  it  may) 
either  yondness  or  virtue,  the  matter  will  not  be  much 
im  ndid  :  in  a  word,  it  is  a  forced  and  unnatural  expression, 
and  so  different  from  the  easy  and  flowing  style  »f  Malin- 
ger, that  «e  max  sit  it  down  without  scruple,  to  the  account 
of  his  associate,  F'eld. 


324 


THE  FATAL   DOWRY. 


[Acr.  II 


1  Crerf.  That  he  was  never  bound  for. 
Rom,  One  more  such 
Would  save  the  rest  of  pleaders. 

Charal.  Honour'd  Rochfort 

Lie  still,  my  tongue,  and,  blushes, scald  my  cheeks*, 
That  offer  thanks  in  words  for  such  great  deeds. 
Roch.  Call  in  my  daughter.     Still   1   have  a  suit 
to  you,  [Exit  Beaumont. 

Would  you  requite  me. 

R»m.  With  his  life,  I  assure  you. 

Roch.  Nay,  would  you  make  me  now  yourdebtor, 

sir' 

Re-enter  BEAUMONT  with  BEAUMELLE. 

This  is  my  only  child:  what  she  appears, 
Your  lordship  well  may  see:  her  education 
Follows  not  anyt ;  for  her  mind,  I  know  it 
To  be  far  fairer  than  her  shape,  and  hope 
It  will  continue  so.     If  now  her  birth 
Be  not  too  mean  for  Charalois,  take  her,  take 
This  virgin  by  the  hand,  and  call  her  Wife, 
Endow'd  with  all  my  fortunes.     Bless  me  so, 
Requite  me  thus,  and  make  me  happier, 
In  joining  my  poor  empty  name  to  yours, 
Than  if  my  state  were  multiplied  tenfold. 

Charal.  Is  this  the  payment,  sir,  that  you  expect! 
Why,  you  precipitate  me  more  in  debt, 
That  nothing  but  my  life  can  ever  pay. 
This  beauty  being  your  daughter,  in  which  YOURS 
I  must  conceive  necessity  of  her  virtue, 
Without  all  dowry  is  a  prince's  aim  : 
Then,  as  sbe  is,  for  poor  and  worthless  me 
How  much  too  worthy  !   Waken  me,  Romont, 
That  I  may  know  I  dream'd,  and  find  this  vanish'd. 

Ram.  Sure,  I  sleep  not. 

Roch.  Your  sentence  — life  or  death. 

Charal.  Fair  Beaumelle,  can  you  love  me  ? 

Beaumel.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Enter    NOVALL  junior,    PONTALIER,    MALOTIN, 
LILADAM,  and  AYMER.     They  all  salute. 

Charal.  You  need  not  question  me  if  I  can  you : 
You  are  the  fairest  virgin  in  Dijon, 
And  Rochfort  is  your  father. 

Nov.jttn.  What's  this  change? 

Roch.  You  meet  my  wishes,  gentlemen. 

Rom.  What  make 
These  dogs  in  doublets  here? 

Beau.  A  visitation,  sir. 

Charal.  Then  thus,  fair  Beaumelle,  I  write  my 
faith, 


•  Lie  ttill,  my  tongue,  and,  blushes,  scald  my  cheela.]  This 
line,  in  the  old  copy,  may  rival  some  of  Shakspeare's  in  ty- 
pographical neatness: 

Lye  still  my  tounij  and  bushes  cal'd  mycheekes. 

*  what  she  appears, 

Your  lordship  trell.  may  see  :  her  education 

Follows  not  any  ;j  i.  c.  is  not  inferior  to  any  :  the  modern 
editors   have, 

Your  lordship  may  well  see :  for  education,  Bcaumelle 

follows  not  any. 

This  strange  line  it  not  in  the  old  copy,  which  reads  as  I  have 
given  it.  Coxeler  adopted  Beaumelle  from  the  margin,  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  altered  the  text  that  he  mighjt  continue 
it!  Could  nothing  persuade  this  gentleman  to  turn  to  the 
original  ! 


Thus  seal  it  in  the  sight  of  heaven  and  men! 
Your  fingers  tie  my  he;irt-strings  with  this  touch, 
In  true-love  knots,  which  nought  but  death  shall 

loose. 

And  let  these  tears*,  an  emblem  of  our  lores, 
Like  chrystal  rivers  individually 
Flow  into  one  another,  make  one  source, 
Which  never  man  distinguish,  less  divide! 
Breath  marry  breath,  and  kisses  mingle  souls, 
Two  hearts  and  bodies  here  incorporate  ! 
And,  though  with  little  wooing  I  have  won, 
My  future  life  shall  be  a  wooing  time, 
And  every  clay  new  as  the  bridal  one. 
Oh,  sir  !  I  groan  under  your  courtesies, 
More  than  my  father's  bones  under  his  wrongs  : 
You,  Gurtius  like,  have  thrown  into  the  gulf 
Of  this  his  country's  foul  ingratitude 
Your  life  and  fortunes,  to  redeem  their  shames. 

Roch.  No  more,  my  glory  !    come,  let's  in,    and 

hasten 
This  celebration. 

Rom.  Mai.  Pont.  Beau.   All  fair  bliss  upon  it ! 

[Exeunt  Ruchtort,  Charalois,  Itomont,  Beaumont, 
and  Malotin. 

Nov.  jtin.  Mistress ! 

Beaumel.  Oh,  servant! — Virtue  strengthen  me! 
Thy  presence  blows  round  my  affection's  vane  : — 
You  will  undo  me,  if  you  speak  a^ain.  [Exit. 

Lilail.  Aym.  Here   will  be   sport   for   you  !    this 
works.  [Exeunt. 

Nov.jun.  Peace !  peace  ! 

Pont.  One  word,  my  lord  Novall. 

Nov.jun.  What,  thou  wouldst  money? — there! 

Pont.  No,  I  will  none,  I'll  not  be  bought  a  slave, 
A  pander,  or  a  parasite,  for  all 
Your  father's  worth.     Though  you  have  saved  mj 

life, 

Rescued  me  often  from  my  wants,  I  must  not 
Wink  at  your  follies  :  that  will  ruin  you. 
You  know  my  blunt  way, and  my  love  to  truth — 
Forsake  the  pursuit  of  this  lady's  honour, 
Now  you  do  see  her  made  another  man's, 
And  such  a  man's,  so  good,  so  popular; 
Or  you  will  pluck  a  thousand  mischiefs  on  you. 
The  benefits  you  have  done  me  are  not  lost, 
Nor  cast  away,  they  are  purs'd  here  in  my  heart ; 
But  let  me  pay  you,  sir,  a  fairer  way 
Than  to  defend  your  vices,  or  to  soothe  them. 

Nof.  jun.  Ha,  ha !    what  are    my  courses  unto 

thee  ? 

Good  cousin  Pontalier,  meddle  with  that 

That  shall  concern  thyself.  [Exit. 

Pont.  No  more  but  scorn  ! 

Move  on,  then,  stars,  work  your  pernicious  will : 
Only  the  wise  rule,  and  prevent  your  ill.          [Eiit. 

[Here  a  passage  over  the  stage,  while  the  act  it 
playing  for  the  marriage  of  Charaloit  with 
Beaumelle,  &'c. 


*  And  let  these  tears,  &c.]  So  Rowe: 

"Are  you  not  mix'd  like  streams  of  meeting  riven 
Whose  blended  waters  are  no  moredbtingiiinh'd, 
But  roll  into  the  sea  one  common  flood  t" 

fair  Penitent 


SCENE  I.J 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


S9* 


ACT  III. 


SCEN7E  I.    A  Room  in  Charalois'  Haute. 


Enter 


BELLAPERT. 


Nov.jun.  Fly   not  to  these  excuses  ;  thou   hast 

been 

False  in  thy  promise  —  and,  when  I  have  said 
Ungrateful,  all  is  spoken. 

Belt.  Good,  my  lord  ; 
But  hear  me  only. 

Kov.jun.  To  what  purpose,  trifler  ? 
Can  any  thing  that  thou  canst  say  make  void 
The  marriage,  or  those  pleasures  but  a  dream, 
Which  Charalois,  oh  Venus!  hath  enjoy'd  ? 

Bell.  I  yet  could  say  that  you  receive  advantage 
In  what  you  think  a  loss,  would  you  vouchsafe  me, 
That  you  were  never  in  the  way,  till  now, 
With  safety  to  arrive  at  your  desires  ; 
That  pleasure  makes  love  to  you,  unattended 
Bv  danger  or  repentance. 

Nov.jun.  That  I  could 

But  apprehend  one  reason  how  this  might  be  ! 
Hope  would  not  then  forsake  me. 

Bell.  The  enjoying 

Of  what  you  most  desire,  I  say  the  enjoying, 
Shall,  in  the  full  possession  of  your  wishes, 
Confirm  that  1  am  faithful. 

Nov.jun.  Give  some  relish 
How  this  may  appear  possible. 

Bell.  I  will. 

Relish  and  taste,  and  make  ihe  banquet  easy. 
You  say  my  lady's  married  :  —  I  confess  it  : 
That  Charalois  hath  enjoyed  her  ;  —  'tis  most  true  : 
That,  wiih  her,  he's  already  master  of 
Tlie  best  part  of  my  old  lord's  state  —  still  better, 
But  that  the  first  or  last  should  be  your  binderauce 
I  utterly  deny  ;  for  but  observe  me  ; 
While  she  went  for,  and  was,  1  swear,  a  virgin, 
What  courtesy  could  she,  with  her  honour,  give, 
Or  you  receive  with  safety  ?  take  me  with  you  ; 
When  I  say  courtesy,  do  not  think  I  mean 
A  kiss,  the  tying  of  her  shoe  or  garter, 
An  hour  of  private  conference;  those  are  trifles. 
In  this  word  courtesy  we,  that  are  gamesters,  point 

at 

The  sport  direct,  where  not  alone  the  lover 
Brings  his  artillery,  but  uses  it  ; 
Which  word  expounded  to  you,  such  a  courtesy 
Do  you  expect,  and  sudden. 

Nov.jun.  But  he  tasted 
The  first  sweets,  Bellapert. 

Bell.  He  wrong'd  you  shrewdly  ! 
He  toil'd  to  climb  up  to  the  Phoenix*  nest, 
And  in  his  prints  leaves  your  ascent  more  easy. 
I  do  not  know,  you  that  are  perfect  critics, 
In  women's  books,  may  talk  of  maidenheads  — 

Kov.jun.  But  for  her  marriage  ! 

Bell.  'Tis  a  fair  protection 
"Gainst  all  arrests  of  fear  or  shame  for  ev«r. 
Such  as  are  fair,  and  yet  not  foolish,  study 
To  have  one  at  thirteen  ;  but  they  are  mad 
That  stay  till  twenty.     Then,  sir,  for  the  pleasure, 
To  say  adultery's  sweeter,  that  is  stale  : 
24 


Tli  is  only — is  not  the  contentment  more, 
To  say,  This  is  my  cuckold,  than  my  rival  ? 
More  1  could  say — but  brieflv,  she  doats  on  you  ; 
If  it  prove  otherwise,  spare  not,  poison  me 
With  the  next  gold  you  give  me. 

Enter  BEAUMELLE. 

Beaitmel.  How's  this,  servant! 
Courting  my  woman  ? 

Bell.  As  an  entrance  to 

The  favour  of  the  mistress.     You  are  together; 
And  1  am  perfect  in  my  cue.  [Going. 

Beaumel.  Stay,  Bellapert. 

Bell.  In  this  I  must  not,  with  your  leave,  obey 

you. 

Your  tailor  and  your  tirewoman  wait  without, 
And  stay  my  counsel  and  direction  for 
Your  next  day's  dressing.     I  have  much  to  do, 
Nor  will  your  ladyship,  now  time  is  precious, 
Continue  idle  ;  this  choice  lord  will  find 
So  fit  employment  for  you  !  [Exit* 

Beaumel.  I  shall  grow  angry. 

Nov.jun.    Not  so ;    you  have  a  jewel  in  her, 
madam. 

Re-enter  BKLLAPERT. 

Bell.  I  had  forgot  to  tell  your  ladyship 
The  closet  is  private,  and  your  couch  [there]  ready : 
And,  if  you  please  that  I  shall  lose  the  key, 
But  say  so,  and  'tis  done.  [•£"''• 

Beaumel.   You   come  to  chide  me,  servant,  and 

bring  with  you 

Sufficient  warrant.     You  will  say,  and  truly, 
My  father  found  too  much  obedience  in  me, 
By  being  won  too  soon  ;  yet,  if  you  please, 
But  to  remember  all  my  hopes  and  fortunes 
Had  reference  to  his  liking,  you  will  grant, 
That  though  I  did  not  well  towards  you,  1  yet 
Did  wisely  for  myself. 

Nov.jun.  With  too  much  fervour 
I  have  so  long  loved,  and  still  love  you,  mistress, 
To  esteem  that  an  injury  to  me 
Which  was  to  you  convenient: — that  is  past 
My  help,  is  past  my  cure.     You  yet  may,  lady, 
In  recompense  of  all  my  duteous  service 
(Provided  that  you  will  answer  your  power), 
Become  my  creditress. 

Beaumel.  I  understand  you ; 
And  for  assurance  the  request  you  make 
Shall  not  be  long  unanswered, — pray  you  sit, 
And  by  what  you  shall  hear,  you'll  easily  find 
My  passions  are  much  fitter  to  desire, 
Than  to  be  sued  to. 

Enter  ROMONT  and  FLOIUMEL  behind. 

JFVor.  Sir,  it  is  not  envy 
At  the  start  my  fellow  has  got  of  me  in 
My  lady's  good  opinion,  that's  the  motive 
Of  this  discovery  ;  but  the  due  payment 
Of  what  I  owe  her  honour. 

Rom.  So  I  conceive  it. 

Fliti:  I  have  observed  too  much,  nor  shall  my 
silence 


320 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acr  III. 


Prevent  the  remedy  : Yonder  they  are  ; 

1  dare  not  be  seen  with  you.     You  may  do 
What  you  think  fit.  which  will  he,  I  presume, 
The  office  of  a  faithful  and  tried  friend 
To  my  young  lord.  [Exit. 

Rom.  This  is  no  vision  :  ba  ! 
Nov.jun.  With  the  next  opportunity? 
Beaitmtt.  By  this  kiss, 
And  this,  and  this. 

Ni'V.jun.  That  you  would  ever  swear  thus  ! 
Rom.  [comes  forward]  If  I  seem  rude,  your  pardon, 

lady ;  yours 

I  do  not  ask  :  come ;  do  not  dare  to  show  me 
A  face  of  anger,  or  the  least  dislike  ; 
Put  on,  and  suddenly,  a  milder  look, 
I  shall  grow  rough  else. 

Nov.jun.  What  have  I  done,  sir, 
To  draw  this  harsh  unsavoury  language  from  you? 
Rom.  Done,   popinjay!    why,   dost   thou   think, 

that,  if 

I  e'er  hud  dreamt  that  thou  badst  done  me  wrong, 
Thou  sliouldst  outlive  it? 

Beaumel.  This  is  something  more 
Than  my  lord's  friendship  gives  commission  for. 
Nov.jun.   Your  presence  and  the  place  make  him 

presume 
Upon  my  patience. 

Rom.  As  if  thou  e'er  wert  angry 
But  with  thy  tailor  !  and  yet  that  poor  shred 
Can  bring  more  to  the  making  up  of  a  man, 
Than  can  be  hoped  from  thee :  thou  art  his  creature  ; 
And  did  he  not,  each  morning,  n*w  create  thee, 
Tbou'dst  stink,  and  be  forgotten.     I'll  not  change 
One  syllable  more  with  thee,  until  thou  bring 
Some  testimony,  under  good  men's  bands, 
Thou  art  a  Christian :  1  suspect  thee  strongly, 
And   will  be  satisfied  ;  till  which  time,  keep  from 

me, — 

The  entertainment  of  your  visitation 
Has  made  what  1  intended  one,  a  business. 
Nov.jun.  So!  we  shall  meet. — Madam. 
Rom.   Use  that  leg  again, 
And  I'll  cut  off  the  other. 

Nov.jun.  Very  good  [E.rit. 

Rom.  What  a  perfume  the  musk  cat  leaves  behind 

him  ! 

Do  you  admit  him  for  a  property, 
To  save  your  charges,  lady  ? 
Beaumel.  'Tis  not  useless, 
Now  you  are  to  succeed  him. 

Horn.  So  1  respect  you*, 
Not  for  yourself,  but  in  remembrance  of 
Who  is  your  father,  and  whose  wife  you  now  are, 
That  I  choose  rather  not  to  understand 

Your  nasty  scoff,  than  

Beaumet.  What,  you  will  not  beat  me 
If  I  expound  it  to  you  !  Here's  a  tyrant 
Spares  neither  man  nor  woman  ! 

Rom.  My  intents, 

Madam,  deserve  not  this  ;  nor  do  I  stay 
To  be  the  wbetstone  of  your  wit :  preserve  it 


•  Rom.  What  a  perfume  the  mutk  cat  leave*  behind  him! 
Do  you  admit  him  fur  a  property, 
To  sant  your  fharyes,  lady  f 

Beau.  '  Tin  not  useless, 
Now  you  are  to  succeed  him. 

Rom.  A'u  /  n-tfect  you,  &c.]  Tliese  two  speeches  were 
inadvertently  omitted  by  Mr.  M.  Mason:  it  was  the  more 
unfortunate,  as  several  of  the  succeeding  lines  depended  on 
t  lieni 


To  spend  on  such  as  know  how  to  admire 

Such  colour'd  stuff,     la  me,  there  now  speaks  to 

you 

As  true  a  friend  and  servant  to  your  honour, 
And  one  that  will  with  as  much  hazard  guard  it, 

As  ever  man  did  goodness  : but  then,  lady  j 

You  must  endeavour  not  alone  to  BE, 

But  to  APPEAR,  worthy  such  love  and  service. 

Beaumel.  To  what  tends  this? 

Rom.  Why,  to  this  purpose,  lady 
I  do  desire  you  should  prove  such  a  wife 
To  Charalois  (and  such  a«one  he  merits), 
As  Caesar,  did  he  live,  could  not  except  at ; 
Not  only  innocent  from  crime,  but  free 
From  all  taint  and  suspicion. 

Beaumel.  They  are  base 
That  judge  me  otherwise. 

Rom.  But  yet  be  careful : 
Detraction's  a  bold  monster,  and  fears  not 
To  wound  the  fame  of  princes,  if  it  find 
But  any  blemish  in  their  lives  to  work  on. 
But  I'll  be  plainer  with  you  :  had  the  people 
Been  lenrn'd  to  speak  hut  what  even  now  I  saw, 
Their  malice  out  of  that  would  raise  an  engine 
To  overthrow  your  honour,     hi  my  sight, 
With  yonder  painted  fool  I  frighted  from  you. 
You  used  familiarity  beyond 
A  modest  entertainment  :   you  embraced  him 
With  too  much  ardour  for  a  stranger,  and 
Met  him  with  kisses  neither  chaste  nor  comely. 
But  learn  you  to  forget  him,  as  I  will 
Your  bounties  to  him  ;  you  will  find  it  safer. 
Rather  to  be  uncounly  than  immodest. 

Beaumel.  This  pretty  rag*  about  your  neck  sbows 

well. 

And,  being  coarse  and  little  worth,  it  speaks  you 
As  terrible  as  thrifty. 

Rum.  Madam ! 

Beaumel.    Yes: 

And  this  strong  belt,  in  which  you  hang  your  honour, 
Will  outlast  twenty  scarfs. 

Rom.   What  mean  you,  lady? 

Beaumel.  And  [then]  all  else  about  you  cap-a-pi6, 
So  uniform  in  spite  of  handsomeness, 
Shows  such  a  bold  contempt  of  comeliness, 
That  'tis  not  strange  your  laundress  in  the  leaguerf 
G  rew  mad  with  love  of  you. 

Rom.  Is  my  free  counsel 
Answer'd  with  this  ridiculous  scorn? 

Beaumel.  Tliese  objects 
Stole  very  much  of  my  attention  from  me  ; 
Yet  something  I  remember,  to  speak  truth, 
Deliver'd  gravely,  but  to  little  purpose, 
That  almost  would  have  made  me  swear  some  curate 
Had  stolen  into  the  person  of  Romotit, 
And,  in  the  praise  of  goodwife  honesty, 
Had  read  an  homily. 

Rom.  By  this  hand 

Beaumel.  And  sword, 

I  will  make  up  your  oath,  it  will  want  weight  else.— 
You  are  angry  with  me,  and  poor  1  laugh  at  it. 
Do  you  come  from  the  camp,  which  affords  only 

•  Beaumel.  Thit  pretty  rag  about  your  neck  shows  well,] 
There  is  already  an  allusion  1o  this  ray  : 

"  What,  he  that  wears  a  clout  about  his  neck  !" 

t  That  'tis  not  strange  your  laundress  in  the  leagner]  i.  e. 
in  the  camp.  So  Lithgow,  apologizing  for  the  rodent"  of 
his  st>le,  desires  his  readers  "  to  impute  the  faults  thereof  to 
a  disordered  leaguer."  His  narrative  was  written  at  the 
iiege  of  Breda.  See  The  Picture. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


3*7 


The  conversation  of  cast  suburb  whores, 
To  set  down  to  a  lady  of  my  rank 
Limits  of  entertainment? 

Rom.  Sure  a  legion 
lias  possest  this  woman  ! 

Beintmel,   One  stamp  more  would  do  well  :  yet  I 

desire  not 

You  should  grow  horn-mad  till  yoa  have  a  wife. 
You   are   come  to   warm  meat,  and  perhaps  clean 

linen  ; 

Feed,  wear  it,  and  be  thankful.     For  me,  know, 
That  though  a  thousand  watches  were  set  on  me, 
And  you  the  master-spy,  I  yet  would  use 
The  liberty  that  best  likes  me.    1  will  revel, 
Feast,  kiss,  embrace,  perhaps  grant  larger  favours  ; 
Yet  such  as  live  upon  my  means  shall  know 
They  must  not  murmur  at  it.     If  my  lord 
Be  now  grown  yellow,  and  has  chose  out  you 
To  serve  his  jealousy  this  way,  tell  him  this  : 
You  have  something  to  inform  him.  [Exit. 

Rom.     And  I  will  ; 

Believe  it,  wicked'one,  I  will.     Hear,  heaven, 
But,  hearing,  pardon  me  ;  if  these  fruits  grow 
Upon  the  tree  of  marriage,  let  me  shun  it 
As  a  forbidden  sweet.     An  heir,  and  rich, 
Young,  beautiful,  yet  add  to  this — a  wife, 
And  1  will  rather  choose  a  spittle*  sinner 
Carted  an  age  before,  though  three  parts  rotten, 
And  take  it  for  a  blessing,  raiher  than 
Be  fetter'd  to  the  hellish  slavery 
Of  such  an  impudence. 

Enter  BEAUMONT  with  tcriti/igs. 

Beau.  Colonel,  good  fortune 

To  meet  you  thus  !    You  look  sad,  but  I'll  tell  you 
Something  that  shall  remove  it.     0,  how  happy 
ts  my  lord  Cbaralois  in  his  fair  bride  ! 

Rom.  A  happy  man,  indeed  ! — pray  you,  in  what  ? 

Beau.    I  dare  swear,  you  would  ihirik  so  good  a 

lady 
A  dower  sufficient. 

Ram.  No  dnubt.     But  on. 

Eeati.  So  fair,  so  chaste,  so  virtuous,  so — indeed, 
All  that  is  excellent! 

Rom.  Women  have  no  cunning 
To  gull  the  world  ! 

Beau.  Yet,  to  all  these,  my  lord, 
Her  father,  gives  the  full  addition  of 
All  he  does  now  possess  in  Burgundy: 
These  writings,  to  confirm  it,  are  new  seal'd, 
And  1  most  fortunate  to  present  him  with  them  ; 
I  must  go  seek  him  out.     Can  you  direct  me  ? 

Rum.  \ou'll  find  him  breaking  a  young  horse. 

Beau.  1  thank  you.  Exit. 

Rom.    1  must   do   something   worthy  Charalois' 

friendship. 

If  she  were  well  inclined,  to  keep  her  so 
Deserved  not  thanks  ;  and  yet,  to  stay  a  woman 
Spurr'd  headlong  by  hot  lust  to  her  own  ruin, 
Is  harder  than  to  prop  a  falling  tower 
With  a  deceiving  reed. 

Enter  Rociironr,  speaking  to  a  Servant  within, 

Roch.  Some  one  seek  for  me 
As  soon  as  he  returns. 

Rom.  Her  father?  ha! 

How  if  I  break  this  to  him?  sure  it  cannot 

*  And  I  will  rather  choose  a  spittle  sinner}  For  spittle! 
,.     M.  Mason  reads,  ipital,  as  usual,  and  is,  as  usual,  wrune. 

See  The  'Ji 


Meet  with  an  ill  construction  :  his  wisdom, 
Made  powerful  by  ihe  authority  of  a  father, 
Will  warrant  and  give  privilege  to  his  counsels. 
It  shall  be  so. — Mv  lord  ! 

Rock.   Your  friend,  Romont. 
Would  you  aught  with  me? 

Rom.   1  stand  so  engaged 
To  your  so  many  favours,  that  I  hold  it 
A  breach  in  thankfulness,  should  I  not  discover, 
Though  with  some  imputation  to  myself, 
All  doubts  that  may  concern  you. 

Ruch.  The  performance 
Will  make  this  protestation  worth  my  thanks. 

Rom.    Then,  with  your   patience,  lend  me  your 

attention : 

For  what  I  must  deliver,  whisper'd  only, 
You  will  with  too  much  grief  receive. 

Enter  BEAUMELLE  aw/  BELtAi'EitT,  behind. 

Beaumel.   See,  wench  ! 
Upon  my  life,  as  1  forespake,  he's  now 
Preferring  his  complaint;  but  be  thou  perfect, 
And  we  will  fit  him. 

Bell.   Fear  not  me  ;  pox  on  him  ! 
A  cai'tain  turned  informer  against  kissing  ! 
Would  he  were  hang'd  up  in  his  rusty  armour! — 
But,  if  our  fresh  wits  cannot  turn  the  plots 
Of  such  a  mouldy  murrion  on  itself; 
Rich  clothes,  choice  fare,  and  a  true  friend  at  a  call, 
With  all  the  pleasures  the  night  yields,  forsake  us! 

Rnch.  This  in  my  daughter  !  do  not  wrong  her. 

Bell.  Now 
Bejiin  :  the  game's  afoot,  and  we  in  distance. 

Beaumel.    [comes  forward.]    'Tis  thy  fault,  foolish 

girl  !  pin  on  my  veil, 
I  will  not  wear  those  jewels.     Am  I  not 
Already  match'd  beyond  my  hopes?  yet  still 
You  prune  and  set  me  forth,  as  if  I  were 
Again  to  please  a  suitor. 

Btlt.  'Tis  a  course 
That  our  great  ladies  take. 

Beaumel.  A  weak  excuse*  ! 
Those  that  are  better  seen  in  what  concerns 
A  lady's  honour  and  fair  fdine,  condemn  it. 
You  wait  well ;  in  your  absence,  my  lord's  friend, 
The  understanding,  grave,  and  wise  Romont 

Rom.    Must  I  be  still  her  sport  ? 

Beaumel.   Reproved  me  for  it ; 
And  he  has  travelled  to  bring  home  a  judgment 
Not  to  be  contradicted.     You  will  say 
My  father,  that  owes  more  to  years  than  he, 
Has  brought  me  up  to  music,  language,  courtship, 
And  I  must  use  them  :  true  ;  but  not  to  offend, 
Or  render  me  suspected. 

Rock.  Does  your  fine  story 
Begin  from  this  ? 

Beaumel.  I  thought  a  parting  kiss 
From  young  Novall  would  have  displeased  no  more 
Than  heretofore  it  hath  done  ;  but  ]  find 
1  must  restrain  such  favours  now;  look,  therefore; 
As  you  are  careful  to  continue  mine, 
That  I  no  more  be  visited.     I'll  endure 
The  strictest  course  of  life  that  jealousy 
Can  think  secure  enough,  ere  rny  behaviour 
Shall  call  my  fame  in  question. 

*  Beaiimcl.  A  weak  fi-cugn '.]  This  hemistich  lias  been  hi- 
therto given  to  Uiunont.  It  i.s  evident,  10  me  at  leant,  ilut 
it  belongs  to  !!r,miiiel|.-.  Romont  could  not  call  what  Bel- 
la pert  had  urgec,  a  weak  cxcute,  for  he  was  ignorant  of  iu 
drill. 


3*8 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acr  III, 


.Rom.  Ten  dissemblers 
Are  in  this  subtle  devil  !  You  believe  this? 

lloch.  So  far,  that  if  you  trouble  me  again 
With  a  report  like  this,  I  shall  not  only 
Judge  you  malicious  in  your  disposition, 
But  study  to  repent  what  I  have  done 
To  such  a  nature. 

Rom.  Why,  'tis  exceeding  well. 

Rock.  And  for  you,  daughter,  off  with  this,  off 

with  it ! 

I  have  that  confidence  in  your  goodness,  I, 
That  I  will  net  consent  to  have  you  live 
Like  to  a  recluse  in  a  cloister  :   Go, 
Call  in  the  gallants,  let  them  make  you  merry  ; 
Use  all  fit  liberty. 

Bell.  Blessing  upon  you  ! 

If  this  new  preacher  with  the  sword  and  feather 
Could  prove  his  doctrine  for  canonical, 
We  should  have  a  fine  world.  [F.xit. 

Roch.  Sir,  if  you  please 
To  bear  yourself  as  fits  a  gentleman, 
The  house  is  at  your  service  ;  but,  if  not, 
Though  you  seek  company  elsewhere,  your  absence 
Will  not  be  much  lamented.  [Exit. 

Rom.  If  this  be 

The  recompense  of  striving  to  preserve 
A  wanton  gigglet  honest,  very  shortly 
'Twill  make  all  mankind  panders. — Do  you  smile, 
Good  lady  looseness  !  your  whole  sex  is  like  you, 
And  that  man's  mad  that  seeks  to  better  any : 
What  new  change  have  you  next? 

Beawnet.  Oh,  fear  not  you,  sir, 
I'll  shift  into  a  thousand,  but  I  will 
Convert  your  heresy. 

Rom.  What  heresy  ?  speak. 

Beanmel.  Of  keeping  a  lady  that  is  married 
From  entertaining  servants 

Enter  NOVALL  junior,  MALOTIN,  LILADAM,  AYMER, 
and  PONTALIER. 

O,  you  are  welcome  ! 

Use  any  means  to  vex  him, 

And  then  with  welcome  follow  me.  [Earif. 

Nov.jun.  You  are  tired 
With  your  grave  exhortations,  colonel ! 

Lilad.  How  is  it?    faith,  your  lordship  may  do 

well 

To  help  him  to  some  church  preferment :  'tis 
The  fashion  now  for  men  of  all  conditions, 
However  they  have  lived,  to  end  that  way. 

Aym.  That  face'would  do  well  in  a  surplice. 

Horn.  Rogues, 
Be  silent— or — 

Pont.  'Sdeath  !  will  you  suffer  this*? 

Rom.    And  you,   the  master-rogue,    the  coward 

rascal, 
I  shall  be  with  you  suddenly. 

Nov.jun.  Pontalier, 

If  I  should  strike  him,  I  know  I  should  kill  him; 
And  therefore  I  would  have  thee  beat  him,  for 
He's  good  for  nothing  else. 


'Pont,  'tdeath  '.  will  you  suffer  this  ?}  Massingerhaspre- 
terved  the  character  of  1'ontalier  from  contamination,  with 
jreat  dexteiity,  through  every  scene.  He  is  here  the  only 
one  (with  the  exception  of  Malotinj  who  does  not  insult 
Roinont,  thi-ugh  he  appears  to  feel  some  indignation  at  the 
contempt  with  which  Novall  and  his  followers  are  treated  by 
him.  He  is  grateful,  but  not  obsequious;  and  rather  t'tv  ,n- 
fectionate  tutor  than  the  agent  of  his  young  lord,  for  whose 
honour  be  is  more  solicitous  than  for  his  own  advantage. 


Lilad.  His  back 

Appears  to  me,  as  it  would  tire  a  beadle  ; 
And  then  he  has  a  knotted  brow  would  bruise 
A  courtlike  hand  to  touch  it. 

Avm.  He  looks  like 
A  currier  when  his  hides  grow  dear. 

Pont.  Take  heed 
He  curry  not  some  of  you. 

Nov.jun.  Gad's  me  !  he's  angry. 

Rom.  I  bre;ik  no  jests,  but  I  can  break  my  sworf 
About  your  pates. 

Enter  CHARALOIS  and  BEAUMONT. 

Lilad.  Here's  more. 

Aym.  Come,  let's  be  gone: 
We  are  beleaguer'd. 

Nov.jun.  Look,  they  bring  up  their  troops. 

Ptmt.  Will  you  sit  down 
With  this  disgrace  ?  you  are  abused  most  grossly. 

Lilad.  I  grant  you,  sir,  we  are;  and  you  would 

have  us 
Stay,  and  be  more  abused. 

Nov.jun.  My  lord,  I'm  forry 
Your  house  is  so  inhospitable,  we  must  quit  it. 

[E.rei(rit  all  but  Charalois  and  Romont. 

Choral.  Prithee,  Romont,  what  caused  this  uproar? 

Rom.  Nothing ; 
They  laugh'd,  and  used  their  scurvy  wits  upon  me. 

Charai.  Come,  'tis  thy  jealous  nature:  but  1  wonder 
That  you,  which  are  an  honest  man  and  worthy, 
Should  foster  this  suspicion  :  no  man  laughs, 
No  one  can  whisper,  but  thou  apprehend'st 
His  conference  and  his  scorn  reflect  on  thee : 
For  my  part,  they  should  scoff  their  thin  wits  out, 
So  I  not  heard  them  ;  beat  me,  not  being  there. 
Leave,  leave  these  fits  to  conscious  men,  to  such 
As  are  obnoxious  to  those  foolish  things 
As  they  can  g-ibe  at. 

Rom.  Well,  sir. 

Charai.  Thou  art  known 
Valiant  without  defect,  rightly  denned, 
Which  is  as  fearing  to  do  injury, 
As  tender  to  endure  it ;  not  a  brabbler, 
A  swearer 

Rom.  Pish,  pish  !  what  needs  this,  my  lord? 
If  I  be  known  none  such,  how  vainly  you 
Do  cast  away  good  counsel !  I  have  loved  yoa, 
And  yet  must  freely  speak  ;  so  young  a  tutor 
Fits  not  so  old  a  soldier  as  I  am  : 
And  I  must  tell  you,  'twas  in  your  behalf 
I  grew  enraged  thus,  yet  had  rather  die 
Than  open  the  great  cause  a  syllable  further. 

Cliaral.  In  my  behalf!  Wherein  hath  Charalois 
Unfitly  so  demean'd  himself,  to  give 
The  least  occasion  to  the  loosest  tongue 
To  throw  aspersions  on  him  ?  or  so  weakly 
Protected  his  own  honour,  as  it  should 
Need  a  defence  from  any  but  himself? 
They  are  fools  that   judge  me  by  my  outward 

seeming. 

Why  should  my  gentleness  beget  abuse  ? 
The  lion  is  not  angry  that  does  sleep, 
Nor  every  man  a  coward  that  can  weep, 
For  God's  sake,  speak  the  cause. 

Rom,  Not  for  the  world. 
Oh !  it  will  strike  disease  into  your  bones, 
Beyond  the  cure  of  physic  ;  drink  your  blood, 
Rob  you  of  all  your  rest,  contract  your  sight, 
Leave  you  no  eyes  but  to  see  misery, 
And  of  your  own  ;  nor  speech,  but  to  wish  thus, 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


329 


Would  I  hud  perish 'd  in  the  prison's  jaws, 

From  whence  I  was   redeem'd! — 'twill   wear  vou 

old, 

Before  you  hnve  experience  in  that  art 
That  causes  your  affliction. 

Charnl.  Thou  dost  strike 
A  deatlif'ul  coldness  to  my  heart's  high  heat, 
And  shrink'st  my  liver  like  the  calenture. 
.Declare  this  foe  of  mine,  and  life's,  that  like 
A  man  1  may  encounter  and  subdue  it. 
It  shall  not  Lave  one  such  effect  in  me 
As  thou  denounces! :  with  a  soldier's  arm, 
If  it  be  strength,  I'll  meet  it ;  if  a  fault 
.Belonging  to  my  mind,  I'll  cut  it  oft' 
With  mine  own  reason,  as  a  scholar  should. 
Speak,  though  it  make  me  monstrous. 

Rum.  1  will  die  first. 

Farewell ;  continue  merry,  and  high  heaven 
Keep  your  wife  chaste  ! 

Charal.  Hum  !  Stay  and  take  this  wolf 
Out  of  my  breast,  that  thou  hast  lodged  there,  or 
For  ever  lose  me. 

Ram.  Lose  not,  sir,  yourself, 
And  1  will  venture  : — so,  the  door  is  fast. 

[Locks  the  door. 

Now,  noble  Charalois,  collect  yourseff, 
Summon  your  spirits,  muster  all  your  strength 
That  can  belong  to  man  ;  sift  passion 
From  every  vein,  and  whatsoe'er  ensues, 
Upbraid  not  me  hereafter,  as  the  cause  of 
Jealousy,  discontent,  slaughter,  and  rain  : 
Make  me  not  parent  to  sin. — You  will  know 
This  secret  that  I  burn  with  ? 

Chnnil.  Devil  on't. 

What  should  it  be  !  Romont,  I  heard  you  wish 
My  wife's  continuance  of  chastity. 

Rum.  There  was  no  hurt  in  that. 

Chanil.   Why,  do  you  know 
A  likelihood  or  possibility 
Unto  the  contrary? 

Rom.  I    know   it  not,   but   doubt  it ;    these  the 

giounds  : 

The  servant  of  your  wife  now,  young  Novall, 
The  son  unto  your  father's  enemy 
(  Which  aggravates  presumption  the  more), 
I  ba<'e  been  warn'd  of,   touching  her: — nay,  seen 

them 

Tied  heart  to  heart,  one  in  another's  arms, 
Multiplying  kisses,  as  if  they  meant 
To  pose  arithmetic  ;  or  whose  eyes  would 
Be  first  burnt  out  with  gazing  on  the  other's. 
I  saw  their  mouths  engender,  and  their  ]>,<lius 
Glew'd    as  if  love   had  lock'd  them  ;   their  words 

flow 

And  melt  each  other's,  like  two  circling  flames, 
Where  chastity,  like  a  phienix,  methought  burn'd, 
But  left  the  world  nor  ashes,  nor  an  heir. — 
Why  stand  you  silent  thus?  what  cold  dull  phlegm, 
As  if  you  had  no  drop  of  choler  mix'd 
In  your  whole  constitution,  thus  prevails, 
To  fix  you  now  thus  stupid,  hearing  this? 

Charal.  You  did  not  see  him  on  my  couch  within, 
Like  George  a-horseback,  on  her,  nor  a-bed? 

Ram.  No. 

Chanil.  Ha!  ha! 

Bom.  Laugh  you  !  even  so  did  your  wife, 
And  her  indulgent  father. 

C! and.  They  were  wise: 
Wouldst  have  me  be  a  fool  1 

Jlom.  No,  but  a  man. 


Charnl.  There  is  no  dram  of  manhood  to  suspect 
On  such  thin  airy  circumstance  as  this  ; 
Mere  compliment  and  courtship.     Was  this  tale 
The  hideous  monster  which  you  so  conceal'd  > 
Away,  thou  curious  impertinent*, 
And  idle  searcher  of  such  lean,  nice  toys  ! 
Go,  thou  seditious  sower  of  debate, 
Fly  to  such  matches,  where  the  bridegroom  doubts 
He  holds  not  worth  enough  to  countervail 
The  virtue  and  the  beauty  of  his  wife  ! 
Thou  buzzing  drone,  that  'bout  my  ears  dost  hum, 
To  strike  thy  rankling  sting  into  my  heart, 
Whose  venom  time  nor  medicine  could  assuage, 
Thus  do  I  put  thee  off!  and,  confident 
In  mine  own  innocencv  and  desert, 
Date  not  conceive  her  so  unreasonable, 
To  put  Novall  in  balance  against  me  ; 
An  upstart,  craned  up  to  the  height  he  has. 
Hence,  busybody  !  thou'rt  no  friend  to  me, 
That  must  be  kept  to  a  wife's  injury. 

Rom.  Is't  possible? — farewell,  fine  honest  man! 
Sweet-temper'd  lord,  adieu!   What  apoplexy 
Hath  knit  sense  up?  is  this  Romont's  reward  ? 
Bear  witness,  the  great  spirit  of  thy  father, 
With  what  a  healthful  hope  I  did  administer 
This  potion,  that  hath  wrought  so  virulently! 
1  not  accuse  thy  wife  of  act,  but  would 
Prevent  her  precipice  to  thy  dishonour, 
Which  now  thy  tardy  sluggishness  will  admit. 
Would  1  had  seen  thee  graved  with  thy  great  sire, 
Ere  lived  to  have  men's  marginal  fingers  point 
At  Charalois,  as  a  lamented  storyf  ! 
An  emperor  put  away  his  wife  for  touching 
Another  man;  but  thou  wouldst  have  thine  tasted, 
And  keep  her,  I  think. — Phoh  !   I  am  a  fire 
To  warm  a  dead  man,  that  waste  out  myself. 
Bleedf — What  a  plague,  a  vengeance,  is't  to  me, 
If  you  will  be  a  cuckold  ?  here,  I  show 
A  sword's  point  to  thee,  this  side  you  may  shun, 
Or  that,  the  peril ;  if  you  will  run  on, 
I  cannot  help  it. 

Charal.  Didst  thou  never  see  me 
Angry,  Romont? 

Horn.  Yes,  and  pursue  a  foe 
Like  lightning. 

Charal.  Prithee,  see  me  so  no  more : 
I  can  be  so  again.     Put  up  thy  sword, 
And  take  thyself  away,  lest  I  draw  mine. 

Rom.  Come,     fright  your   foes   with    this,    sir ! 

I'm  your  friend, 
And  dare  stand  by  you  thus. 

Charai.  Thou  art  not  my  friend, 
Or  being  so,  thou  art  mad  ;  I  must  not  buy 
Thy  friendship  at  this  rate.     Had  I  just  cause, 

*  Away  thou  curious  impertinent,]  This  is  an  allusion  to 
the  title  of  one  of  Cer«  antes'  novels,  which  were  much  read 
ami  admirer  in  Massingei's  time. 
t  H  ould  1  had  teen  thee  graved  with  thy  great  tire, 
Ere  lived  to  have  men't  marginal  lingers  point 
At  Charalois,  as  a  'ainentetl  ttory!)  This  is  a  most  beau- 
tiful   allusion   to    the  ancient  custom  of  placing  an  index 
(  {£#*  )  in   the  margin  of  books,  to  direct  the  reader's  atten- 
tion   to   the  striking  passages.      Massinger   follows    Shak- 
spearc  in  drawing  his   illustrations  from  the  most   familiar 
objects. 

I  Uleed—]  So  the  quarto;  Coxeter  has  Blood  ;  which  Mr. 
M.  Mason  points  as  if  it  were  an  oath.  This,  however,  is 
not  the  author's  meaning:  he  was  about  to  say,  perhaps, 
Bleed  (tor  one  th.it  IceN  not  for  himself!)  or  something 
equivalent  to  it :  but  his  impatiert  indignation  will  not  let 
him  proceed,  and  he  bursts  out  into  exclamatory  interro- 
gatiout. 


350 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acr  IV 


Thou  know'st  I  durst  pursue  such  injury 

Through  firs,  air,  water,  earth,  nay,  were  they  all 

Shuffled  iigiiin  to  chaos  ;  but  there's  none. 

Thy  skill,  Hoiront.  consists  in  camps   not  courts. 

Farewell,  uncivil'  man  !  lei's  meet  no  more  : 

Here  our  long  web  of  friendship  I  untwist. 

Shall  1  £0  wtiine,  walk  pale,  and  lock  my  wife, 

For  no  hing,  from  her  birth's  free  liberty, 

That  npt-n'd  mine  to  me  ?  yes  ;  if  I  do, 

The  name  o*  cuckold  then  dog  me  with  scorn! 

1  ain  a  Frenchman,  110  Italian  born.  [Exit. 


Horn.  A  dull  Dutch   rather:    fall   and  cool,  my 

blood  ! 

Boil  not  in  zeal  of  tliy  friend's  hurt  so  high, 
That  is  so  low  and  cold  himself  in't1      Woman, 
How  strong  art  thou  !  how  easily  beguiled  ! 
How  thou  dost  rack  us  by  the  very  horns  ! 
Now    wealth,    I   see,    change    manners    and    the 

man. 

Something  I  must  do  mine  own  wrath  to  assuage, 
And  note  my  friendship  to  an  after  age. 

[Exit. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  Novell's  House. 

NOVAI .1,  junior,  di>coiered  seated  before  a  looking-glass, 
icit'i  <i  Barber  anil  Perfumer  dreeing  his  hair,  while 
a  Tailor  adjusts  a  new  suit  u-h/ch  he  wears.  LILA- 
DAM, A  YMttt,  u»fi  a  Page  attending. 

Nov.jun.  Mend  this  a  little  :  pox  !  thou  hast 
burnt  me.  Oh,  fin  upon't  !  O  lard!  he  has  made 
me  smell  for  all  the  world  like  a  flax,  or  a  red-headed 
woman's  chamber  :  Powder,  powder,  powder! 

Per/.  Oh,  sweet  lord  ! 

Page.  That's  his  perfumer. 

Tuil    Oh,  dear  lord! 

P'tgf.  That's  his  tailor. 

Km-,  j tin.  AJousieur  Liladam,  Aymer,  how  allow 
you  tli«  model  of  these  clothes? 

/tism.  Admirably,  admirably;  oh,  sweet  lord! 
assuredly  it's  pity  the  worms  should  eat  thee. 

Page.  Here's  a  fine  cell !  a  lord,  a  tailor,  a  per- 
fumer, a  barber,  and  a  pair  of  monsieurs:  three  to 
three  ;  as  little  wit  in  the  one  as  honesty  in  the 
other.  'Sfoot!  I'll  into  the  country  again,  learn  to 
speak  truth,  drink  ale,  and  converse  with  my  fa- 
ther's tenants  :  here  I  hear  nothing  all  day,  but— 
Upon  my  soul,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  and  an  honest 
man  ! 

Aym.  I  vow  and  affirm,  your  tailor  must  needs  be 
an  expert  geometrician ;  he  has  the  longitude,  lati- 
tude, altitude,  profundity,  every  dimension  of  your 
body,  so  exquisitely—  here's  a  lace  laid  as  directly  us 
if  truth  were  a  tailor. 

Puge.  That  were  a  miracle. 

Lilad.  \\  ith  a  hair's- breadth's  error,  there's  a 
shoulder-piece  cut,  and  the  base  of  a  pickadille  in 
puncto. 

Aym.  You  are  right,  monsieur;  his  vestments 
sit  as  if  they  grew  upon  him,  or  art  had  wrought 
them  on  the  s-ame  loom  as  nature  framed  his  lord- 
ship ;  as  if  your  tailor  were  deeply  read  in  astrology, 
and  had  taken  measure  of  your  honourable  body  with 
a  Jacob's  staff,  an  ej.himerides. 

Tail.  1  am  bound  t"  ye,  gentlemen. 

Page.  You  art- deceived  ;  t  hey '11  be  bound  to  you  : 
you  must  remember  to  trust  them  none. 

Noc.jun.  Nay,  :faith,  thou  art  a  reasonable   neat  j 
artificer,  give  the  devil  his  due. 

Page.  Ay,  if  he  would  but  cut  the  coat  according 
to  the  cloth  still. 

Nov.jitn.  1  now  want  only  my  mistress'  approba- 
tion, who  is,  indeed,  the  most  polite  punctual  queen 


of  dressing  in  all  Burgundy — pah !  and  makes  all 
other  young  ladies  appear  as  if  they  came  from 
board  last  week  out  of  the  country :  is't  not  true, 
Liladam  ? 

Lilad.  True,  my  lord  !  as  if  any  thing  your  lord- 
ship could  say  could  be  otherwise  than  true. 

Nov.jun.  Nay,  o'  my  soul,  'tis  so;  what  fouler 
object  in  the  world,  than  to  see  a  young,  fair, 
handsome  beauty  unhandsomely  dighted,  and  in- 
congruently  accoutr'd  ;  or  a  hopeful  chevalier  un- 
methodically appointed  in  the  external  ornaments  of 
nature?  For,  even  as  the  index  tells  us  the  con- 
tents of  stories,  and  directs  to  the  particular  chap- 
ters, even  so  does  the  outward  habit  and  superficial 
order  of  garments  (in  man  or  woman)  give  us  a 
taste  of  the  spirit,  and  demonstratively  point  (as  it 
were  a  manual  note  from  the  margin )  all  the  in- 
ternal quality  and  habiliment  of  the  soul  ;  and  there 
cannot  be  a  more  evident,  palpable,  gross  manifest- 
ation of  poor,  degenerate,  dunghilly  blood  and 
breeding,  than  a  rude,  unpolished,  disordered,  and 
slovenly  outsidef. 

P"ge.  An  admirable  lecture  !  oh,  all  you  gallants, 
that  hope  to  be  saved  by  your  clothes,  edify,  edify  ! 

Aym.  By  the  Lard,  sweet  lard,  thou  deserves!  a 
pension  o'  the  state. 

Page.  O'  the  tailors  :  two  such  lords  were  able  to 
spread  tailors  o'er  the  face  of  the  whole  kingdom. 

Nov.jun.  Pox  o'  this  glass!  it  flatters. — I  could 
find  in  my  heart  to  break  it. 

Pt'ge.  O,  save  the  glass,  my  lord,  and  break  their 

heads; 
They  are  the  greater  flatterers,  I  assure  you. 

Aym.  Flatters  !  detracts,  impairs — yet,  put  it  by, 
Lest  thou,  dear  lord,  Narcissus  like,  should'st  doat 
Upon  thyself,  and  die ;  and  rob  the  world 
Of  nature's  copy,  that  she  works  form  by. 

Lilad.  Oh  that  I  were  the  infanta  queen  of  Europe  ! 
Who  but  thyself,  sweet  lord,  should  marry  me? 

Nov.jun.    I   marry  !  were  there   a  queen  o'  the 
world,  not  1. 


•  Farewell,  uncivil  man!]    i.    e.    unacquainted  with  the 
usages  and  customs  of  civil  or  municipal  life. 

*  This   empty  coxcomb  was  afterwards  improved  into  the 
sedate  and  entertaining  fop  of  Cibber  and  Vanbrongh'n  age. 
Whether  they  copied  from  nature  1  c.innotsay;  but  the  bean 
of  our  dramas,  whose  wil  Iks  altogether  in  the  restless  acti- 
vity of   his   legs  and  arms,  resembles  no  animal   rational  or 
irrational,  with  which  I  am    acquainted,  unless  it   be  a  mou 
key  that  has  just  snajit  its  chain. 


Scr.N«  I.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


331 


Wedlock  !  no  ;  padlock,  horselock  ; — I  wear  spurs 

[He  Capers. 

To  keep  it  off  my  hee's.     Yet,  my  Aymer, 
Like  a  free,  wanton  jennet  in  the  meadows, 
I  look  about,  and  neigh,  take  hedge  and  ditch, 
Feed  in  my  neighbours'  pastures,  pick  my  choice 
Of  a!l  their  t'air-maned  mares:  but  married  once, 
A  man  is  sMked  or  poun'd,  and  cannot  graze 
Beyond  his  own  heuge. 

Enter  PoNTALinn  and  MALOTIN. 

Pont.  I  have  waited,  sir, 

Thr  ••  hours  to  speak  wi'  ye,  and  not  take  it  well 
Such  magpies  are  admitted,  whilst  1  dance 
Attendance. 

Liltnl.  .Magpies  !  what  d'ye  take  me  for? 
Pont.  A  long  thing  with  umost  unpromising  face. 
.H«m.   I'll  never  ask  him  what  he  takes  me  for? 
Miilnt.  Do  not,  sir, 
For  he'll  go  near  to  tell  you. 

Pout.  Art  not  thou 
A  barhtr-surgeoii  ! 

Bur 6.   Yes,  sirrah  ;  why  ? 

Pont.  My   lord  is  sorely  troubled  with  two  scabs. 

Liiad.  Aijm.   Hum 

P.Kit.   1  prithee  cure  him  of  them. 
AW.  JUH.   Pisn  !  no  more. 

Thv  gall  sure's  overflown  ;  these  are  my  council, 
And  wt-  were  no*  in  serious  discourse. 

font.  Of  perfume  and  apparel  !     Can  you  rise, 
And  spend  tive  hours  in  dressing-talk  with  these? 
AW.  jim.  I'hou  'Idst  have  me  be  a  dog :  up,  stretch, 

and  shake, 
And  ready  for  all  day. 

Pont.  Sir,  would  you  be 

More  curious  in  preserving  of  your  honour  trim, 
It  were  more  manly.      I  am  come  to  wake 
Your  reputation  from  this  lethargy 
You  let  it  sleep  in  :  to  persuade,  importune, 
Nay,  to  provoke  you,  sir,  to  call  to  account 
This  colonel  Romont,  for  the  foul  wrong 
Which,  like  a  burthen,  he  hath  laid  upon  you, 
And,  like  a  drunken  porter,  you  sleep  under, 
Tis  all  ihe  town  talks';  and,  believe  it,  sir, 
If  your  tough  sense  persist  thus,  you  are  undone, 
Utterly  lost  ;  you  will  be  scorn'd  and  baffled 
Hy  every  lacquey  :  season  now  your  youth 
With  one  brave  thing,  and  it  shall  keep  the  odour 
Kven  to  your  death,  beyond,  and  on  your  tomb 
Scent  like  sweet  oils  and  frankincense.    Sir,  this  life, 
Which  once  you  saved,  1  ne'er  since  counted  mine  ; 
I  borrowed  it  of  you,  and  now  will  pay  it : 
I  tender  you  the  service  of  my  sword 
To  bear  your  challenge,  if  you'll  write,  your  fate 
I'll  make  mine  own  ;  whate'er  l>etide  you,  I, 
That  have  lived  by  you,  by  your  side  will  die. 

AW.  jun   Ha  '  'Ha  !    wouldst  have  me  challenge 

poor  Romont  ? — 

Fight  with  close  breeches,  thou  may'st  think  I  dare 
notf  : 


•  'Tit  all  the  town  talks,]  So  the  quarto  ;  which  is  surely 
better  111  in  town-talk,  which  ihe  modern  editors  havesubsti- 
tutul  in  its  place. 

t  fiyht  with  close  breeches,  thtu  mayst  think  I  dare  nnt  : 
Covti-r  i-.nd  Mr.  M.  Mason  point  tins  as  if  they  supposed 
cio^e  breeches  referred  to  Roniuut ;  but  it  is  not  so.  In  an 
swtr  to  the  charge  of  cowardice,  Novall  tells  PonUlier,  thai 
though  he  may  conclude,  fn  m  his  finical  appearance,  am 
his  witments  "sitting  a*  if  they  grew  upon  him,  that  he 
was  atrai-l  of  Koinont,  he  was  mistaken.  It  is  the  poverty 
not  the  dote  breeches  of  his  enemy  which  prevents  his  chal 
leiiging  him. 


Do  not  mistake  me  coz,  1  am  very  valiant ; 
But  valour  shall  not  make  me  such  an  ass. 
What  use  is  there  of  valour  now  a-davs  1 
Tis  sure  or  to  be  kill'd,  or  to  be  hang'd. 

iiht  thou  as  thy  mind  moves  thee,  'tis  thy  trade  ; 
I'hou  hast  nothing  else  to  do.  Fight  with  Romont 
No,  I'll  not  fight  under  a  lord. 

Pont.  Farewell,  sir  ! 
I  pity  you 

Such  living  lords  walk,  their  dead  honour's  graves  ; 
For  no  companions  fit  but  fools  and  knaves. 
Come,  Malotin.  [Exeunt  Pontalier  and  Malotin 

Enter  ROMONT. 

Lilad.  'Sfoot,  Colbrand,  the  low  giant  ! 

A\iin.  He  has  brought  a  battle  in  his  face,  let's  go. 

Page.  Colbrand,  d'ye  call  him?  he'll  make  some 

of  you* 
Smoke,  I  believe. 

Rom.  By  your  leave,  sirs  ! 
Aym.  Are  you  a  consortf  ? 


*  Page.  Colbrand,  d'ye  call  him?  he'll  ma'ie  some  of  you 
Smoke,  I  believe.]  It  U  as  rare  lo  find  a  conceit  in  Mas- 
sinjjer  as  to  miss  one  in  his  conteinporaius  :  here,  however, 
there  appears  something  like  an  attempt  to  find  resemblance 
between  Colbrand  and  cold  brand!  In  justice  to  the  author 
it  should  be  added,  that  it  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  page. 
Colbrand  was  a  Dani-li  giant,  as  may  be  seen  in  The  Ke- 
noivned  history  of  Guy  Earl  of  Warwick,  every  child's  de- 
light. 

+  Aym.  Are  you  a  consort  ?]  i.  e.  come  you  here  to  b« 
played  on.  COXKTER. 

This  cannot  be  the  meaning,  for  a  concert  is  not  played  on. 
M.  MASON. 

A  concert  is  understood  to  mean  instruments  played  upon. 
D*vis. 

And  thus  the  text  is  illustrated  !  Not  one  of  these  gentle- 
men had  the  slighest  idea  of  what  Mas>iii£er  was  saying,  nor, 
which  though  not  uncommon  is  jet  somewhat  more  extra- 
ordinary, of  what  he  was  saving  himself. 

In  the  author'*  age,  the  taverns  were  infested  with  itiner- 
ant bands  of  musicians,  each  of  which  (jointly  and  individu- 
ally) was  called  a  noise  or  consort .-  these  were  sometimes  in- 
invited  to  play  to  the  company,  but  seem  im-re  frequently  to 
have  thrust  themselves,  unasked,  into  it,  with  an  otter  of  their 
services:  thi-ir  intrusion  was  usually  prefaced  with,  "  By 
your  have,  gentlemen,  will  you  hear  any  music  !"  One  ex- 
ample, in  a  case  where  hundreds  niiuht  easily  be  produced, 
will  make  all  clear  : 

"  Enter  Fiddler  to  the  company. 

"Fid.  Will't  please  you,  gentlemen,  to  hear  any  mo 
sic  ? 

"  Bov.  Shall  we  have  any  ? 
"  Seb.  By  no  means;  it  takes  from  our  mirth. 
"  Bov.  Begone,  then  ! 
"  fid    A  very  good  song,  an't  please  you? 
"  Xeb.  This  i<    the  trick  of  taverns    when  men  desire  to 
be  private."    Shirley's  Lore's  Cruelty. 

Homont,  who  had  broken  into  Novall's  dressing-room, 
with  the  customary  phrase,  By  your  leave,  gentlemen,  na- 
turally draws  from  Aymer  (a  musician)  the  question  h« 
puts  ;  and  Romont,  who  understands  him,  as  naturally  re- 
plies, I  will  show  you  that  I  am  not :  musicians  are  paid, 
whereas  I  will  pay  (beat)  jou.  This  is  the  sense  of  the 
passage.  I  have  before  remarked  on  the  strange  conduct  of 
Mr.  M.  Mason,  in  changing  contort  to  concert,  as  often  as  U 
occurs. 

Not  many  j-ears  since,  a  volume  of  Comments  on  th« 
P.'uys  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  was  published  by  the 
Ili;:lit  Honourable  J.  Monck  Mason,  in  which,  among 
oilier  passages,  I  was  somewhat  struck  with  the  follow- 
ing : — 

"  Or  be  of  some  good  concert."     The  Captain. 
"The  old  reading  is  consort,  which  the  editors  have  injtuU- 
ciously  changed   to  concert,  a  mistake  which  the  editors  of 
Ahakspeare  have  also  run  into." 

Though  this  may  be  true,  it  required  a  certain  degree  of 
intrepidity  to  enable  a  man  who  never  saw  the  word  in  Mas- 
singer  without  corrupting  it,  to  hazard  a  sneer  of  this  nature 
at  the  editors  of  Shakspeare.  It  must  be  remembered  that  I 
speak  on  the  supposition  that  the  author  of  the  Cammenii 
was  also  the  editor  of  Massinger. 


332 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acr  IV 


Rom.  Do  you  take  me  for 

A   fiddler  1    you're  deceived  :    look  !    I'll  pay   you. 

[Kicks  them. 

Page.  It  seems  he  knows  you  one,  be  bumfiddles 
you  so. 

Lilad.  Was  there  ever  so  base  a  fellow  ? 

Aym.  A  rascal. 

Lilad.  A  most  uncivil  groom. 

Aym.  Offer  to  kick  a  gentleman  in  a  nobleman's 
chamber  !  pox  o'  your  manners  ! 

Lilad.  Let  him  iilone,  let  him  alone :  thou  shall 
lose  thy  aim,  fellow  ;  if  we  stir  against  thee,  hang  us. 

Page.  'Sfoot !  I  think  they  have  the  better  on  him 
though  they  be  kick'd,  they  talk  so. 

Lilad.  Let's  leave  the  mad  ape.  [Going. 

Nov.  jun.  Gentlemen  ! 

I.ilad.  Nay,  my  lord,  we  will  not  offer  to  dis- 
honour you  so  much  as  to  stay  by  you,  since  he's 
alone. 

NOD.  jun.  Hark  you  ! 

Aym.  We  doubt  the  cause,  and  will  not  disparage 
you  so  much  as  to  take  your  lordship's  quarrel  in 
hand.  Plague  on  him.  how  he  lias  crumpled  our 
bands  ! 

Page.  I'll  e'en  away  with  them,  for  this  soldier 
beats  man,  woman,  and  child. 

[Exeunt  all  but  NoKall  jun.  anJ  Pomnnt. 

Nov.  jun.     What  mean  you,  sir?     My  people  ! 

Rom.  Your  boy's  gone.  [Locks  lite  door. 

And  your  door's  lock'd  ;  yet  for  no  hurt  to  you, 

But  privacy.     Call  up  your  blood  again  : 

Be  not  afraid,  I  do  beseech  you,  sir*; 
And,  therefore,  come,  without  more  circumstance. 
Tell  me  how  far  the  passages  have  gone 
Twill  you  and  your  fair  mistress,  Beaumelle. 
Tell  me  the  truth,  and,  by  my  hope  of  heaven, 
It  never  shall  go  further. 

Nov.  jun.  Tell  you  !  why,  sir, 
Are  you  my  confessor  ? 

Rom.  I  will  be  your  confouuder,  if  you  do  not. 

[Draws  a  pocket  dag^. 
Stir  not,  nor  spend  your  voice. 

Nov.  jun.  \\  hat  will  you  do  7 

Rom.  Nothing,  but  line  your  brain-pan,  sir,  with 
If  you  not  satisfy  me  suddenly  :  [lead, 

I  am  desperate  of  my  life,  and  command  yours. 

Nov.  jun.    Hold  !    hold !    I'll  speak.     I  vow  to 

heaven  and  you, 

She's  yet  untouch'd,  more  than  her  face  and  hands. 
I  cannot  call  her  innocent ;  for,  I  yield, 
On  my  solicitous  wooingj,  she  consented, 


•  Be  not  afraid  1  do  betrech  you,  sir,]  This  line  is  whoily 
omitted  in  tlie  most  correct  of  all  editions. 

t  Draws  a  pocket  dag.]  So  the  old  copy.  Coxeter,  not 
nnderstanding  the  word,  absurdly  corrupted  it  into  dagger! 
which  fcave  an  occasion  to  Mr.  M.  Ma>on  to  evince  his  sa- 
gacity :  "  Yet,"  says  he  with  a  triumph  over  poor  Massing,  r, 
'  Roraont'*  very  next  speech  show*  that  this  dagger  was  a 
pittol."  To  sophisticate  an  author's  text  for  the  s.ike  uf  charg- 
ing him  with  an  absordiiy.  is  hard  dealing.  It  is  singular 
thut  neither  of  these  editors  of  an  anciriit  pout,  especially  the 
last,  who  tells  us  of  the  necessity  of  consulting  contemporary 
authors,  should  be  apprised  of  the  meanni"  of  this  term  • 
day  was  used  by  our  old  writers  for  a  pocket  in  contradis- 
tiuction  to  what  we  now  call  a  hon-e-pi-tc.l ;  and  is  thus  found 
in  many  drain  is  of  the  Kith  and  17th  centuries.  Thug,  jn 
The  Spanish  Tragi-dy,  which  Coxctcr,  if  not  Mr.  M.  Ma- 
son,  must  have  reat!  : 

"  Serb.   Wherefore  should  he  send  for  me  so  late 7 
"fend.  For  this,  Serberins,  and  thou  shall  have  it. 

[Xtiooti  the  da«. 

•'  Watch.  Hark  !  gentlemen  ;  this  is  a  jnslnl-Aw\." 
J  On  my  solicitor*  wooing,]  The  quarto  erroneously  reads 
wfongt  :  amended  by  Mr.  M.  Mason. 


Where  time  and  place  met  opportunity. 
To  grant  me  all  requests. 

I'om.  But  may  1  build 
On  tliis  assurance? 

Nov.  jun.  As  upon  your  faith. 

Rom.   Writs  this,  sir  ;  nay,  you  must. 

Nov.jnit.  Pox  of  this  gun  ! 

Rom.    Withal,  sir,  you  must  swear,  and  put  youi 

oath 

Under  your  hand  (shake  not),  ne'er  to  frequent 
This  lady's  company,  nor  ever  send 
Token,  or  message,  or  letter,  to  incline 
This,  too  much  prone  already,  yielding  lady. 

Nov.  jun.  Tis  done,  sir. 

Rom.  Let  me  see  this  first  is  right  : 
And  here  you  wish  a  sudden  death  may  light 
Upon  your  bodv,  and  hell  take  your  soul, 
If  ever  more  you  see  her,  but  by  chance  ; 
Much  less  allure  her.     Now,  my  lord,  your  hand 

Nov.  jun.  My  hand  to  this  ! 

Rom.  Your  heart  else,  I  assure  you. 

Nov.jnn.  Nav,  there  'tis. 

Rom.  So !  keep  this  last  article 
Of  your  faith  given,  and,  stead  of  threatenings,  sir, 
The  service  of  my  sword  and  life  is  yours. 
But  not  a  word  of  it : — 'tis  fairies'  treasure, 
Which  but  reveal'd,  brings  on  the  blabber's  ruin. 
Use  your  youth  better,  and  this  excellent  form 
Heaven  hath  bestow'd  upon  you.     So  good  morrow 
To  your  lordship  !  [  Hxit. 

Nov.  jun.  Good  devil  to   your  rogueship  I      No 

man's  safe 

I'll  hare  a  cannon  planted  in  my  chamber, 
Against  such  roaring  rogues. 

Enter  BELI.APERT  hastily 

Bell.  My  lord,  away  ! 

The  caroch  stays:  now  have  your  wish,  and  judge 
If  I  have  been  forgetful. 

Niw.jun.  Hah  ! 

Bell.  Do  you  stand 
Humming  and  liahing  now?  [Exit, 

Nov.  jun.  Sweet  wench,  I  come. 
Hence,  fear! 

I  swore — that's  all  one ;  my  next  oath  I'll  keep 
That  I  did  mean  to  break,  and  then  'tis  quit. 
No  pain  is  due  to  lovers' perjury: 
If  Jove  himself  laugh  at  it,  so  will  I.  [Exit 


SCENE  II.— ,4  Hall  in  Aymer's  House. 
Enter  CuARALOisonrf  BEAUMONT. 

Beau.  I  grieve  for  the  distaste,  though  I  have 

manners 

Not  to  enquire  the  cause,  fallen  out  between 
Your  lordship  and  Romont. 

Choral.  1  love  a  friend, 
So  long  as  he  continues  'n  the  bounds 
Prescribed  by  friendship ;  but,  when  he  usurps 
Too  far  on*  what  is  proper  to  myself, 
And  puts  the  habit  of  a  governor  on, 
I  must  and  will  preserve  my  liberty. 
But  speak  of  something  else,  this  is  a  theme 
1  take  no  pleasure  in.      What's  this  Aymer, 
\\  hose  voice  for  song,  and  excellent  knowledge  in 


Ton  far  on  u'liat ,  &c.]  The  modern  editors  omit  on,  to  the 
manit'c.-t  injury  both  of  the  metre  and  of  the  sense;  but  in- 
deed their  omissions  in  this  play  are  innumerable. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


333 


The  chiefest  parts  of  music,  you  bestow 
Such  praises  on  ? 

Beau.  He  is  a  gentleman 

(For  so  his  quality*  speaks  him)  well  received 
Among  our  greatest  gallants  ;  but  yet  holds 
His  main  dependence  from  the  young  lord  Novall. 
Some  tricks  and  crotchets  he  has  in  his  head, 
As  all  musicians  have,  and  more  of  him 
I  dare  not  author :  but,  when  you  have  heard  him, 
I  may  presume  your  lordship  so  will  like  him, 
That  you'll  hereafter  be  a  friend  to  music. 

Charal.  1  never  was  an  enemy  to't,  Beaumontt, 
Nor  yet  do  I  subscribe  to  the  opinion 
Of  those  old  captains,  that  thought  nothing  musical 
But  cries  of  yielding  enemies,  neighing  of  horses, 
Clashing    of     armour,    loud    shouts,    drums    and 

trumpets : 

Nor,  on  the  other  side,  in  favour  of  it. 
Affirm  the  world  was  made  by  musical  discord ; 
Or  that  the  happiness  of  our  life  consists 
In  a  well-varied  note  upon  the  lute  : 
I  love  it  to  the  worth  oft,  and  no  further. — 
But  let  us  see  this  wonder. 

Beau.   He  prevents 
My  calling  of  him. 

Enter  AYMER,  speaking  to  nne  within* 

Aym.  Let  the  coach  be  brought 

To  the  buck  gate,  and  serve  the  banquet  up. 

My  good  lord  Charalois !  I  think  my  house 
Much  honour'd  in  your  presence. 

Choral.  To  have  means 

To  know  you  better,  sir,  has  brought  me  hither 
A  willing  visitant ;  and  you'll  crown  my  welcome 
In  making  me  a  witness  to  your  skill, 
Which,  crediting  from  others,  I  admire. 

Aym.  Had  I  been    one    hour  sooner  made  ac- 
quainted 
With  your  intent,  my  lord,  you  should  have  found 

me 

Better  provided  :  now,  such  as  it  is, 
Pray  your  gnico  with  your  acceptance. 

Beau.   You  are  modest. 

Aym.  Begin  the  last  new  air. 

[To  the  Musicians  within. 

Charal.  Shall  we  not  see  them  ? 

Ai/m.  This  little  distance  from  the  instruments 
Will  to  your  ears  convey  the  harmony 
With  more  delight. 

Charal.  I'll  not  contend^. 

Aym.   You  are  tedious.  [To  the  Musicians. 

*  ( For  to  his  quality  speaks  him.)}  His  quality,  i.  e.  bis 
pro/ration  of  a  music-master.  In  the  following  lines  there  is 
an  allifeion  to  another  profession  (of  a  le«  honorable  nature), 
which,  at  that  time,  was  commonly  united  to  tlie  former,  that 
of  keeping  a  bawdyhwise. 

t  Charal.  /  netvr  was  an  enemy  to't,  Beaumont,  &.C.]  I 
taspect  that  Mr.  Sttevens,  the  coryphaeus  of  commentator?, 
was  but  little  acquainted  with  Massinger ;  he  would  not  other- 
wise have  failed  to  contrast  this  speech  with  that  celebrated 
one  of  Shakspeaie,  The  man  that  has  no  music,  &c.,  with 
•vhich  he  was  known  to  be  highly  offended.  What  Steevens 
neglected  the  reader  has  now  an  opportunity  of  executing  ; 
and,  though  I  will  not  anicipate  his  judgment,  I  must  yet  be 
permitted  lo  say  that  the  beauties  of  this  speech  are  of  no 
ordinary  kind. 

j  Charal.  I'll  not  contend.]  The  old  reading  is  I'll  not  con- 
tent. It  appears  tome  that  a  wrong  name  has  been  prefixed 
to  this  short  speech,  and  that  it  belongs  to  Beanmelle  who 
speaks  wilhin.  Aymer  is  evidently  solicitous  to  keep  Chara- 
lois out  of  hearing;  ami  the  artifice  is  not  to  be  praised  by 
which  his  lady  is  made  so  clamorous  and  so  incautious.  The 
alteration  is  by  Coxeter. 


By  this  means  snail  1  with  one  banquet  please 
Two  companies,  those  within  and  these  gulls  here. 
Mufic — and  a  SONO. 

Beaumel.  [within]  If  a !  ha  !  ha ! 

Charal.  How's  this !   It  is  my  lady's  laugh,  most 

certain. 

When  I  first  pleased  her,  in  this  merry  language 
She  gave  me  thanks.  [Aiide. 

Beau.  How  like  you  this  * 

Charal.  'Tis  rare 

Yet  I  may  be  deceived,  and  should  be  sorry, 

Upon  uncertain  suppositions,  rashly 

To  write  myself  in  the  black  list  of  those 

I  have  declaim'd  against,  and  to  Komont.        [Aside. 

Aym.   I    would    he    were   well    off! Perhaps 

your  lordship 

Likes  not  these  sad  tunes?  I  have  a  new  song, 
Set  to  a  lighter  note   niiiy  please  you  better  ; 
'Tis  call'd  the  Happy  Husband. 

Charal.  Pray  you  sing  it. 

SONG  by  Aymer. 

Beaumel.  [within]   Ha!  ha!   'tis  such  a  groom \ 

Chural.  Do  I  hear  this, 
And  yet  stand  doubtful?  [Rus/ics  ov,. 

Aym.  Stay  him — I  am  undone, 
And  thev  discover'd. 

Beau.  What's  the  matter? 

Aym.  Ah  ! 
That  women,   when  they're   well   pleased,   cannot 

hold, 
But  must  laugh  out. 

Re-enter  CHAFALOIS,  with  his  sword  drawn,  pursuing 
NovALLjKHior,  BEAI'MELT.E,  and  BtLi.ApKRr. 

Nov.jun.  Help!  save  me !  murder!  murder! 

Beaumel.  Undone,  undone,  for  ever! 

Charal.  Oh,  my  heart ! 
Hold  yet  a  little  — do  not  hope  to  'scape 
By  fligh',  it  is  impossible.     Though  I  might 
On  all  advantage  take  thy  life,  and  justly  ; 
This  sword,  my  fat her's  sword,  that  ne'er  was  drawn 
But  to  a  noble  purpose,  shall  not  now 
Do  the  office  of  a  hangman.     I  reserve  it 
To  right  mine  honour,  not  for  a  revenge 
So  poor,  that  though  with  thee  it  should  cut  off 
Thy  family,  with  all  that  are  allied 
To  thee  in  lust  or  baseness,  'twere  still  short  of 
All  terms  of  satisfaction.    Draw  ! 

Nov.jun.  I  dare  not : 
I  have  already  done  you  too  much  wrong, 
To  fight  in  such  a  cause. 

Charal.  Why,  darest  thou  neither 
Be  honest,  coward,  nor  yet  valiant,  knave  ! 
In  such  a  cause  come,  do  not  shame  thyself: 
Such  who«e  bloods  wrongs,  or  wrong  done  to  them 

selvesf 

Could  never  heat,  are  yet  in  the  defence 
Of  their  whores,  daring.     Look  on  her  again  : 

•  Beaumel.  Undone,  undow,for  etfrf]  This  shoit  speech 
is  taken  by  the  modern  editors  from  Beaiimelle,  and  given 
to  Bellapert!  Nothing  was  eve  more  injudicious.  It  is  all 
she  says,  and  all  she  properly  could  say. 

i.Svch  who\e  Lluodr  wrongs,  or  wrong  done  to  themselves 
Sec.]  I  bJieve  this  means,  those  whose  bloods  yrnrral  or  in- 
dividual injuries  could  never  heat,  &c.  If  this  be  not  al- 
lowed, we  must  read,  and  wrong  done  to  themselves,  iiistca'l 
of  or,  the  sense  will  then  be  sufficiently  clear.  Coxeter  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  evidently  misunderstood  the  passage,  which 
is  misprinted  in  both. 


334 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acr  [V. 


You  thought  her  worth  the  hazard  of  your  soul, 
And  yet  stand  doubtful,  in  her  quarrel  to 
Venture  your  body.  " 

Bean.  i\o,  he  fears  his  clothes, 
More  than  his  flesh. 

Choral.  Keep  from  me  !  guard  thy  life, 
Or,  as  thon  hast  lived  like  a  goat,  thou  shalt 
Die  like  a  sheep. 

Nov.jun,  Since  there's  no  remedy, 
Despair  of  safetv  now  in  me  prove  courage ! 

[They  fight,  Nooall  falls. 

Choral.    How  soon    weak    wrong's    o'erthrown? 

J.end  me  your  hand  ; 

Bear  this  to  the  caroch— come,  you  have  taught  me 
To  say,  you  must  and  shall : 

f  Exeunt  Beaumnnt  and  Be/lapert,  \\ilh  the  Body 
of  Novall ;  followed  by  Beanmelle. 

I  wrong  you  not, 
You  are  but  to  keep  him  company  you  love. — 

Re-enter  BEAUMONT. 

Is'tdone?  'tis  well.     Raise  officers,  and  take  care 
AH  you  can  apprehend  within  the  house 
May  be  forthcoming.      Do  I  appear  much  moved  ? 
Bean.  No,  sir. 

Charal.  My  griefs  are  now  thus  to  be  borne  ; 
Hereafter  I'll  find  time  and  place  to  mourn. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— A  Street. 

Enter  ROMONT  and  PONTAUER. 

P0?jf.  I  was  bound  to  seek  you,  sir. 

Rom.  And,  had  you  found  me 
In  any  place  but  in  the  street,  I  should 
Have  done, — not  talk'd    to  you.     Are    you    the 

captain. 

The  hopeful  Pontalier,  whom  I  have  seen 
Do  in  the  field  such  service  as  then  made  you 
Their  envy  that  commanded,  here  at  home 
To  play  the  parasite  to  a  gilded  knave, 
And,  it  may  be,  the  pander ! 

Pont.  Without  this, 
I  come  to  call  you  to  account  for  what 
Is  past  already.     I,  by  your  example 
Of  thankfulness  to  the  dead  general, 
By  whom  you  were  raised,  have  practised  to  be  so 
To  my  good  lord  Novall,  by  whom  I  live  ; 
Whose  least  disgrace  that  is  or  may  be  offer'd, 
With  all  the  hazard  of  my  life  and  fortunes 
I  will  make  good  on  you,  or  any  man 
That  has  a  hand  in't :  and,  since  you  allow  me 
A  gentleman  and  a  soldier,  there's  no  doubt 
You  will  except  against  me.     You  shall  meet 
With-  a  fair  enemy  :  you  understand 
The  right  I  look  for,  and  must  have  ? 

Rom.  I  do, 

And  with  the  next  day's  sun  you  shall  hear  from 
me.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  CHAHALOIS'  House. 

Enter   CIIARALOIS  with  a    casket,   BEAU.MELLE,   and 

BEAUMONT. 
Charal.    Pray    bear  this   to    my  father,    at   his 

leisure 
He  may  peruse  it :  lut  with  your  best  language 


Entreat  his  instant  presence.     You  have  sworn 
Not  to  reveal  what  I  have  done. 

Beau.  Nor  will  I but 

Charul.    Doubt  me  not ;  by  heaven,    I   will   do 

nothing 

But  what  may  stand  with  honour.     Pray  you,  leave 
me  [Ei it  Beaumont. 

To  my  own  thoughts. — If  this  be  to  me,  rise  ; 

[Beanmelle  kneeU. 

I  am  not  worth  the  looking  on,  but  only 
To  feed  contempt  and  scorn  ;  and  that  frcm  you, 
Who,  with  the  loss  of  your  fair  name,  have  caused  it, 
Were  too  much  cruelty. 

Beaumel.  I  dare  not  move  you 
To  hear  me  speak.     I  know  my  fault  is  far 
Beyond  qualification  or  excuse  ; 
That  'tis  not  fit  for  me  to  hope,  or  you 
To  think  of  mercy  ;  only  I  presume 
To  entreat  you  would  be  pleased  to  look  upon 
My  sorrow  for  it.  and  believe  these  tears 
Are  the  true  children  of  my  grief,  and  not 
A  woman's  cunning. 

Charat.  Can  you,  Beaumelle, 
Having  deceived  so  great  a  trust  as  mine, 
Though  I  were  all  credulity,  hope  again 
To  get  belief?  No,  no  :  if  you  look  on  me 
With  pity,  or  dare  practise  any  means 
To  make  my  sufferings  less,  or  give  just  cause 
To  all  the  world  to  think  what  I  must  do 
Was  call'd  upon  by  you,  use  other  ways  : 
Deny  what  1  have  seen,  or  justiiy 
What  you  have  done  ;  and,  as  you  desperately 
Made  shipwreck  of  your  faith,  to  be  a  whore, 
Use  the  amis  of  such  a  one,  and  such  defence, 
And  multiply  the  sin  with  impudence. 
Stand  boldly  up,  and  tell  me  to  my  teeth, 
That  you  have  done  but  what  is  warranted 
By  great  examples,  in  all  places  where 
Women  inhabit ;  urg«  your  own  deserts, 
Or  want  of  me  in  merit ;  tell  me  how 
Your  dower  from  the  low  gulf  of  poverty 
Weighed  up  my  fortunes  to  what  they  now  are: 
That  I  was  purchased  by  your  choice  and  practice, 
To  shelter  you  from  shame,  that  you  might  sin 
As  boldly  as  securely  :  that  poor  men 
Are  married  to  those  wives  that  bring  them  wealth, 
One  day  their  husbands,  but  observers*  ever. 
That  when,  by  this  proud  usage,  you  have  blown 
The  fire  of  my  just  vengeance  to  the  height, 
I  then  may  kill  you,  and  yet  sav  'twas  done 
In  heat  of  blood,  and  after  die  myself, 
To  witness  my  repentance. 

Beaumel.  O  my  fate  ! 

That  never  would  consent  that  I  should  see 
How  worthy  you  were  both  of  love  and  duty, 
Before  I  lost  you  ;  and  my  misery  made 
The  glass  in  which  I  now  behold  your  virtue  ! 
While  I  was  good  I  was  a  part  of  you, 
And  of  two,  by  the  virtuous  harmony 
Of  our  fair  minds,  made  one ;  but,  since  I  wandar'd 
In  the  forbidden  labyrinth  of  lust, 

What  was  inseparable  is  l>v  ir.e  divided. 

With  justice,  therefore,  yon  may  cut  me  off, 
And  from  your  memory  wash  the  remembrance 
That  e'er  I  was  ;  like  to  some  vicious  purpose, 
Which,  in  your  better  judgment,  you  repent  of 
And  study  to  forget. 


•  But  observers  ever.]    Observers  are  servants:  the  wept4 
fVr.ueutly  occurs  in  this  sense. 


SCEVF  IV.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


335 


Cho-al.  O  Beaumelle. 
That  you  can  speak  so  well,  and  do  so  ill ! 
But  you  had  been  loo  great  a  blessing,  if 
You  had  continued  clmsie  :   see.  how  you  force  me 
To  this,  because  mine  honour  will  not  yield 
That  1  again  should  love  you. 

Heaumet.   In  this  life 

It  is  not  fit  you  should  :  yet  you  shall  find, 
Though  1  was  bold  enough  to  be  a  strumpet, 
I  dare  not  yet  live  one.     Let  those  famed  matrons, 
That  are  canonized  worthy  of  our  sex, 
Transcend  me  in  their  sanctity  of  life; 
J  yet  will  equal  them  in  dying  nobly, 
Ambitious  of  no  honour  after  life, 
But  that,  when  I  am  dead,  you  will  forgive  me. 
Charal.  How  pity  steals  upon  me!   should  I  hear 

her  [Knocking  viihin. 

But  ten  words  more,  I  were  lost. — One  knocks,  go 

in.  [Ejif  Beaumelle. 

That  to  be  merciful  should  be  a  sin  ! 
Enter  ROCHFOUT. 

O,  sir,  most  welcome !  Let  me  take  your  cloak, 

I  must  not  be  denied. — Here  are  your  rohp.s, 

As  you  love  justice,  once  more  put  them  on. 

There  is  a  cause  to  be  determined  of, 

That  does  require  such  an  integrity 

As  you  have  ever  used. — I'll  put  YOU  to 

The  trial  of  your  constancy  and  goodness  : 

And  look  that  you,  that  have  been  eagle-eyed 

In  other  men's  affairs,  prove  not  a  mole 

In  what  concerns  yourself.     Take  you  your  sent  ; 

I  will  be  for*  you  presently.  [Ejit. 

Roch.  Angels  guard  me  ! 
To  what  strange  tragedy  does  this  inductionf 
Serve  for  a  prologue? 

Re-enter  CHARALOIS,  BEAUMFI.LE,  and  BFAUMOXT, 
U'ith    Servants    bearing    ihe    Body    of  A  OVA  LI. 
junior. 

Charal.  So,  set  it  down  before 
The  judgment-seat,  —  [Exeunt  Servants.] — and  stand 

you  at  the  bar  : 
For  me,  I  am  the  accuser. 

Roch.   Novall  slain  ! 

And  Beaumelle,  my  daughter,  in  the  place 
Of  one  to  be  arraign'd  ! 

Cltarul.  O,  are  you  touch'd  ! 
I  find  that  1  must  take  another  course. 
Fear  nothing,  I  will  only  blind  your  eyes  ; 

[He  blinds  his  eyes. 

For  justice  should  do  so,  when  'tis  to  meet 
An  object  that  may  sway  her  equal  doom 
From  what  it  should  be  aim'd  at. — Good,  my  lord, 
A  day  of  hearing. 

Roch.  It  is  granted,  speak — 
You  shall  have  justice. 

Charal.  1  then  heie  accuse, 

Most  equal  judge,  the  prisoner,  your  fair  daughter, 
For  whom  1  owed  so  much  to  you  ;  your  daughter, 
So  worthy  in  her  own  parts,  and  that  worth 
Set  forth  by  yours,  to  whose  so  rare  perfections, 

•  /  will  be  for  you  presently.]  So  the  quart.. :  the  mo- 
dern eilitors  read,  /  will  before  you  presently  .•  l>ut  \\l:e;i,er 
by  mistake,  or  from  an  idea  of  improun"  tlie  tevt,  I  'a;,m,i 
tell. 

t  To  what  ttranoe  tragedy  dort  thh  induction 
Serve  for  a  prologue  f]  The  old  copy  reads  dort  this  de- 
itruction,  &.c.    Ihe  ..mrndinent,  whirh'is  a  liapi.y  one,  \vas 
inggested   by  Mr.  M.  M.,?l,n.     Tims  in  The  Guardian: 
"This  is  Lint  an  induction;  \  11, haw 
The  curtains  of  tht  trayedy  hereafter." 


Tru'h  witness  with  me,  in  the  place  of  service 
I  almost  paid  idolatrous  sacrifice, 
To  he  a  false  iidi.lieress. 
Roch.    Vi'ith  whom  > 
Chural.   \\  tih  this  Xovall  here  dead. 
Roch.    Be  well  advised  ; 
And  ere  you  sav  adulteress  again. 
Her  fame  depending  on  it,  be  most  sure 
That  she  is  one. 

Charal.  I  took  them  in  the  act: 
I  know  no  proof  beyond  it. 
Rorh.  O  my  heart ! 

Charat.  A  judge  should  feel  no  passions. 
Roch.   Yet.  remember 
He  is  a  man,  and  cannot  put  off  nature. 
What  answer  makes  th«  prisoner? 

Beaiimel.  J  confess 

The  fact  1  am  charged  with,  and  yield  myself 
Most  miserably  guilty. 

Roch.   Heaven  take  mercv 

Upon  your  soul  then  !   it  must  leave  your  body. — 
Now  free  mine  eyes;  1  dnre  unmov.d  look  on  her, 
[C/i'DM/u/.v  unbind*  hii  euet. 
And  fortify  my  sentence  with  strong  reasons. 
Since  that  the  politic  law  provides  that  servants, 
To  whose  care  we  commit  our  goods.  >hall  die 
If  tht-y  abuse  our  (rust,  what  can  you  look  for, 
To  whose  charge  this  most  hopeful  lord  gave  up 
All  lie  received  from  his  brave  ancestor.-, 
Or  he  could  leave  to  his  posterity, 
His  uuucu:,  wicked  woman  !  in  whose  safety 
All  bis  life's  joys  and  comforts  were  lock'd  up, 

Which  thy *  lust,  a  thief,  hath   now  stolen 

trom  him  ; 

And  therefore 

Charal    Stay,  just  judge  ; — may  not  what's  lost 
By  her  one  fault  (for  1  am  charitable. 
And  charge  her  not  with  many)  be  forgotten 
In  her  lair  life  hereafter  ? 
1     Roe'/.   Never,  sir. 

The  wrong  that's  done  to  the  chaste  married  bed 
Repentant  tears  can  never  expiate  ; 
And  be  assured,  to  pardon  such  a  sin 
Is  an  offence  as  great  as  to  commit  it. 
Clitinil.  1  may  not  then  forgive  her? 
Roc//.  Nor  she  h;>pe  it. 

Nor  can  she  wish  to  live :  no  sun  shall  rise, 
But,  ere  it  set,  shall  show  her  ualy  lust 
In  a  new  shape,  and  every  one  more  horrid. 
Nay,  eve:i  those  prayers  which,  with  such  humbl 

fervour, 

She  seems  to  send  up  yonder,  are  beat  back. 
And  all  su.ts  which  her  penitence  can  proffer, 
As  soon  as  made,  are  with  contempt  thrown  out 
Of  all  the  courts  of  .mercy. 

Charal.  Let  her  die.  then!  [He  stubs  her 

Better  prepared,  I'm  sure,  I  could  not  take  her, 
Nor  she  accurp  her  father  as  a  judge 
Partial  against  her. 

Beaiimel.  I  approve  his  sentence, 
And  kiss  the  executioner.     My  lust 
Is  now  run  from  me  in  that  blood  in  which 
It  was  begot  and  nourished.  [Dies. 

Roch.  Is  she  dead,  then  1 

Cliarul.  Yes,  sir ,  this  is  her  heart-blood,  ic  it  not  ? 
|  I  think  it  be. 

•  Which   thy lust,  a   thief.  &c.l     Some  epithet  t. 

lust,  has  been  lost  at  the  press;  the  reader  may  supply  th« 
break  with  hot.  foul,  or  any  other  monosyllable  of  4  kinrtrei 
lueauiujj. 


536 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[AcrV. 


PocJi.  And  you  have  kill'd  her? 

Choral.  True, 
And  did  it  by  your  doom. 

Ruch.  But  I  pronounced  it 
As  a  judge  only,  and  a  friend  to  justice  ; 
And,  zealous  in  defence  of  your  wrong'd  honour, 
Broke  all  the  ties  of  nature,  and  cast  off 
The  love  and  soft  affection  of  a  father. 
I,  in  your  cause,  put  on  a  scarlet  robe 
Of  red-died  cruelty  :  but,  in  return, 
You  have  advanced  for  me  no  flag  of  mercy. 
T  look'd  on  you  as  a  wrong'a  husband  ;  but 

ou  closed  your  eyes  against  me  as  a  father. 

Beaumelle  !  my  daughter  ! 

Cfiaral.  This  is  madness. 

Ruch.   Keep  from    me ! — Could  not    one   good 

thought  rise  up, 

To  tell  you  that  she  was  my  age's  comfort, 
Begot  by  a  weak  man,  and  born  a  woman, 
And  could  not,  therefore,  but  partake  of  frailty  ? 
Or  wherefore  did  not  thankfulness  step  forth, 
To  urge  my  many  merits,  which  I  may 
Object  unto  you,  since  you  prove  ungrateful, 
Flint-hearted  Charalois ! 

Charal.  Nature  does  prevail 
Above  your  virtue.  » 


Eoch.  No;  it  gives  me  eyes 
To  pierce  the  heart  of  your  design  against  me  : 
I  find  it  now,  it  was  my  state  was  aimed  at. 
A  nobler  match  was  sought  for,  and  the  hours 
I  lived  grew  tedious  to  you  :  my  compassion 
Tow'rds  you  hath  render'd  me  most  miserable, 
And  foolish  charity  undone  myself. 
But  there's  a  heaven  above,  from  whose  just  wrealc 
No  mists  of  policy  can  hide  offenders. 

Nov.  sen.  [within]   Force  ope  the  doors ! — 

Enter  NOVALL  senior,  with  Officers. 

O  monster  !  cannibal ! 

Lay  hold  on  him.     My  son,  my  son  ! — 0  Ilochfort 
'Twas  you  gave  liberty  to  this  bloody  wolf, 

To  worry  all  our  comforts  : but  this  is 

No  time  to  quarrel ;  now  give  your  assistance 
For  the  revenge 

Roch.  Call  it  a  fitter  name, 
Justice  for  innocent  blood. 

Charal.  Though  all  conspire 
Against  that  life  which  I  am  weary  of, 
A  little  longer  yet  I'll  strive  to  keep  it, 
To  show,  in  spite  of  malice  and  their  laws, 
His  plea  must  speed,  that  hath  an  honest  cause. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Street. 
Enter  Tailor  and  two  Bailiffs  with  LILADAM. 

Liiul.  Whv,  'tis  both  most  unconscionable  and 

untimely, 

To  arrest  a  gallant  for  his  clothes,  before 
He  has  worn  them   out:    besides,  you  said  you 

ask'd 

My  name  in  my  lord's  bond  but  for  form  only, 
.And  now  you'll  lay  me  up  for't!  Do  not  think 
The  taking  measure  of  a  customer 
By  a  brace  of  varlets*,  though  I  rather  wait 
Never  so  patiently,  will  prove  a  fashion 
Which  any  courtier  or  inns-of-court-man 
Would  follow  willingly. 

Tail.  There  I  believe  you. 
But,  sir,  1  must  have  present  monies,  or 
Assurance  to  secure  me  when  I  shall ; 
Or  I  will  see  to  your  coming  forth. 

Lilad.  Plague  on't ! 

You  have  provided  for  my  entrance  in. 
That  coming  forth  you  talk  of  concerns  me. 
What  shall  1  do?  you  have  done  me  a  disgrace 
In  the  arrest,  but  more  in  giving  cause 
To  all  the  street  to  think  I  cannot  stand 
Without  these  two  supporters  for  my  arms. 
Pray  you,  let  them  loose  me  :  for  their  satisfaction, 
1  will  not  run  away. 

Tai1.  For  theirs  you  will  not ; 
But  for  your  own  you  would  !  Look  to  him,  fellows. 

Lilnd.  \\liy  do  you  call  them  fellows  ?    do  not 

wrong 
Your  reputation  so.     As  you  are  merely 

*  By  a  brace  of  varlets,]   So  our  old  writers  call  the  she- 
riff* utiicers. 


A  tailor,  faithful,  apt  to  believe  in  gallants, 
You  are  a  companion  at  a  ten-crown  supper 
For  cloth  of  bodkin,  and  may  with  one  lark 
Eat  up  three  manchets,  and  no  man  observe  you, 
Or  call  your'trade  in  question  for't.     But,  when 
You  study  your  debt-book,  and  hold  correspondence 
With  officers  of  the  hanger,  and  leave  swordsmen 
The  learn 'd  conclude,  the  tailor  and  the  serjeant 
In  the  expression  of  a  knave  and  thief, 
To  be  synonyma*.     Look,  therefore,  to  it, 
And  let  us  part  in  peace,  I  would  be  loth 
You  should  undo  yourself. 

Enter  NOVALL  senior,  and  PONTALIER. 

Tail.  To  let  you  go 

Were  the  next  way.  But  see  !  here's  your  old  Icrd , 
Let  him  but  give  his  word  I  shall  be  paid, 
And  you  are  free. 

Lilad.  'Slid  !  I  will  put  him  to't, 
I  can  be  but  denied  :  or — what  say  you  ? 
His  lordship  owing  me  three  times  your  debt, 
If  you  arrest  him  at  my  suit,  and  let  me 
Go  run  before,  to  seethe  action  enler'd, 
'Twould  be  a  witty  jest ! 

Tail.  I  must  have  earnest : 
I  cannot  pay  my  debts  so. 

Pont.  Can  your  lordship 
Imagine,  while  I  live,  and  wear  a  sword, 
Your  son's  death  shall  be  unrevenged  ? 

•  To  be  synonyma.]  Here  again  Mr.  M.  Mason  follow* 
Coxeter  in  reading  .«ynon\nious:  but  the  old  word  was  Uiat 
which  I  have  given.  So  Jonson  : 

"  Where  every  tinker  for  his  chink  may  cry, 
Rogue,  bawd,  and  cheater,  c.ill  )  on  by  the  surnames 
And  knonnsynonyma  of  j  our  profession." — The  Pietv  /an. 
See  7'Ae  Emperor  of  the  Ea*t. 


SCFNE  II.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


337 


Nov.  sen.  I  know  not 

One  reason  why  you  should  not  do  like  others : 
I  am  sure,  of  all  the  herd  that  fed  upon  him, 
I  cannot  see  in  any,  now  he's  gone, 
In  pity  or  in  thankfulness,  one  true  sign 
Of  sorrow  for  him. 

Pont.  All  his  bounties  yet 
Fell  not  in  such  unthankful  ground  :  'tis  true, 
He  had  weaknesses,  but  such  as  few  are  free  from  ; 
And,  though  none  soothed  them  lest  than  I  (for  now, 
To  say  that  I  foresaw  the  dangers  that 
Would  rise   from  cherishing   them,  were   but  un- 
timely), 

I  yet  could  wish  the  justice  that  you  seek  for 
In  the  revenge,  had  been  trusted  to  ine, 
And  not  the  uncertain  issue  of  the  laws. 
It  has  robb'd  me  of  a  noble  testimony 
Of  what  I  durst  do  for  him  : — but,  however, 
My  forfeit  life  redeem'd  by  him,  though  dead, 
Shall  do  him  service. 

AW.  sen.  As  far  as  my  grief 
Will  give  me  leave,  1  thank  you. 

Litad.  O,  my  lord  ! 
Oh  my  good  lord  !  deliver  me  from  these  furies. 

Pont.  Arrested  '  this  is  one  of  them,  whose  base 
And  abject  flattery  help'd  to  dig  his  grave  : 
He  is  not  worth  your  pity,  nor  my  anger. 
Go  to  the  basket,  and  repent*. 

Nov.  sen.  Away  ! 

I  only  know  thee  now  to  hate  thee  deadly  : 
I  will  do  nothing  for  thee. 

Litad.    i\  or  you,  captain  ! 

Pont.  No  ;  to  your  trade  again  ;  put  off  this  case  : 
It  may  be,  the  discovering  what  you  were, 
When  your  unfortunate  master  took  you  up, 
May  move  compassion  in  your  creditor. 
Confess  the  truth. 

[Exeunt  Novall  sen.  and  Pontalier. 

Lilad.  And  now  I  think  on't  better, 
I   willf.     Brother,   your   hand;  your  hand,   sweet 

brother  : 

I'm  of  your  sect,  and  my  gallantry  but  a  dream, 
Out  of  which  these  two  fearful  apparitions, 
Against  my  will,  have  waked  me.     This  rich  sword 
Grew  suddenly  out  of  a  tailor's  bodkin  ; 
These  hangers  from  my  vails  and  fees  in  hell  ; 
And  where  as  now  this  beaver  sits,  full  often 
A  thrifty  cap,  composed  of  broad-cloth  lists, 
Near-kin  unto  the  cushion  where  1  sat 
Cross-legg'd,  and  yet  ungurter'd,  hath  been  seen  : 
Our  breakfasts,  famous  for  the  butter'd  loaves, 
I  have  with  joy  been  oft  acquainted  with  ; 
And  therefore  use  a  conscience,  though  it  be 
Forbidden  in  our  hall  towards  other  men, 
To  me,  that,  as  I  have  been,  will  again 
Be  of  the  brotherhood. 

1  Bail.  I  know  him  now  ; 
He  was  a  prentice  to  Le  Robe  at  Orleans. 

Litad.   And  from  thence  brought  by  my  young 

lord,  now  dead, 
Unto  Dijon,  and  wiih  him,  till  this  hour, 


*  Go  to  the  basket,  and  repent.]  The  allusion  is  to  the  sheriffs 
batket,  in  which  broken  meat  was  collected  for  the  use  of 
prisoners  for  debt.  See  The  ('ity  Madam, 

t  Lilatl.  And  now  1  think  on't  better. 

1  will,  &c-l  This  is  most  exquisite  mock  heroic  ;  it  i«, 
perhaps,  a  little  out  of  place;  Imt  it  serves  opportunely 
eiMiiiili  to  prove  how  ditierently  the  comic  part  of  this  drama 
would  have  appe.uvd,  if  the  whole  had  fortunately  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  Alassinger. 


Have  been  received  here  for  a  complete  monsieur. 
.Nor  wonder  at  it :   for  but  tithe  our  gallants, 
Even  those  of  the  first  rank,  and  you  will  find 
In  every  ten,  one,  peradventure  two, 
That  smell  rank  of  the  dancing-school  or  fiddle, 
The  pantofle  or  pressing-iron  : — but  hereafter 
We'll  talk  of  this.     I  will  surrender  up 
My  suits  again  :  there  cannot  be  much  loss ; 
'Tis  but  the  turning  of  the  lace,  with  one 
Addition  more  you  know  of,  and  what  wants 
I  will  work  out. 

Tail,  Then  here  our  quarrel  ends  : 
The  gallant  is  turn'd  tailor,  and  all  friends. 

Exeunt, 


SCENE  II.— The  Court  of  Justice. 
Enter  ROMONT  and  BEAUMONT. 

Rom.  You  have  them  ready  ? 

Beau.  Yes,  and  they  will  speak 
Their  knowledge  in  this  cause,  when  you  think  fit 
To  have  them  call'd  upon. 

Rom.  'Tis  well ;  and  something 
I  can  add  to  thair  evidence,  to  prove 
This  brave  revenge,  which  they  would  have  call'd 

murder, 
A  noble  justice. 

Beau,  In  this  you  express 

(The  breach  by  my  lord's  want  of  you  new  made  up*) 
A  faithful  friend. 

Rom.    1  hat  friendship's  raised  on  sand, 
Which  every  sudden  gust  of  discontent, 
Or  flowing  of  our  passions,  can  change, 
As  if  it  ne'er  had  been  : — but  do  you  know 
Who  are  to  sit  on  him  ? 

Beau.  Monsieur  Du  Croy, 
Assisted  by  Charmi. 

Rom.  The  advocate 
That  pleaded  for  the  marshal's  funeral, 
And  was  check'd  for  it  by  Novall  ? 

Beau.  The  same. 

Rom.  How  fortunes  that  1 

Beau.  Why,  sir,  my  lord  Novall 
Being  the  accuser,  cannot  be  the  judge  ; 
Nor  would  grieved  Rochfort  but  lord  Charalois, 
However  he  might  wrong  him  by  his  power, 
Should  have  an  equal  hearing. 

Ron.  By  my  hopes 
Of  Charalois'  acquittal,  I  lament 
That  reverend  old  man's  fortune. 

Beau.  Had  you  seen  him, 
As,  to  my  grief,  I  have,  now  promise  patience, 
And,  ere  it  was  believed,  though  spake  by  him 
That  never  brake  his  wordf,  enraged  agsiin 
So  far  as  to  make  war  upon  those  hairs, 
Which  not  a  barbarous  Scythian  durst  presume 
To  touch,  but  with  a  superstitious  fear, 
As  something  sacred  ; — and  then  curse  his  daughter, 
But  with  more  frequent  violence,  himself, 

*  (The  breach  by  my  lord's  want  of  you  new  made  vp)] 
For  new  made  up,  Air.  AI.  Mason  cbOMCt  to  read,  note 
made  up,  although  it  be  not  easy  to  discover  what  is  gained 
by  the  alteration.  For  the  rest,  this  Komont  still  continue! 
a  most  noble  fellow.  How  Rowe  could  read  his  next  speech 
anil  degrade  his  copy  ( Horatio  j  into  a  geiitimrntil  rhapso- 
dist,  querulous,  captious,  and  unfeeling,  1  cannot  conjecture 
unless  it  were  th.it  he  determined  to  create  no  violent  in- 
terest for  any  of  his  characters  but  the  hero  ami  the  heroine 
i)i  the  piece. 

t  That  never  brake  hit  word,}  So  the  old  copy.  Mr.  M. 
Mason  reads  breaks  bis  wordl 


338 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[AcrV. 


As  if  he  had  been  guilty  of  her  fault, 

By  being  incredulous  of  your  rep  irt, 

You  would  not  only  judge  him  worthy  pity. 

But  suffer  with  him  :  —but  lu-re  comes  the  prisoner  ; 

Fnler  Officers  with  CHARALOIS. 
I  dare  not  stav  to  do  mv  duly  to  him ; 
Yet  rest  assured,  all  possible  means  in  me 
T>  do  him  service  keeps  you  company.  [Exit. 

Rom.  It  is  not  doubted. 

Churul.   Why,  yet  as  I  catm  hither, 
The  people,  apt  to  mode  calamity, 
And  tread  on  the  oppress'd,  made  no  horns  at  me, 
Though  they  are  too  familiar  1  deserve  them. 
And,  knowing  too  what  blood  n>y  sword  hath  drunk, 
In  wreak  of  thai  disgrace,  they  yet  forbear 
To  s-huke  their  heads,  or  to  revile  me  for 
A  murderer;  tlh-y  rather  all  put  on, 
As  for  great  losses  the  old  llomans  used, 
A  general  face  of  sorrow,  waited  on 
By  a  sad  murmur  breaking  through  their  silence  . 
And  no  eye  but  was  readier  with  a  tear 
To  witness  'twas  shed  for  me,  than  I  could 
Discern  a  face  made  up  with  scorn  against  me. 
Why  should  I,  then,  though  for  unusual  wrongs 
I  chose  unusual  means  to  right  those  wrongs, 
Condemn  myself,  as  over-partial 
in  my  own  cause  1 — Itomout ! 

Rom.  Best  friend,  well  met  ! 
By  my  heart's  love  to  you,  and  join  to  that. 
My  thankfulness  that  still  lives  to  the  dead*, 
I  look  upon  von  now  with  more  true  joy 
Than  when  1  saw  you  married. 

Chttral.  You  have  reason 
To  give  you  warrant  for't:  my  falling  off 
From  such  a  friendship,  with  the  scorn  that  answered 
Your  too  prophetic  counsel,  may  well  move  you 
To  think  your  meeting  me,  going  to  my  death, 
A  fit  encounter  for  that  hate  which  justly 
I  have  deserved  from  you. 

Rom.  Shall  I  still,  then, 
Speak  truth,  and  be  ill  understood  1 

Chanil,  You  are  not. 

I  am  conscious  i  have  wrong  'd  you  ;  and  allow  me 
Only  a  moral  manf, — to  look  on  you, 
Whom  foolishly  I  have  abused  ind  injured, 
Must  of  necessity  be  more  terrible  to  me, 
Than  any  death  the  judges  can  pronounce 
From  the  tribunal  which  I  am  to  plead  at. 

Ram.  Passion  transports  you. 

Chural.  For  what  1  have  done 
To  my  false  lady,  or  Novall,  I  can 
Give  some  apparent  cause  ;  but  touching  you, 
In  my  defence,  child-like,  I  can  say  nothing 
But  I  am  sorry  for't ;  a  poor  satisfaction  ! 
And  yet,  mistake  me  not;  for  it  is  more 
Than  I  will  speak,  to  have  my  pardon  sign'd 
For  all  1  stand  accused  of. 

Pom.  You  much  weaken 
The  strength  of  your  good  cause,  should  you    but 

think, 

A  man  for  doing  well  could  entertain 
A  pardon,  were  it  ott'er'd  :  you  have  given 


•  My  thankfulneis  that  still  lioet  totlie  dead,]  i.  e.  to  tlie 
old  marshal,  whom  Ruinonl  never  forgets,  m>r  sutlers  his 
hearers  to  forget. 

4 and  allow  me 

Only  a  moral  man, — 1  i.  e.  allow  me  U>  he  endowed  only 
with  tiie  common  principles  of  morality  (Milling  aside  those 
of  religion;,  and  lo  look  on  sou,  &c. 


To  blind  and  slow-paced  justice  wings  and  eyes 
To  St-e  and  overtake  impieties, 
Which,  from  a  cold  proceeding,  had  received 
Indulgence  or  protection. 

Charat.  Think  you  so  J 

Rom.  Upon  my  soul !  nor  should  tho  blood  you 

challenged, 

And  took  to  cure  your  honour,  breed  more  scruple 
In  your  soft  conscience,  than  if  your  swo«^J 
Mad  been  sheath'd  in  u  tiger  or  she-heai*, 
That  in  their  bowels  would  have  made  your  tomb. 
To  injure  innocence  is  more  than  murdt-r  : 
Mut  when  inhuman  lusts  transform  us,  then 
As  beasts  we  are  to  suffer,  not  like  men 
To  be  lamented.     >.'or  did  Charulois  ever 
Perform  an  act  so  worthy  ihe  applause 
Of  a  full  theatre  of  perfect  men, 
As  he  hath  done  in  this      The  glory  got 
By  overthrowing  outward  enemies, 
Since  strength  and  fortune  are  main  sharers  in  it, 
We  cannot,  liut  by  pieces,  call  our  own  : 
Hut,  when  we  conquer  our  intestine  foes, 
Our  passions  bred  within  us,  and  of  those 
The  most  rebellious  tvrant,  powerful  Love, 
Our  reason  suffering  us  to  like  no  longer 
Than  the  fair  object,  being  good,  deserves  it, 
That's  a  true  victory  !   which,  were  great  men 
Ambitious  to  achieve,  by  vour  example 
Setting  no  price  upon  the  breach  of  faith, 
But  loss  of  life,  'twou.d  fright  adultery 
Out  of  their  families,  and  make  lu-u  appear 
As  loathsome  to  us  in  the  first  consent, 
As  when  'tis  waited  on  by  punishment. 

Charai.    You  have   coufirm'd   me.     Who  would 

love  a  woman, 

That  might  enjoy  in  such  a  man  a  friend  ! 
You  have  made  me  know  the  justice  of  my  cause, 
And  niark'd  me  out  the  way  how  to  defend  it. 

Rom.  Continue  to  that  resolution  constant, 
And  you  shall,  in  contempt  ot  their  worst  malice, 
Come  off  with  honour— here  they  come. 

Chural.  1  am  ready. 

Enter   Dv    Cnov,    CIIARMI,    ROCHFORT,    NOVALL 
senior,  PUNTALIEH,  and  BEAUMONT. 

Nov.  sen.  See,  equal  judges,  with  what  confidence 
The  cruel  murderer  stands,  as  if  he  would 
Outface  the  court  and  justice  ! 

Roch.  But  look  on  him, 
And  you  shall  find,  for  still  methinks  I  do, 
Though  guilt  haih  died  him  black,   something  good 

in  him, 

That  mav  perhaps  work  with  a  wiser  man 
Than  I  have  been,  again  to  set  him  free, 
And  give  him  all  he  has. 

Char.  This  is  not  well. 
I  would  you  had  lived  so,  my  lord,  that  I 
Might  rather  have  continued  your  poor  servant, 
Than  sit  here  as  your  judge. 

Da  Cmi/.  I  am  sorry  for  vou. 

Roch.  In  no  act  of  my  life  I  have  deserved 
This  Ljury  from  the  court,  that  any  here 
Should  thus  uncivilly  usurp  on  what 
Is  proper  to  me  only. 

*  Had  been  sheath' d  in  a  tiger  or  ihr-bear.i  The  allusion 
is  to  N.ivall  and  He.iiiinelle ;  Out  Mr.  iVf.  Mason,  who  had 
already  forgotten  that  I  he  former  had  fallen  by  the  hand  of 
Cli.traFni.s,  alters  tiiji-r  to  tiyrets.  Such  a  passion  for  iimova 
lion,  with  MI  Im.e  discretion  to  direct  it,  i*  surety  seldom 
found  in  the  same  person. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


339 


Du  Croy.  What  distaste 
Receives  my  lord  ! 

Roch.  You  say  you  are  sorry  for  him  : 
A  grief  in  which  I  must  not  have  a  partner. 
Tis  I  alone  am  sorry,  that  when  1  raised 
The  building  of  my  life,  for  seventy  years 
Upon  so  sure  a  ground,  that  all  the  vices 
Practised  to  ruin  man,  though  hrought  against  me, 
Could  never  undermine,  and  no  way  left 
To  send  these  gray  hairs  to  the  grave  with  sorrow, 
Virtue,  that  was  rny  patroness,  betray 'd  me. 
For,  entering,  nay,  possessing  this  young  man, 
It  lent  him  such  a  powerful  majesty 
To  grace  whate'er  he  undertook,  that  freely 
I  g'-ive  myself  up,  with  my  liberty, 
To  be  at  his  disposing.     Had  his  person, 
Lovely  I  must  confess,  or  far-famed  valour, 
Or  any  other  seeming  good,  that  yet 
Holds  a  near    neighbourhood  with   ill,  wrought  on 

me 

I  might  have  borne  it  better:  but,  when  goodness 
And  piety  itself  in  her  best  figure 
Were  bribed  to  my  destruction,  can  you  blame  me, 
Though  1  forgi-t  to  suffer  like  a  man, 
Or  rather  act  a  woman  ? 

fieau.  Good,  my  lord  ! — 

A'oti.  sen.  You  hinder  our  proceeding. 

Char.  And  forget 
The  parts  of  an  accuser. 

lifuu.   Pray  \ou,  remember 
To  use  the  temper  which  to  me  you  promised. 

Each.  Angels  themselves  must  bieak,  Beaumont, 

that  promise 

Beyrnd  tie  strength  and  patience  of  angels. 
But  1  have  done  : — My  good  lord,  pardon  me, 
A  weak  old  man, and,  pray  you,  add  to  that, 
A  mist-nible  fa  her ;  yet  be  careful 
That  your  compassion  of  my  age,  nor  his, 
Move  you  to  anv  thing  that  may  misbecome* 
The  place  on  which  you  sit, 

Char.   Head  the  indictment. 

Clmrat.   It  shall  he  needless  ;  I  myself,  my  lords, 
Will  be  my  own  accuser,  and  confess 
All  they  can  charge  me  with,  nor  will  I  spare 
To  aggravate  that  guilt  with  circumstance 
They  seek  to  )o;id  me  with  ;  only  I  pray, 
That,  as  for  them  you  will  vouchsafe  me  hearing, 
]  may  m.t  be  denied  it  for  myself,  when  I 
Shall  u'ge  by  what  unanswerable  reasons 
I  was  compell'd  to  what  I  did,  which  yet, 
Till  you  have  taught  me  better,  1  repent  not. 

Roch.  The  motion's  honest. 

Char.  And  'tis  freely  granted. 

Chural.  Then   I  confess,  my  lords,  that  I  stood 

bound, 

Wh^n,  wit  limy  friends,  even  hope  itself  had  left  me, 
To  this  man's  charity,  for  my  liberty  ; 
N'or  did  his  bounty  end  there,  but  began  : 
For,  after  my  enlargement,  cherishing 
The  good  he  did,  he  made  me  master  of 
His  only  daughter,  and  his  whole  estate. 
Great  ties  of  thankfulness,  I  must  acknowledge  : 
Could  any  one  fee'd  by  you,  press  this  further  ? — 
But  yet  consider,  my  most  honour'd  lords, 
If  to  receive  a  favour  make  u  servant, 

• that  may  misbecome.]  The  old 

copy  reads  da-become,  .in  unusual  word,  but  regularly  formed. 
1  tuou^lii  it  worth  noticing,  (liuiigli  1  iuve  uot  disturbed 
Coxvter's  fancied  improvement. 


And  benefits  are  bonds  to  tie  the  taker 

To  the  imperious  will  of  him  that  gives, 

There's  none  but  slaves  will  receive  courtesies, 

Since  they  must  fetter  us  to  our  dishonours. 

Can  it  be  call'd  magnificence  in  a  prince, 

To  pour  down  riches  with  a  liberal  hand 

Upon  a  poor  man's  wants,  if  that  must  bind  him 

To  play  the  soothing  parasite  to  his  vices  ? 

Or  any  man,  because  he  saved  my  hand, 

Presume  my  head  and  heart  are  at  his  service  1 

Or,  did  I  stand  engaged  to  buy  my  freedom 

(When  my  captivity  was  honourable) 

By  making  myself  here,  and  fame  hereafter, 

Bondslaves     to     men's     scorn,     and     calumnious 

tongues?  — 

Had  his  fair  daughter's  mind  been  like  her  feature, 
Or,  for  some  little  blemish,  I  had  sought 
For  my  content  elsewhere,  wasting  on  others 
My  body  and  her  dower  ;  my  forehead  then 
Deserved  the  brand  of  base  ingratitude  : 
But  if  obsequious  usage,  and  fair  warning 
To  keep  her  worth  my  love,  could  not  preserve  her 
From  being  a  whore,  and  yet  no  cunning  one, 
So  to  offend,  and  yet  the  fault  kept  from  me, 
What  should  I  do  ?      Let  any  free-born  spirit 
Determine  truly,  if  that  thankfulness, 
Choice   form,  with   the  whole  world  given    for  a 

dowry, 

Could  strengthen  so  an  honest  man  with  patience, 
As  with  a  willing  neck  to  undergo 
The  insupportable  joke  of  slave,  or  wittnl. 

Char.  What  proof  have  you  she  did  play  false, 

besides 
Your  oath  ? 

Charal.   Her  own  confession  to  her  father  • 
I  ask  him  for  a  witness. 

Riich.  'Tis  most  true. 
I  would  not  willingly  blend  my  last  words 
With  an  untruth. 

Charal.  And  then  to  clear  myself, 
That  his  great  wealth  was  not  the  mark  I  shot  at, 
But  that  1  held  it,  when  fair  Beaumelle 
Fell  from  her  virtue,  like  the  fatal  gold 
Which  Brennus  took  from  Delphos*,  whose  pos- 

session 

Brought  with  it  ruin  to  himself  and  army: 
Here's  one  in  court,  beaumont,  by  whom  I  sent 
All  grants  and  writings  back  which  made  it  mine, 
Before  his  daughter  died  by  his  own  sentence, 
As  freely  as,  unask'd,  he  gave  it  to  me. 

Beau.  They  are  here  to  be  seen. 

C/iar.  Open  the  cai-ket. 
-  Peruse  that  deed  of  gift. 

Rom.  Half  of  the  danger 
Already  is  discharged  ;  the  other  part 
As  bravely  ;  and  you  are  not  only  free, 
But  crown'd  with  praise  for  ever! 

Du  Crny.  'Tis  apparent. 

Char.  Your  state,  my  lord,  again  is  yours. 

Ruch.  Not  mine  ; 

I  am  not  of  the  world.     If  it  can  prosper 
(And  yet,  being  justly  got,  I'll  not  examine 
Why  it  should  be  so  fatal),  do  you  bestow  it 
On  pious  uses  :  I'll  go  seek  a  grave. 
And  yet,  for  proof  I  die  in  peace,  your  pardon 


•  ---  like  the  fa 

Which  Brennu*  look  from  Delyho*:]    This  was  to  de- 

structive to   all  who  shared  it,  luat  it  grew  into  a  proveib. 

See  £ra*.  A  day. 


S40 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


[Acr  V 


I  ask  ;  and,  as  you  grant  it  me,  may  heaven, 
Your  conscience,  and  these  judges,  free  you  from 
What    you    are    charged    with  !    So,  farewell   for 
ever!  [Eiit. 

Nov.  sen.  I'll  be  mine  own  guide.     Passion  nor 

example 

Shall  be  my  leaders.     I  have  lost  a  son, 
A  son,  grave  judges  ;  I  require  his  blood 
From  his  accursed  homicide. 

Char.  What  reply  you, 
In  your  defence,  for  this? 

Choral.  I  but  attended 

Your  lordships'  pleasure. — For  the  fact,  as  of 
The  formfr,  I  confess  it;  but  with  what 
Base  wrongs  I  was  unwillingly  drawn  to  it, 
To  my  few  words  there  are  some  other  proofs 
To  witness  this  for  truth.     When  I  was  married, 
For  there  I  must  begin,  the  slain  Novall 
Was  to  my  wife,  in  way  of  our  French  courtship, 
A  most  devoted  servant,  but  yet  aimed  at 
Nothing  but  means  to  quench  his  wanton  heat, 
His  heart  being  never  warm'd  by  lawful  fires, 
As  mine  was,  lords :    and    though,  on   these  pre- 
sumptions, 

Join'd  to  the  hate  between  his  house  and  mine, 
I  might,  with  opportunity  and  ease, 
Have  found  a  way  for  my  revenge,  I  did  not ; 
But  still  he  had  the  freedom  as  before, 
When  all  was  mine:  and,  told  that  he  abused  it 
With  some  unseemly  license,  by  my  friend, 
My  approved  friend,  Romont,  I  gave  no  credit 
To  the  reporter,  but  reproved  him  for  it, 
As  one  uncourtly  and  malicious  to  him. 
What  could  I  more,  my  lords?     Yet,  after  this, 
He  did  continue  in  his  first  pursuit, 
Hotter  than  ever,  and  at  length  obtain'd  it ; 
But,  how  it  came  to  my  most  certain  knowledge, 
For  the  dignity  of  the  court,  and  my  own  honour, 
I  dare  not  say. 

NOD.  ten.  If  all  may  be  believed 
A  passionate  prisoner  speaks,  who  is  so  foolish 
That  durst  be  wicked,  that  will  appear  guilty? 
No,  my  grave  lords  ;  in  his  impunity 
But  give  example  unto  jealous  men 
To  cut  the  throats  they  hate,  and  they  will  never 
Want  matter  or  pretence  for  their  bad  ends. 

Char.  You  must  find  other  proofs  to  strengthen 

these 
But  mere  presumptions. 

Du  Cray.  Or  we  shall  hardly 
Allow  your  innocence. 

Charal.  All  your  attempts 
Shall  fall  on  me  like  brittle  shafts  on  armour, 
That  break  themselves ;  or  waves  against  a  rock, 
That  leave  no  sign  of  their  ridiculous  fury 
But  foam  and  splinters:  my  innocence,  like  these, 
Shall  stand  triumphant,  and  your  malice  serve 
But  for  a  trumpet  to  proclaim  my  conquest. 
Nor  shall  you,  though  you  do  the  worst  fate  can, 
Howe'er  condemn,  affright  an  honest  man. 

Rom.  May  it  please  the  court,  1  may  be  heard? 

AToi>.  sen.  You  come  not 
To  rail  again  ?  but  do— you  shall  not  find 
Another  Rochfort. 

Rom.  In  Novall  I  cannot. 
But  I  come  furnished  with  what  will  stop 
The  mouth  of  his  conspiracy  'gainst  the  life 
Of  innocent  Charalois.  Do  you  know  this  character  ? 

Kov.  sen.  Yes,  'tis  my  son's. 

Rom.  May  it  please  your  lordships,  read  it : 


And  you  shall  find  there  with  what  vehemcncy 
He  did  solicit  Beaumelle  ;  how  he  got 
A  promise  from  her  to  enjoy  his  wishes  ; 
How  after,  he  abjure J  her  company, 
And  yet — but  that  'tis  tit  1  spare  the  dead — 
Like  a  damn'd  villain,  as  soon  as  recorded, 
He  brake  that  oath  : — to  make  this  manifest, 
Produce  his  bawds  and  her's. 

Enter  Officers  with  AYMER,  FLOIUMEL,  and 
BELLAPERT. 

Char.  Have  they  ta'en  their  oaths  ? 

Rom.  They  haye,  and,  rather  than  endure  the  rack, 
Confess  the  time,  the  meeting,  nay,  the  act  ; 
What  would  you  more?  only  this  Matron  made 
A  free  discovery  to  a  good  end  ; 
And  therefore  1  sue  to  the  court  she  may  not 
Be  placed  in  the  black  list  of  the  delinquents. 

Pont.  I  see  by  this,  Novall's  revenge  needs  me, 
And  I  shall  do [Aside. 

Char.  'Tis  evident. 

Nov.  sen.  That  I 

Till  now  was  never  wretched  :  here's  no  place 
To  curse  him  or  my  stars.  Exit 

Char.  Lord  Charalois, 
The  injuries  you  have  sustain'd  appear 
So  worthy  of  the  mercy  of  the  court, 
That,  notwithstanding  you  have  gone  beyond 
The  letter  of  the  law,  they  yet  acquit  you. 

Pont.  But,  in  Novall,  I  do  condemn  him — thus. 

[Sfufcs  him. 

Charal.  I  am  slain. 

Rom.  Can  I  look  on  ?  Oh,  murderous  wretch  ! 
Thy  challenge  now  I  answer.     So  !  die  with  him. 

Stabs  Pontalier. 

Char,  A  guard  !  disarm  him. 

Rom.  I  yield  up  my  sword 
Unforced. — Oh,  Charalois  ! 

Charal.  For  shame,  Romont, 
Mourn  not  for  him  that  dies  as  he  hath  lived  ; 
Still  constant  and  unmoved  ;  what's  fall'n  upon  me 
Is  by  heaven's  will,  because  I  made  myself 
A  judge  in  my  own  cause,  without  their  warrant : 
But  he  that  lets  me  know  thus  much  in  death, 
With  all  good  men — forgive  me  !  [Dies, 

Pont.  1  receive 

The  vengeance  which  my  love,  not  built  on  virtue, 
Has  made  me  worthy,  worthy  of*.  [Die*. 

Char.    We  are  taught 
By  this  sad  precedent,  how  just  soever 
Our  reasons  are  to  remedy  our  wrongs, 
We  are  yet  to  leave  them  to  their  will  and  power 
That,  to  that  purpose,  have  authority. 
For  you,  Romont,  although,  in  your  excuse, 
You  may  plead  what  you  did  was  in  revenge 
Of  the  dishonour  done  unto  the  court, 
Yet,  since  from  us  you  had  not  warrant  for  it, 
We  banish  you  the  state :  for  these,  they  shall, 
As  they  are  found  guilty  or  innocent, 
Or  be  set  free,  or  suSer  punishment.       [Ei«Mn(f. 

•  Ha*  made  me  worthy,  worthy  of.]  TheoH  copy  repeats 
worthy,  which  has  a  good  effect ;  when  \ve  add  to  this,  that 
it  also  completes  the  verse,  we  shall  wonder  at  its  omission 
by  the  former  editors. 

+  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  in  his  life  of  Rowe,  pronounces 
of  The  Fair  Penitent,  "that  it  is  one  of  the  most  plca-in.; 
Tragedies  on  the  »tage,  where  it  still  keep:  its  turns  of  up- 
peafing,  and  probably  will  long  keep  them,  for  th.it  there  is 
scarcely  any  uorv  of  any  poet  at  once  50  interesting  by  the 
fable,  and  so  delightful  by  the  language.  Tli«  story,"  he 
observes,  "  it  domestic,  and  therefore  easily  received  by  ihe 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY". 


541 


A.  DIRGE.— See  Act  II.,  Sc.  1. 

Fie !  cease  to  wonder, 
Though  you  hear  Orhpeus  with  his  ivory  lute, 

Move  trees  and  rocks, 
Charm,  bulls,  bears,  and  men  mure  savage,  to  be  mute  ; 

Weak,  foolish  singer,  here  is  one 

Would  have  transform'd  thyself  to  stone. 

A  SONG  BY  AYMER. — Act  II.,  Sc.  2. 

A  Dialogue  between  a  Man  and  a  Woman. 

Man.     Set,  Phoebus,  set  ;  a  fairer  sun  doth  rise 

From  the  bright  radiance  of  mil  mistress'  eyes 
Than  ever  than  begat'st :  1  dare  not  look  ; 
Each  hair  a  golden  line,  each  word  a  hook, 
The  more  I  strive,  the  more  t-titl  I  am  took. 

Worn.  Fair  servant,  come  ;  the  day  these  eves  do  lend 
To  warm  thy  blood,  thou  dost  so  vainly  spend, 
Come  strangle  breath. 

Man.     What  note  so  sweet  as  this, 

Thatcalls  the  spirits  to  a  further  bliss? 

Worn.   Yet  this  out-savours  wine,  and  this  perfume. 

Man.     Let's  die  ;  I  languish,  I  consume. 

Citizen's  SONG  of  the  Courtier. — See  Act  IV.,  Sc..  II. 

Courtier,  if  thou  needs  icilt  u>u«, 

From  this  lesson  learn  to  thrive  ; 

If  thou,  match   a  lady,  that  passes  thee  m  birth  and 

state, 

Let  her  curious  garments  be 
Twice  above  thine  own  degree  ; 
This  icilt  draw  great  eyes  upon  her, 
Get  her  servants,  and  thee  lionour. 

Courtier's  SONG  of  the  Citizens. 

Poor  citizen,  if  thou  wilt  be 

A  happi]  husband,  learn  of  me 

To  set  thy  wijejirst  in  thy  shop  ; 

A  fair  wife,  a   kind  wtje,  a   sweet  wife,  sets  a  poor 

man  up. 

What  though  thy  shelves  be  ne'er  so  bare, 
A  woman  still  is  current  ware  ; 
Each  man  will  cheapen,  foe  and  friend  ; 
But,  whilit  ihou  art  at  t'other  end, 
Whale  er  thou  seest,  or  what  dost  hear, 
Fool,  have  no  eye  to,  nor  an  ear  ; 
And  after  supper,  for  her  sake, 
When  thou  liastjed,  snort,  though  than  wake  : 
What  though  the  gallants  call  thee  Maine  ! 
Yet  with  thy  lantern  light  her  A<>me; 
Then  look  into  the  town,  and  tell 
If  no   such  tradesmen  there  do  welt. 


imagination,  and  assimilated  to  common  life ;  the  diction  is 
exquisitely  harmonious,  and  soft  or  sprightly  as  occasion  re- 
quires." Few  people,  I  believe,  will  think  this  character  of 
The  fair  Penitent  too  lavish  on  the  score  of  commendation  ; 
the  high  degree  of  public  favour  in  which  this  Tragedy  has 
long  stood,  has  ever  attracted  the  best  audiences  to  it,  and 
engaged  the  talents  of  the  best  performers  in  its  display.  As 
there  is  no  drama  more  frequently  exhibited,  or  more  gene- 
rally read,  I  propose  to  give  it  a  fair  and  impartial  examina- 
tion, jointly  with  the  more  unknown  aud  less  popular 
Tragedy  from  which  it  is  derived. 

The  fair  Penitrnt  is  in  fable  and  character  ?o  closely 
copied  from  The  fatal  Dowry,  that  it  is  impossible  not  to 
Jake  that  Tragedy  'along  with  it;  and  it  is  matter  of  some 
surprise  to  me  that  Rowe  should  have  made  no  acknow- 
ledgment of  his  imitation,  either  in  his  dedication  or  pro- 
logue, or  any  where  else  that  I  am  apprised  of. 

This  Tr.itedy  of  The  fatal  Dowry  was  the  joint  pro- 
duction of  Massinger  and  Nathaniel  Field;  it  takes  a  wider 
compass  of  fable  than  The  fair  Penitent,  by  which  means 
it  presents  a  very  affecting  scene  at  the  opening,  which 

25 


discovers  young  Charalois,  attended  by  his  friend  Romont, 
waiting  with  a  petition  in  his  hand  to  be  presented  to  the 
judges,  when  they  shall  meet,  praying  the  release  of  his 
deaU  father's  body,  which  had  been  seized  by  his  creditors, 
ami  detained  ill  their  hands  for  debts  he  had  incurred  in  the 

Sublic  service,  a*  neld-marshal  of  the  armies  of  Burgundy, 
lassinger,  to  whose  share  this  part  of  the  Tragedy  devolved, 
has  managed  this  pathetic  introduction  with  consummate 
skill  and  great  expression  of  nature;  a  noble  youth  in  the 
last  state  of  worldly  distress,  reduced  to  the  humiliating  yet 
pious  ollice  of  soliciting  an  unfeeling  and  umiiendly  judge 
to  allow  him  to  pay  the  solemn  rites  of  bunal  to  the  remains 
of  an  illustrious  father,  who  had  fought  his  country's  battles 
with  glory,  and  had  sacrificed  life  aud  fortune  in  the  defence 
of  an  ungrateful  state,  impresses  the  spectator's  mind  with 
pity  and  respect,  which  arc  felt  through  every  passage  at 
the  Play  :  one  thing  in  particular  strikes  me  at  the  opening 
of  the  scene,  which  is  the  long  silence  that  the  poet  has 
artfully  imposed  upon  his  principal  character  ( Charalois} 
who  stands  in  mute  sorrow  with  his  petition  in  his  hand, 
whilst  his  friend  Romont,  and  his  advocate  Chaimi,  urge 
him  to  present  himself  to  the  judges,  and  solicit  them  in 
person  :  the  judges  now  make  their  entrance,  they  stop  upon 
the  stage  ;  they  otter  him  the  fairest  opportunity  for  tender- 
ing his  petition  and  soliciting  his  suit :  Charalois  remains 
fixed  aud  speechless  ;  Romont,  who  is  all  eagerness  iu  hi* 
cause,  presses  him  again  and  again : 
"  Now,  put  on  your  spirits. — 

Now,  sir,  lose  not  this  offer'd  means:  their  looks 

F'ix'd  on  you  with  a  pitying  earnestness, 

Invite  you  to  demand  their  fuitberance 

To  your  gooil  purpose." 

The  judges   point  him   out  to  each  o'her ;  they  lament  the 
misfortunes  of  his  noble  house  ;  they  observe, 
"  It  is  young  Charalois 

Son  to  the  marshal,  fiom  whom  he  inherits 

His  fame  aud  virtues  only. 
"  Jlom.  Ha  ;  they  name  you. 

"  Du  Cray.  His  father  died  in  prison  two  days  since. 
"  Roch.  Yes,  to  the  shame  of  this  ungrateful  state ; 

That  such  a  master  in  the  art  of  war, 

So  noble  and  so  highly  meriting 

From  this  forgetful  country,  should,  for  waut 

Of  means  to  satisfy  his  creditors 

Tl:e  sums  he  took  up  for  the  general  good, 

Meet  with  an  end  so  infamous. 
Ram.  Dare  you  ever 

Hope  for  like  opportunity?" 

It  is  vain;  the  opportunity  passes  off,  and  Charalois  opens 
not  his  mouth,  nor  even  silently  tenders  his  petition. 

1  have,  upon  a  former  occasion,  both  generally  and 
particularly  observed  upon  the  effects  of  dramatic  silence : 
the  stage  cannot  afford  a  more  beautiful  and  touching  in- 
stance than  this  before  us:  to  say  it  is  not  inferior  to  the 
silence  of  Hamlet  upon  his  fust  appearance,  would  be  saying 
too  little  in  its  favour.  I  have  no  doubt  but  Massinger  had 
this  very  case  in  his  thoughts,  aud  1  lionour  him  no  less  for 
the  imitating,  than  1  should  have  done  for  striking  out  a 
silence  so  naturally  and  so  delicately  preserved.  What 
could  Charalois  have  nt'ercd  to  give  him  th.it  interest  in 
the  hearts  of  his  spectators,  which  their  own  conclusions 
during  his  affecting  silence  have  already  impressed  I  No 
sooner  are  the  judges  gone,  than  the  ardent  Romoiit  again 
breaks  forth  : — 

" This  obstinate  spleen, 

Yon  think,  becomes  your  sorrow,  and  sorts  well 

With  your  black  suits." 

This  is  Hamiet  himself,  his  inky  cloak,  and  customary  suits 
of  solemn  black.  The  character  of  Charalois  is  thus  fixed 
before  he  speaks  ;  the  poet's  art  has  given  the  prejudice  that 
is  to  bear  him  in  our  affections  through  all  the  succeeding 
events  of  the  fable ;  and  a  striking  contrast  is  established 
between  the  undiscerning  fiery  zeal  of  Romont,  and  Cha- 
ralois' line  sensibility  and  high-born  dignity  of  soul. 

A  more  methodical  and  regular  dramatist  would  have 
stopped  here,  satisfied  that  the  impression  already  made  was 
fully  sufficient  for  all  the  purposes  of  his  plot;  but  Massinger, 
according  to  the  busy  spirit  of  the  stage  for  which  he  wrote, 
is  not  alarmed  by  a  throng  of  incidents,  and  proceeds  to 
open  the  court  and  discuss  the  pleadings  on  the  stage :  the 
advocate  Charmi,  in  a  set  harangue,  moves  the  judges  for 
dispensing  w  ith  the  rigour  of  the  law  in  favour  of  creditors, 
and  fur  re.scuin^  the  marshal's  corpse  out  of  their  clutches ; 
he  is  browbeaten  and  silenced  by  the  presiding  judge  old 
Novall  :  the  plea  is  then  taken  up  by  the  impetuous  Romont, 
and  urged  with  §o  much  personal  insolence,  that  he  is  ar- 
rested on  the  spot,  put  in  charge  of  the  officers  of  the  court, 
and  taken  to  prison.  This  is  a  vf  ry  striking  mode  of  intro- 
ducing the  set  oration  of  Charalois ;  a  son  recounting  the 
military  achievements  of  a  newly  deceased  father,  and  ro 


342 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


plorlng  mercy  from  his  creditor.'  and  the  law  towards  his 
unburied  remains,  now  claims  the  attention  ot  the  court, 
who  had  been  hitherto  unmoved  by  I  he  feeble  formality  of  a 


course: 

"  Cred.  It  is  the  city  doctrine  ; 

We  stand  bound  to  maintain  it. 
"  C/iaral.   Be  constant  in  it; 

And  since  you  are  as  merciless  in  your  natures, 
As  ba«e  and  mercenary  in  your  means 
By  which  you  get  your  wealth,  I  will  not  urge 
The  court  to  take  away  one  scruple  from 
The  right  of  their  laws,  or    wish]  one  good  thought 
In  you  lo  mend  your  disposition  with. 
I  know  there  is  no  music  to  your  ears 
So  pleasing  as  the  groans  of  men  in  prison, 
And  that  the  tears  of  widows,  and  the  crie? 
Of  famish'd  orphans,  are  the  feasts  that  take  you. 
That  to  be  in  your  danger,  with  more  care 
Should  be  avoided  than  infectious  air, 
The  loathed  embraces  of  diseased  women, 
A  flatterer's  poison,  or  the  loss  of  honour. — 
Yet  rather  than  my  father's  reverend  dust 
Shall  want  a  place  in  that  fair  monument, 
In  which  our  noble  ancestors  lie  entomb'd, 
Befoie  the  court  I  offer  up  myself 
A  prisoner  for  it.     Load  me  with  those  irons 
That  have  worn  out  his  life ;  in  my  best  strength 
I'll  run  to  the  encounter  of  cold,  hunger, 
And  choose  my  dwelling  where  no  sun  dares  enter, 
So  he  may  be  released." 

There  was  yet  another  incident,  which  the  poet's  passion 
for  business  and  spectacle  induced  him  to  avail  himself  of, 
viz  the  funeral  of  the  marshal  ;  this  he  displays  on  the 
stage,  with  a  train  of  captains  and  soldiers  following  the 
body  of  their  general :  Charalois  and  Romont,  under  cus- 
tody of  their  gaolers,  appear  as  chief  mourners,  and  a  party 
of  creditors  are  concerned  in  the  groupe. 

After  this  solemnity  is  dispatched,  the  poet  proceeds  to 
develope  the  amiable  generosity  of  old  Rochfort,  who, 
being  touched  with  the  gallant  spirit  of  Romont,  and  still 
more  penetrated  with  the  filial  piety  of  young  Charalois,  de- 
livers them  both  from  imprisonment  and  distress,  by  dis- 
charging the  debts  of  the  marshal,  and  dismissing  the  credi- 
tors: this  also  passes  before  the  eyes  of  (he  spectators.  Be- 
fore Charalois  has  given  full  expression  to  his  gratitude  for 
this  extraordinary  benefaction,  Rochfort  follows  it  with  a 
further  act  of  bounty,  which  he  introduces  in  the  style  of  a 
request — 
"  Call  in  my  daughter.  Still  I  have  a  suit  to  you, 

Would  you  requite  me. 

This  is  my  only  child." 

Beaumcllc,  Rochfoit's  daughter,  is  presented  to  Charalois; 
the  scene  is  hurried  on  with  a  precipitation  almost  without 
example  :  Charalois  asks  the  lady, 
"  Fair  Beaumelle,  can  you  love  me? 
"  Beaumel.  Yes,  my  lord. 

"  C'haral.  You  need  not  question  me  if  I  can  you: 
Yon  are  the  fairest  virgin  in  Dijon, 
And  Rochfort  is  your  father." 

The  match  is  agreed  upon  as  soon  as  proposed,  and  Roch- 
fort  hastens  away  to  prepare  the  celebration. 

In  this  cluster  of  incidents  I  must  not  fail  to  remark,  that 
the  poet  introduces  young  Novall  upon  the  scene,  in  the 
very  moment  when  the  short  dialogue  above  quoted  was 
passing:  this  Novall  had  before  been  exhibited  as  a  suitor 
lo  Beaumelle,  and  his  vain  frivolous  character  had  been 
displayed  in  a  very  ridiculous  and  contemptible  li«ht ;  he  is 
now  again  introduced  to  be  a  witness  of  his  own  disappoint- 
ment, and  his  only  observation  upon  it  is — "  What's  this 
change?" — Upon  the  exit  of  the  lather,  however,  he  ad- 
dresses himself  to  the  lady,  and  her  reply  gives  the  alarm- 
ing hint,  that  makes  discovery  of  the  fatal  turn  which  the 
plot  is  now  about  to  take  ;  for  when  Novall,  turning  aside 
to  Beaumelle,  by  one  word — "  Mistress!" — conveys  the  re- 
proach of  inconstancy,  she  replies, 

"  Oh,  servant ! — Virtue  strengthen  me  ! 
Thy  presence  blows  round  my  affection's  vane  : — 
Yon  will  undo  me,  if  you  speak  again."  [Exit. 

Young  Novall  is  left  on  the  scene  with  certain  followers 
and  dependants,  which  hang  upon  his  fortune,  one  of  which 
(Pontalier  by  name),  a  man  under  deep  obligations  to  him, 
yet  of  an  honest  nature,  advUes  him  to  an  honourable  re 
nnnciation  of  all  further  hopes  or  attempts  to  avail  himself 
of  the  affections  of  Beanmclle— 
" Though  yen  have  iave<l  wy  life, 


Rescued  me  often  from  my  wants,  I  must  not 
Wink  at  your  follies,  that  will  tuin  you. 
Yon  Know  my  blunt  way,  and  my  love  to  truth- 
Forsake  the  pursuit  of  this  lady's  honour, 
Now  you  do  see  her  made  another  man's." 
This  honourable  advice  is  rejected  with  contempt :  Novall, 
in  whose  mean  bosom  there  does  not  seem  a  trace  of  virtue, 
avows  a  determined  perseverance;  and  the  poet  having  in 
this  hasty  manner    completed   these   inauspicious  nuptials, 
closes  the  second  act  of  his  Tragedy. 

We  have  now  expended  two  entire  acts  of  The  Fatal 
Dowry,  in  advancing  to  that  period  in  the  fable,  at  which 
the  Tracedy  of  The  Fair  Penitent  opens.  If  the  author  of 
thi*  Tragedy  thought  it  necessary  to  contract  Massinger's 
plot,  and  found  one  upon  it  of  a  more  regular  construction, 
I  know  not  how  he  could  do  this  any  otherwise,  than  by 
taking  up  the  story  at  the  point  where  we  have  now  left  it, 
and  throwing  the  antecedent  matter  into  narration  ;  and 
though  these  two  prefatory  acts  are  full  of  very  affecting  in- 
cidents, yet  the  pathos  which  properly  appertains  to  the 
plot,  and  conduces  to  the  catastrophe  of  the  Tragedy,  does 
nol  in  itrictness  take  place  before  the  event  of  the  marriage. 
No  critic  will  say  that  the  pleadings  before  the  judge.',  the 
interference  of  the  creditors,  the  distresses  of  Ciiaralois,  or 
the  funeral  of  the  marshal,  are  necessary  parts  of  the  drama  ; 
at  the  same  time  no  reader  will  deny  (and  neither  could 
Rowe  himself  overlook)  the  effect  of  these  inciJents:  lie 
could  not  fail  to  foresee  tliat  he  was  to  sacrifice  very  mucL 
of  the  interest  of  his  fable,  when  he  was  ti>  throw  that  upon 
narration,  vthich  his  original  had  given  in  spectacle:  and 
the  loss  was  more  enhanced  by  falling  upon  the  hero  of  the 
drama;  for  who  that  compares  Charalois,  at  the  end  of  the 
second  act  of  Massinger,  with  Rowe's  Altamont  at  the  open- 
ing scene  of  The  Fair  Penitent,  can  doubt  which  character 
has  most  interest  with  the  spectators?  We  have  seen  the 
former  in  all  the  most  amiable  offices  which  filial  piety  could 
perform ;  enduring  insults  from  his  inveterate  oppressors, 
and  voluntarily  surrendering  himself  to  a  pri.-on  to  ransome 
the  dead  body  of  his  father  from  unrelenting  creditors.  Al- 
tamont presents  himself  liefore  us  in  his  wedding  suit,  in  the 
splendour  of  fortune,  and  at  the  summit  of  happiness ;  1m 
greets  us  with  a  burst  of  exultation — 
"  Let  this  auspicious  day  be  ever  sacred, 
No  mourning,  no  misfortunes  happen  on  it; 
Let  it  be  mark'd  for  triumphs  and  rejoicings! 
Let  happy  lovers  ever  make  it  holy, 
Choose  it  to  bless  their  hopes  and  crown  their  wishes; 
This  happy  ila>,  that  gives  me  my  Calista!" 
The  rest  of  the  scene  is  employed  by  him  and  Horatio  alter- 
nately in  recounting  the  benefits  conferred  upon  them  by  the 
generous  Sciollo ;  and  the  very  same  incident  of  the  sei/.ure 
of  his  father's  corpse  by  me  creditors,  and  his  redemption  of 
it,  is  recited  by  Horatio : — 

" When  IMS  hard  creditors, 

Urged  and  assisted  by  Lothario's  father 
(Foe  to  thy  house  and  rival  of  thy  greatness), 
By  sentence  of  the  cruel  law  forbade 
His  venerable  corpse  to  rest  in  earth, 
Thou  gavest  thyself  a  ransome  for  his  bones; 
With  piety  uncommon  didst  give  up 
_  Thy  hopeful  youth  to  slaves,  who  ne'er  knew  mercy," 
Is  is  not  however  within  the  reach  of  this,  or  any  other  de- 
scription, to  place  Altamont  in  tint  interesting  and  amiable 
light,  as  circumstances  have  already  placed  Charalois;  the 
happy  and   exulting   bridegroom   may  be  an  object   of  our 
congratulation,  but  the  virtuous  and  suffering  Ciiaralois  en- 
gages our  pity,  love,  and  admiration.     If  Rowe  wouM  have 
his    audience  credit  Altamont   for  that   filial   piety,   vtkich 
marks  the  character  he  copied  from,  it  was  a  small  over- 
sight to  put  the  following  expression  into  his  mouth — 
"  Oh,  great  Sciolto  !  Oh,  my  more  than  father!" 
A  closer  attention   to  character  would  have  reminded   him 
that  it  was  possible  for  Altamont  to  express  his  gratitude  to 
Sciolto  without  setting  him  above  a  father,  to  whose  me- 
mory he  had  paid  such  devotion. 

From  this  contraction  of  hi*  plot,  by  the  defalcation  of  so 
many  pathetic  incidents,  it  became  impossible  for  the  author 
of  The  Fair  Penitent  to  make  his  Altamont  the  hcr<  of  his 
Tragedy,  and  the  leading  part  is  taken  from  him  by  Horatio, 
and  even  by  Lothario,  throughout  the  drama.  There  are 
feveral  reasons,  uhi.-li  concur  to  sink  Altamont  upon  the 
comparison  with  Charalois,  the  chief  of  which  arises  from  the 
captivating  colours  in  which  Rowe  has  painted  his  libertine  : 
on  the  contrary,  Massinger  gives  a  contemptible  picture  of 
his  young  Novall ;  he  makes  him  not  only  vicious,  but  ridi- 
culous; ia  foppery  and  impertinence  he  is  the  counterpart 
of  Shakspeare'sOsrick;  vain-glorious,  purse-proud,  and  over- 
bearing amongst  his  dependants;  a  spiritless  poltroon  In  his 
interview  with  Romont.  "  Lothario,"  as  Johnson  observes, 
"  with  gaiety  which  cannot  be  hated,  and  bravery  which 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY 


345 


cannot  be  despised,  retains  too  much  of  the  spectator's  kind- 
ness." His  U:;h  spirit,  brilliant  qualities,  ai.d  lino  person 
are  so  described,  as  to  put  us  in  danger  of  false  impressions 
in  his  favour,  and  to  set  the  passions  ill  opposition  to  the 
moral  of  the  piece:  I  suspect  that  llie  gallantry  ot'  Lothario 
makes  more  advocates  fur  Calisia  than  she  ought  to  luvc. 
There  is  another  consideration,  which  operate-  ag.iinst  Alta- 
luont,  and  it  is  an  indelicacy  in  his  character,  which  the 
poet  should  have  provided  agai..st:  he  marries  Calista  with 
the  lull  pei>uasion  of  her  being  averse  to  the  match;  in  bis 

first  meeting  with  Sciolto  he  s.ijs 

"   Oil!  could  1  hope  there  was  one  thought  of  Altamont, 
One  kind  remembrance  in  Calista's  breast— 

• 1  found  her  cold 

As  a  dead  lover's  statue  on  his  tomb; 
A  rising  storm  of  passion  shook  her  breast, 
Her  eves  a  piteous  ?hower  of  tears  let  fall. 
And  tlien  the  sighed  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking. 
\\  ith  all  the  tendcrest  eloquence  of  love 
I  begg'd  to  be  a  sharer  in  her  grief; 
But  she,  with  looks  averse,  and  e)es  that  froze  me, 
Sadly  replied,  her  sorrows  weie  her  own, 
N>.r  in  a  father's  power  to  dispose  of." 

I  am  aware  thit  Sciolio  attempts  lo  parry  these  facts,  by  an 
intiepretatii.n  too  gross  and  unbecoming  for  a  father's  cha- 
racter, and  only  fit  for  the  lips  oi  a  Lothario;  but  jet  it  is 
u»l  in  nature  to  suppose  that  Altam.mt  could  mist  ike  such 
symptoms,  and  it  fixes  a  meanness  upon  him,  which  prevails 
against  his  character  throughout  the  I  lay.  Nothing  of  iliis 
fort  could  be  discovered  by  M assurer's  bridegroom,  for  the 
ceremony  was  agreed  upon  and  performed  at  the  very  tir?t 
interview  of  the  parties;  Beaumelle  gave  a  full  and  unre- 
served a-st-nt,  and  though  hti  character  slitters  ou  the  score 
<<f  hypocrisy  on  that  account,  yet  Charalois  is  saved  by  it: 
Je.-.-  iik  oocnsy  appears  in  Calista,  but  hers  is  the  deeper 
guilt,  because  ;he  was  already  dishonoured  by  Lothario,  and 
Beauinelle's  coquetry  wiih  Novall  had  noi  yet  reached  the 
length  of  criminality.  Add  to  this,  that  Altamont  appears 
in  the  contemptible  light  of  a  suitor,  whom  C.ilista  had  ap- 
prised of  her  aversion,  and  to  whom  she  had  done  a  deli  e- 
rate  act  of  dishonour,  though  his  person  and  character  must 
have  been  Ions:  known  to  her.  The  case  is  far  otherwise 
between  Charalois  and  Beaumelle,  who  never  met  before, 
and  every  care  is  taken  by  the  poet  to  save  his  hero  from 
such  a  d.  liberate  injurv,  as  might  convey  contempt ;  with 
this  view  the  marriage  is  precipitated  ;  nothing  is  allowed 
to  pas?,  that  might  open  the  character  o/  Charalois  to  Beau- 
melle :  she  is  hurried  into  an  assignation  with  Novall  imme- 
diately upon  her  marriage;  every  artifice  of  seduction  is 
employed  by  her  confidante  Bellapert,  and  Avnier,  the  pa- 
raMie  of  Novall,  to  make  the  meeting  criminal ;  she  tails 
the  victim  of  passion,  and  when  detection  brings  her  to  a 
sense  ot  her  guilt,  she  makes  this  penitent  ami  pathetic 

appeal  to  CbaUrois 

•• Oh  my  fate! 

That  never  would  consent  that  I  should  see 
How  worthy  you  were  both  ot  love  and  duty, 
Before  1  l..st  you;  and  my  misery  made 
The  glass  in  which  I  now  behold  your  virtue ! 
With  justice  therefore  you  may  cut  me  off, 
And  from  your  memory  wash  the  remembrance 
That  e'er  1  was  ;  like  to  some  vicious  purpose, 
\\  Inch,  in  your  better  judgment,  you  repent  ot, 

And  study  lo  forget 

Vet  jou  shall  find, 

Though  I  was  bold  enough  to  be  a  strumpet, 
I  dare  not  yet  live  one.     Let  those  famed  matrons, 
That  are  canonized  worthy  of  our  sex, 
Transcend  me  in  their  sanctity  of  life  ; 
I  set  will  equal  them  in  djing  nobly, 
Ambitious  of  no  honour  after  life, 
But  that,  when  I  am  dead,  jou  will  forgive  me." 
Compare  this  with  the  conduct  of  Calista,  and  then  decide 
which  trail  fair  one  has  the  better  title  to  the  appellation  of  a 
penitent,  and  which  drama  conveys  the  better  moral  by  its 
catastrophe. 

Theie  is  indeed  a  grossness  in  the  older  poet,  which  his 
more  modern  imitator  has  refined  ;  but  he  has  only  sweet- 
ened the  poison,  not  removed  its  venom  :  nay,  by  how  much 
more  palateable  he  has  made  it,  so  much  more  pernicious  it 
is  Income  in  his  tempting,  sparkling  cup,  than  in  the  coarse 
deterring  dose  of  Mas-inger. 

Rowe  has  no  doubt  greatly  outstepped  his  origi  al  in  the 
striking  character  of  Lothario,  who  leaves  Novall  as  far  be- 
himl  him  as  Charalois  does  Altamont :  it  is  admitted  then 
that  Calista  has  as  good  a  plea  as  any  wanton  could  wish,  to 
nige  for  her  criminality  with  Lothario,  and  the  poet  has  not 
spared  the  ear  of  modesty  in  his  exaggerated  description  of 
the  guilty  scene  ;  every  luxurious  image,  that  his  inflamed 
imagination  could  crowd  into  the  glowing  rhapsody,  is  there 


to  be  found,  and  the  whole  is  recited  in  numbers  so  flowing 
and  harmonious,  that  they  not  only  arrest  the  passions  but 
the  memory  alto,  and  perhaps  have  been,  and  still  can  be, 
as  generally  repealed  as  any  passage  in  English  poetry. 
Malinger,  with  less  elegance,  but  not  with  less  regard  to 
deccucv ,  suiters  the  guilty  act  to  pass  within  the  course  of 
his  drama;  the  greater  reiinement  of  manners  in  Rowe's 
day  did  not  alio>v  of  this,  and  he  anticipated  the  incident; 
but  when  he  revived  the  recollection  of  it  by  such  a  studied 
description,  he  plainly  showed  that  it  was  not  from  n.oral 
principle  that  he  omitted  it ;  and  if  he  has  presented  hit 
heroine  to  the  sj.e<  tatoi>  with  more  immediate  delicacy  dur- 
ing llie  compass  of  the  play,  he  has  at  the  same  time  given 
lit  r  greater  depravity  of  mind  ;  her  manners  may  be  more 
refined,  but  her  principle  is  fouler  than  Beauinelle's.  Ca- 
Ibta,  wlio  viclded  to  llie  gallant,  gay  Lothatio,  "hot  with 
the  Tuscan  grape,"  might  peihaps  have  disdained  a  lover 
who  addre.^ed  her  in  the  holiJay  language  which  Novall 
ii.-es  to  Beaun.elle  : 

"  Best  dav  to  nature's  curiosity, 

Star  of  "Dijon,  the  lustre  of  all  France! 
Perpetual  i-pring  dwell  on  ihy  rosy  <  heeks, 

\\lio.e  breath  is  perfume  to  our  continent! 

See!   FL.ra  trimm'd  in  her  varieties. 

No  autumn  nor  no  agt-  ever  approach 
This  heavenly  piece,  which  naiure  having  wrought, 
She  lost  her  needle,  and  did  ihcn  despair 
Ever  to  work  so  lively  ami  -o  lair  !" 

The  letter  of  Calista  (which  bring*  about  the  discovery  by 
the  poor  expedient  of  Loth  iri»  s  tlr-ppiii"  it  and  Horatio's 
finding  it;  has  not  even  the  merit  of  being  characteristically 
wicked,  and  is  both  in  its  matter  and  mode  below  Tragedy. 
It  is,  Lothario's  cruelty  has  (intermitted  her  to  yield  a  per- 
fect obedience  to  fur  father,  and  give  her  hand  to  Alta- 
tmint,  in  spite  of  her  weakness  for  the  false  Lothario. —  If 
the  ladv  had  given  her  perfect  obedience  its  true  denomina- 
tion, she  had  called  it  a  most  dishonourable  compliance ; 
and,  if  we  may  take  Lothario's  word  (who  seems  lull  cor- 
rect enough  iu  describing  facts  and  particulars),  she  had  not 
much  cau^e  to  complain  of  his  being  false ;  for  he  tells  Ros- 
sano : 

"  \  liked  her,  would  have  m.irried  her, 

But  that  it  pleased  her  father  lo  refuse  me, 
To  make  this  honourable  lot.l  her  husband." 
It  appears  by  this,  that  Lothario  had  not  been  false  to  her 
in  the  article  of  marriage,  though  he  might  have  been  cruel 
lo  her  ou  the  score  of  passion,  which  indeed  is  confessed  on 
his  part  with  as  much  cold  indifference,  as  the  most  bare- 
faced avowal  could  express. — But  to  return  to  the  letter: 
Mie  pioceeds  to  tell  him— that  she  could  almost  with  the 
had  that  heart,  and  that  honour  to  bestow  with  it,  which 
lie  has  robbed  her  of. — But  le-t  this  hall  wish  should  startle 
him,  she  adds— Hut  oh!  I  fear,  could  I  retrieve  them,  1 
should  ayain  be  undone  by  the  too  faithlett,  yet  too  lovely 
Lothario. — liiis  must  be  owned  as  lull  a  reason  as  she  could 
give,  why  she  should  only  almost  with  for  her  lost  honour, 
when  she  would  make  such  an  use  of  it,  if  she  had  it  again 
at  her  disposal.  And  yet  the  very  next  paragraph  throws 
every  thing  into  contradiction,  tor  she  tells  him  -this  it  the 
last  u  ealitu'fs  of  her  pen,  and  to-morrow  shall  be  the  lout  in 
which  site  will  iiuiulye  her  eyes.  If  she  could  keep  lo  that 
resolution,  I  must  think  the  recovery  if  her  innocence 
would  have  been  worth  a  whole  wish,  and  many  a  wish; 
unless  we  are  to  suppose  she  was  so  devoted  to  guilt,  that 
she  could  take  delight  in  reflecting  upon  it:  this  "is  a  state 
of  depravity,  whicn  human  nature  hardly  ever  attains,  and 
seems  peculiar  to  Culi.-ta.  She  now  grows  very  humble,  and 
concludes  in  a  style  well  suited  to  her  humility — Lucilla 
thall  conduct  you,  if  you  are  kind  enough  to  let  me  tet 
you  ;  it  thall  L-e  the  last  trouble  you  shall  meet  tilth  from 

The  lost  CALISTA. 

It  was  very  ill  done  of  Horalio's  curiosity  to  read  this 
letter,  and  1  must  ever  regret  that  he  has  tu  unhandsomely 
exposed  a  lady's  private  correspondence  to  the  world. 

li.ouji  the  part  which  Horatio  takes  in  the  business  of 
the  drama  is  exactly  that  which  tails  to  ihe  share  of  Komont 
in  The  fatal  Dowry,  yet  tin  ir  characters  are  of  a  very 
different  cast;  for,  as  Howe  had  bestowed  the  fire  and 
impetuosity  of  Komont  upon  his  Lothario,  it  wai  a  very 
judicious  opposition  to  contrast  it  with  the  cool  deliberate 
courage  of  the  sententious  Horatio,  the  fiiend  and  brother- 
in-law  of  Altamont. 

\\  lien  Horatio  has  read  Calista's  letter,  which  Lothario 
had  dropped  (an  accident  which  more  frequently  happen* 
to  gentlemen  in  comedies,  than  in  tragedies;,  he  fails  into  * 
very  long  meditation,  and  i  loses  it  with  putting  this  question 
to  himself: — 

"  What  if  I  give  this  paper  to  her  father? 
It  follows  that  his  justice  dooms  her  dead. 
And  break*  his  heart  with  sorrow  ;  hard  return 


344 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


of   his  uncasmos,  lie  does  not  imp 


me  revenge,  wnicn  is  rercrvcu lur  juiwwiui ;    in 

therefore  closes  with  a  challenge  from  Luthario  ; 
"  West  of  the  town  a  mile,  amongst  the  rucks, 

Two  hours  ere  noon  to-morrow  1  expect  thee  ; 

Thy  single  hand  to  mine." 

The  place  of  meeting  is  not  well  ascertained,  and  the  time  is 
too  long  deferred  for  strict  probability  ;  there  are,  however, 
certain  things  in  all  dramas,  which  must  not  be  too  rigidly 
insisted  upon,  and  provided  uo  extraordinary  violence  is 
done  to  reason  and  common  MMI -r,  the  candid  critic  ought  to 
let  them  pass  :  this  I  take  to  be  a  case  in  point  ;  and  though 
Horatio's  cool  courage  and  ready  presence  of  mind,  are  not 
just  the  qualities  to  reconcile  us  to  such  an  ovei  sight,  yet  I 
see  no  reason  to  be  severe  upon  the  incident,  which  is  fol- 
lowed by  his  immediate  recollection  : 

"  Two  hours  ere  noon  to-morrow  !  Hah  !  Ere  that 

He  sees  Calista. — Oh!  unthinking  fool! 

N\  hat  if  I  urged  her  wiili  ihe  crime  and  danger? 

If  any  spark  from  heaven  remain  unqaench'cl 

Within  her  breast,  my  breatli  perhaps  may  wake  it. 

Could  1  but  prosper  there,  I  uonld  not  doubt 

My  combat  with  that  loud  vain  glorious  boaster." 
Whether  this  be  a  measure  altogether  in  character  with  a 
man  of  lloiatio's  good  sense  and  discretion,  I  must  own  is 
matter  of  doubt  with  me.  1  think  he  appears  fully  satulied 
of  her  actual  criminality  ;  and  in  that  case  it  would  be  more 
natural  for  him  to  lay  his  measures  for  intercepting  Lothario, 
and  preventing  the  assignation,  than  to  try  his  ihetoric  in 
the.  present  crisis  upon  the  agitated  mind  of  Calista.  As  it 
has  jus\ly  occurred  to  him,  that  he  has  been  over-reached  by 
Lothario  in  the  postponement  of  the  duel,  the  measure  I 
suggest  would  naturally  tend  to  hasten  thai  rencounter.  Now, 
though  the  business  of  the  drama  may  require  an  explanation 
between  Horatio  and  Calista,  whereupon  to  ground  an 
occasion  for  his  inteicsting  quarrel  with  Allamont:  yet  I 
do  not  see  any  necessity  to  make  that  a  premeditated  ex- 
planation, nor  to  sacrifice  character,  by  a  measure  that  is 
inconsistent  with  the  betler  judgment  of  Horatio.  The 
poet,  however,  has  decreed  it  otherwise,  and  a  deliberate 
interview  with  Calista  and  Horatio  accordingly  takes  place. 
This,  altl.ongh  introduced  with  a  solemn  invocation  on  his 
part,  is  very  clumsily  conducted  : 
"  Teach  me,  some  Power!  that  happy  art  of  speech 

To  dress  my  purpose  up  in  gracious  words, 

Such  as  may  softly  steal  upon  her  soul, 

And  never  waken  the  tempestuous  passions." 
Who  can  expect,  after  this  preparation,  to  hear  Horatio  thus 
break  his  secret  to  Calista  'I 
"  Lothario  and  Calista! — Thus  they  join 

Two  names,  which  heaven  decreed  should  never  meet 

Hence  have  the  talkers  of  this  populous  city 

A  shameful  tale  to  tell  for  public  sport, 

Ut  an  unhappy  beauty,  a  false  fair  one, 

Who  plighted  to  a  r.oble  youth  her  faith, 

When  she  had  given  her  honour  to  a  wretch." 
Tbii  I  bold  to  be  totally  out  of  nature  ;  first,  because  it  it  a 


palpable  departure  from  his  resolution  to  use  "  gracious 
words;"  nevt,  because  it  has  a  certain  tendency  to  produce 
rage  and  not  repentance ;  and  thirdly,  because  it  is  founded 
in  exaggeration  and  falsehood ;  for  how  is  he  warranted  to 
say  that  the  story  is  the  public  talk  and  sport  of  the  city  !  If 
it  were  so,  what  can  his  interference  avail?  why  seek  this 
interview  I 

"  Why  come  to  tell  her  how  she  might  be  happy  1 
To  sootlie  the  secret  anguish  of  her  soul  I 
To  comfort  that  fair  mourner,  that  forlorn  one, 
And  teach  her  steps  to  know  the  paths  of  peace?" 
No  judge  of  nature  will  think  he  takes  the  means  to  lead  her 
into  "  the  paths  of  peace,"  by  hurraing  her  to  the  very  brink 
of  desperation.     1  need  not  enlarge  upon  this  observation, 
and   .-hall  therefore  only  remark,  that  the  scene  breaks  up, 
as  might  be  expected,  with  the  following  proof  of  her  peni- 
tence, and  his  success  in  persuasion  : 
"  Henceforth,  thou  officious  fool, 

Meddle  no  more,  nor  dare,  even  on  thy  life, 
To  breathe  an  accent  that  may  touch  my  virtue  : 
1  am  myself  the  guardian  of  my  honour, 
And  will  not  bear  so  insolent  a  monitor." 
Let  us  now  enquire  how  llomont  (the  Horatio  of  Massinger) 
conducts  this  incident,  a  character  from  whom  less  di>cre- 
tion  is  to  be  expected  than  from  his  philosophical  successor. 
Rotnont  himself  discovers  Beaumelle  and    Novall  engaged 
in  ihe  most  wanton  familiarities,  and  with  a  warmth  suit- 
able to   his  xeal,    breaks   up  the    amorous  conference   by 
driving  Novall  off  the  scene  with  ineffable  contempt :  he 
then   applies  himself  to   the  lady,  and  with  a  very  natural 
and  manly  spirit  says, 

" 1  respect  yon, 

Not  for  yourself,  but  in  remembrance  of 
Who  is  your  father,  and  whose  wife  you  now  are." 
She  replies  to  him  with  contempt  and  ridicule;  he  resumes 
the  same  characteristic  strain  he  sets  out  with,  and  proceeds: 

" My  intents, 

Madam,  deserve  not  this;  nor  do  I  stay 

To  be  the  whetstone  of  your  wit :  preserve  it 

To  spend  on  such  as  know  how  to  admire 

Such  colour'd  stuff.     In  me,  there  now  speak8  to  yon 

As  true  a  friend  and  servant  to  your  honour, 

And  one  that  will  with  as  much  hazard  guard  it, 

As  ever  man  did  goodness  : -but  then,  lady, 

You  must  endeavour,  not  alone  to  BE, 
But  to  APPEAR,  worthy  such  love  and  service." 
We  ha-ve  just  now  heard  Horatio  reproach   Calista  with 
the  reports  that  were  circulated  against  her  reputation  ;  let  us 
compare  it  with  whatRomont  saysupon  the  same  subject: 

But  yet  te  careful: 

Detraction's  a  bold  monster,  and  fears  not 
To  wound  the  fame  of  princes,  if  it  find 
But  any  blemish  in  their  lives  to  work  on. 
But  I'll  be  plainer  with  you  :  had  the  people 
Been  learned  to  speak  but  what  even  now  I  saw, 
Their  malice  out  of  that  would  raise  an  engine 
To  overthrow  your  honour.     In  my  sight, 
With  yonder  painted  fool  I  frighted  from  you 
You  used  familiarity  beyond 
A  modest  entertainment :  you  embraced  him 
With  too  much  ardour  for  a  stranger,  and 
Met  him  wilh  kisses  neither  chaste  nor  comely. 
But  learn  you  to  forget  him,  as  I  will 
Your  bounties  to  him  ;  you  will  find  it  safer 
Rather  to  be  uncourtly  than  immodest." 
What  avails  it  to  attempt  diawing  a  comparison  between  th,ij 
conduct  and   that  of  Horatio,  where  no  comparison  is  to  fcj 
made?    I  leave  it  to  the  reader, and  dtcline  a  t.i.-k   at  onc« 
so  unnecessary  and  ungrateful. 

When  Romont  finds  no  impression  u  to  be  made  upo« 
Beaumelle,  he  meets  her  father,  and  immediately  falls  ijjco 
the  same  reflection  that  Horatio  had  struck  upou  : 

" Her  father  ?— ha! 

How  if  I,  break  this  to  him?   sure  it  cannot 
Meet  with  an  ill  construction  :  his  wisdom, 
Made  powerful  by  the  authority  of  a  father. 
Will  warrant  and  give  privilege  to  his  counsel*. 
It  shall  be  so. — 

If  this  step  needs  excuse,  the  reader  will  consider  that  it  in 
a  step  of  prevention.  The  experiment,  however,  fails,  and 
he  is  rebuffed  with  some  asperity  by  Kochfort ;  this  draws 
on  a  scene  between  him  and  Charalois,  which,  as  it  is  too 
long  to  transcribe,  so  it  is  throughout  too  excellent  to  extract 
any  part  from  it.  1  can  only  express  my  surprise,  that  the 
author  of  The  Fair  Penitent,  with  this  scene  before  him, 
could  conduct  his  interview  between  Altamont  and  Horatio 
upon  a  plan  so  widely  different,  and  so  much  inferior :  I 
must  suppose  he  thought  it  a  strong  incident  to  make  Alta- 
mont give  a  blow  to  his  friend,  else  he  might  have  seen  an 
interview  carried  on  with  infinitely  mere  spirit,  both  of  Un- 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


345 


juage  and  character,  between  Charalois  and  Roniont,  in 
circumstances  exactly  .-iinil.ir,  where  no  such  violence  >\as 
comraitied,  or  even  mediated.  Was  it  because  Pierre  li.id 
given  a  blow  to  Jaftier,  that  Altamoni  was  to  repent  the  like 
indignity  to  Horatio,  for  a  woman  of  wliose  aversion  lie  had 
proofs  not  to  be  mistaken  f  Charalois  is  a  character  atli-a-t 
as  high  and  irritable  as  Alt,imont,  and  Homonl  is  out  of  .ill 
comparison  more  rough  and  plain-spoken  tlmi  Horatio: 
Charalois  might  be  deceived  into  an  opinion  of  Beanniellc'i 
affection  for  him;  Altamont  could  not  deceive  him-th  into 
such  a  notion,  and  the  lady  had  te-tili'-d  her  di»likc  of  him 
in  ihe  strongest  terms,  accompanied  with  symptoms  which 
he  himself  had  described  as  in  lic.iling  some  rooted  and  con- 
cealed affliction:  coul;l  any  solution  be  more  natural  than 
what  Horatio  gives  ?  Novall  was  a  rival  so  contemptible, 
that  Charalois  could  not,  with  any  degree  of  probability, 
consider  him  as  an  object  ol'hisjealousy  ;  it  would  have  been 
a  degradation  of  his  character,  had  he  yielded  to  such  a  sus- 
picion :  Lothario,  on  the  contrary,  was  of  all  men  living  the 
most  to  be  apprehended  by  a  husband,  let  his  confidence  or 
vanity  be  ever  so  great.  Row*,  in  his  attempt  to  surprise, 
has  sacrificed  nature  and  the  truth  of  character  for  stage- 
elt'ect ;  Massinger,  by  preserving  both  nature  and  character, 
has  conducted  his  friends  through  an  angry  altercation  with 
infinitely  more  spirit,  more  pathos,  and  more  dramatic  effect, 
and  yet  dismissed  them  with  the  following  animated  and 
affecting  speech  trom  Charalois  to  his  friend  : 

" Thou  art  not  my  friend, 

Or  being  so,  thou  art  mad  :  I  must  not  buy 
Thy  friendship  at  this  rate.     Had  I  just  cause, 
'Ihou  know'st  I  durst  pursue  sucli  injury 
Through  lire,  air,  water,  earth,  nay,  were  they  all 
Shuffled  again  to  chaos ;  but  there's  none. 
Thy  skill,  Roinont,  consists  in  camps,  not  court). 
Farewell,  uncivil  man  !  let's  meet  no  more: 
Hire  our  long  web  of  friendship  I  untwist. 
Shall  I  go  whine,  walk  pale,  and  lock  my  wife, 
For  nothing,  from  her  birth's  free  liberty, 
That  open'd  mine  to  me  ?  yes ;  if  1  do, 
The  name  of  cuckold  then  dog  me  with  scorn  ! 
I  am  a.  Frenchman,  no  Italian  born."  [Exit. 

It  is  plain  that  Altamont  at  least  was  an  exception  to  this 
remaik  upon  Italian  husbands.  1  shall  pursue  this  compa- 
rison no  further,  nor  otter  any  other  remark  upon  the  inci- 
dent of  the  blow  given  by  Altamont,  except  with  regard  to 
Hor.itio's  conduct  upon  receiving  it;  he  draws  his  sword, 
and  Immediately  suspends  resentment  upon  the  following 
motive  : 

"  Yet  hold !   By  heav'n,  his  father's  in  his  face  ! 

Spite  i'f  my  wrongs,  my  heart  runs  o'er  with  tenderness, 
And  I  could  rather  die  myself  than  hurl  him." 
We  must  suppose  it  was  the  martial  attitude  th.it  Altamont 
had  put  himself  into,  which  brought  the  resemblance  of  his 
father  so  strongly  to  tne  observation  of  Horatio,  othe.  wise  it 
Was  a  very  unnatural  moment  to  recollect  it  in,  when  he 
had  just  received  the  deepest  insult  one  man  can  give  to 
another:  it  is  however  worth  a  remark  that  this  father  of 
Altamont  should  act  on  both  sides,  and  yet  miscarry  in  his 
medi  ition  ;  for  it  is  but  a  few  passages  before  that  Altamont 
lays  to  Horatio: 

"  Thou  wert  my  father's  friend  ;  he  lov'd  thee  well ; 
A  vi  neiable  mark  of  him 

Hangs  round  tUee,  and  protects  thee  from  my  vengeance. 
I  cannot,  dare  not,  lift  my  sword  against  thee." 
What  this  mark  was  is  left  to  conjecture;  but  it  is  plain  it 
was  as  seasonable  for  Horatio's  rescue  at  this  moment,  as  it 
was  for  Altamont  a  few  moments  after,  who  had  certainly 
overlooked  it  when  he  struck  the  very  friend  against  whom 
he  could  not,  dared  not,  lift  his  sword. 

When  Lavinia's  entrance  has  parted  Altamont  and  Ho- 
ratio, her  husband  complains  to  her  of  the  ingratitude  with 
which  he  has  been  treated,  and  says  : 

1  He,  u  ho  was  all  to  me,  child,  brother,  friend, 

With  barbarous  bloody  malice  sought  my  life." 
These  are  very  extraordinary  terms  for  a  man  like  Ho- 
ratio to  use,  and  seem  to  convey  a  charge  very  mint  for  him 
to  make,  and  of  a  very  different  nature  from  the  hasty  in- 
sult he  had  received  ;  in  fact  it  appears  as  if  the  blow  had 
totally  reversed  his  character,  for  the  resolution  he  takes  in 
consequence  of  this  personal  affront,  is  just  such  an  one  as 
would  be  only  taken  by  the  man  who  dared  not  to  re- 
lent it : 

"  From  Genoa,  from  falsehood  and  inconstancy, 
To  some  more  honest  distant  clime  we'll  go; 
Ncr  will  I  be  beholden  to  my  country 
For  aught  but  thee,  the  partner  of  my  flight." 
That  Horatio's  heroism  did  not  consist  in  the  ready  forgive- 
ness of  injuries,  is  evident  from  the  obstinate  sullenness  with 
which  he   rejects  the  penitent  apologies  of  Allamont  in  the 
*wther  progress  of  the  play ;  I  am  at  a  loss  therefore  to 


known  whnt  colour  the  poet  meant  to  give  his  character,- 
by  dispo-ing  him  to  quit  his  country  wiih  iU.-  insult  1111- 
atoncd  tor,  anil  the  additional  stigma  upon  him  of  run- 
ning awa>  from  his  appointment  with  Lothario  for  the  next 
morning  "  amongst  the  rocks."  Had  lie  meant  to  bring  him 
off  upon  the  lepugnance  he  felt  of  resenting  any  injury 
against  the  son  of  a  father,  whose  image  was  so  visible  "in 
his  face,"  that  his  "heart  ran  o'er  with  fondness  in  spite  of 
his  wrongs,  and  he  could  rather  <iie  than  hurt  him  ;"  surely 
that  image  would  have  interceded  no  less  powerfully  for 
him,  when,  penetrated  with  remorse,  he  intercedes  for  pity 
and  forgiveness,  and  even  faints  at  his  feet  with  agony  at  his 
unrelenting  obduracy  :  it  would  be  unfair  to  suppose  he  was 
more  like  his  father  when  he  had  dealt  him  an  insulting 
blow,  than  when  he  was  atoning  for  an  injury  by  the  most 
ample  satisfaction  and  submission. 

'J  his  is  Ihe  li'Jit  in  which  the  conduct  of  Horatio  strikes 
me;  if  I  am  wrong,  I  owe  an  atonement  to  the  manes  of 
an  elegant  poet,  which  upon  conviction  of  my  error,  1  will 
study  to  pay  in  the  fullest  manner  I  am  able. 

It  now  remains  only  to   say   a   few  words  upon  the  catas- 
tiophe,  in   which   the  author  varies  from   his   original,   by 
making  Calist.t  destroy  herself  with  a  dagger,  put  into  her 
hand    lor   that  purpose    by  her  father  :   If  I  am  to  moralize 
upon  this  proceeding  of  Sciolto,   I  know  lull  well  the  inci- 
dent  cannot    bear   up   against   it;    a    Rom. in   father   would 
stand  the  discussion  better  than  a  Chri.-tian  one  ;  and  I  also 
know  that   the    most   natural  expedient  is  unluckily  a  most 
undramatic  one;  yet  the   poet  did   not  totally  overlook  it, 
for  he  makes  Sciolto's  first  thought  turn  upon  a  convent,  if 
I  rightly  undei stand  the  following  passage  : 
"  Hence  from  my  sight!  thy  father  cannot  bear  thee  : 
Fly  with  thy  infamy  to  some  dark  cell, 
Where,  on  the  confines  of  eternal  night, 
Mourning,  misfortunes,  cares,  and  anguish  dwell; 
Where  ugly  shame  hides  her  opprobrious  head, 
And  death  and  hell  detested  rule  maintain  ; 
There  howl  out  the  remainder  of  thy  life, 
I  And  wish  thy  name  may  be  no  more  remember'd." 

!  Whilst  I  am  transcribing  these  lines  a  doubt  strikes  me  that 
|  I  have  misinterpreted  them,  and  jet  Calista's  answer  seems 
to  point  to  the  meaning  1  had  suggested  ;  perhaps  however 
they  are  mere  ravings  in  line  numbers  without  any  determi- 
nate idea:  whatever  they  may  be,  it  is  clear  they  do  not  go 
to  the  length  of  death:  he  tells  Altamont,  as  soon  as  she  it 
departed : 

" 1  wo'  n»t  kill  her; 

Yet  by  the  ruin  she  has  brought  upon  us, 
The  common  infamy  that  brands  us  both, 
She  sha"  not  'scape." 

He  seems  in  this  moment  to  have  formed  the  resolution, 
which  he  afterwards  puts  upon  execution;  he  prompts  her 
to  self-mnrder,  and  arms  her  for  the  act :  this  may  snve  the 
spectators  a  sight  too  shocking  to  behold,  but  does  it  convey 
less  horror  to  the  heart,  than  if  he  had  put  her  to  death  with 
his  own  hand?  a  father  killing  his  child  for  incontinence 
with  the  man  whom  he  had  not  permitted  to  marry  her, 
when  he  solicited  his  consent,  is  an  act  too  monstrous 
to  reflect  upon  :  is  that  father  less  a  monster,  who,  delibe- 
rately and  after  full  reflection,  puts  a  dagger  into  her  hand 
and  bids  her  commit  self-mnrder  !  1  should  humbly  con- 
ceive the  latter  act  a  degree  in  guilt  beyond  the  former ; 
especially  when  I  hear  that  father  coolly  demanding  of  his 
victim,  if  she  has  reflected  upon  what  may  happen  after 
death: 

"  Hast  thon  consider'd  what  may  happen  after  it  t 

How  thy  account  may  stand,  and  what  to  answer?" 
A  parent  surely  would  turn  that  question  upon  his  own  heart, 
before  he  precipitated  his  unprepared  child  to  so  awful  and 
uncertain  an   account:  rage  and  instant   revenge  may  find 
some  plea  ;  sudden   passion  may  transport  even  a  father  to 
lift  his   hand   against   his  own   offspring ;    but  this    act  ot 
Sciolto  has  no  shelter  but  in  heathen  authority: 
"  Tis  justly  thought,  and  worthy  of  that  spirit, 
That  dwelt  in  ancient  Latian  breasts,  when  Rome 
Was  mistress  of  the  world." 

Did  ever  poetry  beguile  z  man  into  such  an  allusion  ?  and 
to  what  does  that  piece  of  informal  ion  tend  "  that  Rome  wa» 
mistress  of  the  world  P  If  this  is  human  nature,  it  would 
almost  tempt  one  to  reply  in  Sciolto's  own  words: 

"  I  could  curse  nature." 

But  it  is  no  more  like  nature,  than  the  following  scntimenti 
of  Calista  are  like  the  sentiments  of  a  penitent,  or  a 
Christian  : 

"  That  I  must  die  it  is  my  only  comfort. 
Death  is  the  privilege  of  human  nature, 
And  life  without  it  were  not  worth  our  taking — " 
And  again, 

"  Yet  heav'n,  who  knows  our  weak  imperfect  natures, 
How  blind  with  passions,  and  how  prone  to  evil. 


546 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


Makes  not  too  strict  enquiry  for  offences, 

Bui  Uaton'd  by  penitence  and  prayer. 

I'hiap  recompense!  here  'twould  not  be  receiv'd ; 

Nothing  bill  blood  can  make  the  expiation." 
Snrh   is  thu  catastrophe  ot'  Rune's  Fair  Penitent,  such   is 
the  representation  lie  gives  us   of  human   nature,   and   such 
the  nn.r.d  of  his  tragedy. 

I  shall  conclude  with  an  extract  or  two  from  the  catastro- 
phe of  The  fatal  Dowry:  and  first  for  the  penitence  of 
heai.imclle,  1  shall  select  only  the  following  speech  ad- 
dressed to  her  husband  : 


I  dare  not  move  yon 


To  hear  me  speak.     1  kii'.w  my  fault  is  far 
Bcvond  qualification  or  excuse; 
That  'tis  not  lit  for  me  to  hope,  or  you 
To  think  of  mercy  ;  only  1  presume 
To  entreat  jon  would  be  pleased  to  look  upon 
My  rorrow  for  it,  and  believe  those  tears 
Are  the  true  children  of  my  grief,  and  not 
A  woman's  cunning." 

I  need  not  point  out  the  contrast  between  this  and  the 
quotations  from  Cali-la.  It  will  require  a  longer  extract  to 
br  111:  ilie  conduct  of  Rochfort  into  comparison  with  that  of 
Sciolto:  the  reader  will  observe  that  Novall's  dead  body  is 
now  on  ihe  scene  :  Charalois,  Beaumclle,  and  Kochfort  her 
father,  are  present.  The  charge  of  adultery  is  urged  by 
Charalois,  and  appeal  is  made  to  the  justice  of  Rochfort  in 
the  ca.-e: 

"  Koch.  What  answer  makes  the  prisoner? 

"  Bravmel.  }  confess 

The  fact  I  am  charged  with,  and  yield  myself 
Most  miserably  guilty. 

"  Koch.  Heaven  take  mercy 

Upon  yonr  soul,  then  !  it  must  leave  your  body. — 
— Since  that  the  politic  law  provides  that  servants, 
To  whose  rare  we  commit  our  goods,  :  hall  die 
If  they  abuse  our  trust,  what  can  you  look  for, 
To  wh<»e  charge  this  most  hopeful  lord  gave  up 
All  he  received  from  his  brave  ancestor.-, 
Or  he  could  leave  to  his  posterity, 
His  honour,  wicked  wonu:   !  in  whose  safety 
All  his  life's  joys  and  c»mforts  were  lock'd  up, 

Which  thy lust,  a  thief,  hath  now  stolen  from  him; 

And  therefore 

"  Charal.  Stay,  just  judge  ;— may  not  what's  lost 
By  her  one  fault  (for  I  am  charitable, 
And  charge  her  not  with  many)  be,  forgotten 
In  her  fair  life  hereafter  f 
_  "  Koch.  Never,  sir. 

The  wrong  that's  done  to  the  chaste  married  bed 
Hepentant  tears  can  never  evpiaie  ; 
And  be  assured,  to  pardon  such  a  sin 
Is  an  offence  as  great  as  to  commit  it." 

In  consequence  of  this  the  husband  strikes  her  dead  before 
her  father's  eyes  :  the  act  indeed  is  horrid;  even  Tragedy 
•liiinks  from  it;  and  nature  with  a  father's  voice  instantly 
cries  out—"  Is  she  dead  then  ?— and  you  have  kill'd  her*" 
-Uiaralois  avows  it,  and  pleads  his  sentence  for  the  deed; 
the  revolting  agonized  parent  breaks  forth  into  one  of  the 
most  p.ithetic,  natural,  and  expressive  lamentations,  that  the 
tnglish  drama  can  produce  : 

But  I  prononnced  it 

As  a  judge  only,  and  a  friend  to  justice; 
And,  zealous  in  defence  of  your  wrong'd  liououi, 
Broke  all  the  tit*  of  nature,  and  cast  off 
The  love  and  soft  affection  of  a  f.itber. 
1,  in  yonr  caose,  put  on  a  scarlet  robe 
Of  re  l-died  cruellj  ,  but,  in  return, 
I  ou  have  advanced  for  me  no  flag  of  mercy. 
1  look'd  on  yon  as  a  wrong'd  husband  ;  but 
You  closed  your  e>n  against  me  as  a  father. 
O  Keanmelle  I  my  daughter  I 
"  Charal.  This  is  madness. 
"  Itoch.  Keep  from  me !— Could  not  one  good  thought 

rise  up, 

To  tell  you  that  she  \rm  my  age's  comfort, 
Begot  by  a  weak  man,  and  born  a  woman, 
And  could  not,  therefore,  but  partake  of  frailly  T 
Or  wherefore  did  not  thankfulness  step  forth 
To  urge  my  ir.?.r,y  menu,  which  I  may 
Object  unto  yon,  since  yen  prove  ungrateful, 
Flint-hearted  Chaialois!— 

"  Chora'..  Nature  does  pevail 
Above  your  virtue." 

\Vhat  conclusions  can  I  draw  frcm  these  comparative  ex- 
n.iples,  which  every  reader  wou!<>  not  anticipate  (  Is  there 
i  man,  who  has  any  feeling  for  real  nature,  dramatic  charac-* 


ter,  moral  sentiment,  tragic  pathos,  or  nervous  diction,  who 
can  hesitate,  even  for  a  moment,  where  to  bestow  the  palm  7 
CUMBKRLANO.  Observer,  No*.  LXXVII.  LXXVIII. 
LXX1X. 

This  tine  Tragedy  has  obtained  more  attention  than  nsnal 
from  the  critics  ;  yet  less  has  been  said  of  its  direct,  than  its 
relative  merits;  and  The  Fatal  Dowry  has  been  chiefly 
studied  for  the  sake  of  a  comparison  with  The  Fair  J-eni- 
tent.  I  do  not  know  if  some  injury  has  not  been  done  to  it 
by  this  mode  of  treatment.  Under  the  influence  of  a  doubl" 
enquiry,  some  circumstances  have  been  passed  by  with  little 
or  no  notice ;  and  others,  perhaps,  have  been  unduly  m.i-ni 
fied.  The  question  has  been,  m.t  what  was  written  by  Mas- 
singtr,  bin  what  was  imitated  by  Rov/e.  While  both  the 
dramas  have  been  thus  considered  together,  the  scope  of  one 
of  them  has  not  been  exactly  denned  :  and  what  was  gained 
by  a  complication  of  design",  was  lost  to  simplicity  of  judg- 
ment. Indeed,  no  great  benefit  of  either  kind  can  be  de- 
rived from  the  brief  and  desultory  views  of  Mr.  M.  Ma.-on 
and  Mr.  Davies  :  but  the  reader  will  receive  both  pleasure 
and  instruction  from  the  comparison  of  Mr.  Cumberland. 

Not  to  have  a  strong  and  intimate  feeling  of  The  Fatal 
Dowry,  is  to  be  hardened  against  the  most  affecting  repre- 
sentation ot  virtue  goaded  by  injuries  to  an  unlawful  re- 
venge. The  sHory  is  strongly  and  ciicumstantially  unfolded, 
and  fixes  our  attention  to  its  progress  by  the  impression, 
which  it  generally  wears,  of  common  life.  The  language  too, 
is,  with  some  exceptions,  which  will  be  presently  noticed, 
the  language  of  nature  and  of  business.  The  characters  are 
drawn  with  a  profusion  of  force  and  variety.  Charalois  U 
placed  twice  before  the  seat  of  justice  :  and  Massinger  has 
had  the  address  to  preserve  an  extraordinary  interest  tor  him, 
whether  he  appears  as  a  suppliant  or  a  criminal.  He  unites 
many  rare  and  apparently  opposite  qualities.  His  severity 
and  reserve  are  happily  reconciled  with  the  tenderness  of 
his  filial  piety,  his  intrepidity  with  his  gentleness  of  temper, 
his  inflexible  firmness  with  his  melting  compassion.  He  is 
marked  with  the  gracefulness  as  well  as  the  force  of  virtue : 
nor  can  the  rash  act  of  which  he  is  guilty  compel  the  readei 
to  abandon  him,  though  it  .-hocks  our  feelings.  His  provo- 
cations secure  our  pity  ;  his  djing  acknowledgments  tend  to 
restore  our  esteem;  and,  in  bis  own  words,  there  is 

"  no  eye,  but  isieady  with  a  tear 

To  witness  'tis  shed  for  him " 

Romont  is  well  contrasted  with  him;  he  is  marked  with  all 
the  vehemence  of  honesty  ;  irritation  is  the  characteristic 
attendant  of  his  fidelity  ;  he  loses  his  own  temper  in  the  noble 
leal  of  preserving  the  innocence  of  others :  and  he  draws 
his  sword  upon  his  best  friend,  that  be  may  compel  him  to 
give  more  attention  to  his  security.  Pontalier  again  is  a 
variety  of  Romont,  though  of  an  inferior  cast.  He  carries 
his  friendship  to  crime,  and  murders  Charalois  to  show  hi* 
gratitude  to  Novall.  There  is  a  secret  link  which  binds 
these  characters  together.  They  wish  to  be  virtuous  ;  but, 
by  too  much  indulgence  of  passion  concerning  it,  they  fall 
into  imprudence  or  guilt.  On  the  other  hand,  the  fixed  qua- 
lity of  Kochfort  is  the  admiration  of  virtue.  On  this  is 
founded  the  condemnation  of  Beaumelle,  as  well  as  his  gene- 
rojily  to  Charalois.  Indeed  at  her  fall  he  melts  into  sudden 
tenderness  towards  her :  and  nothing  can  be  more  finely 
natural  than  his  grief  and  his  reproaches  of  Ihe  man  whom  he 
IOTCS.  But  after  this  burst  of  feeling,  he  returns  to  his 
settled  principle;  and  the  rash  but  much  injured  Charaloi« 
is  still  the  object  of  his  regard. 

Old  Novall  might  be  designed  only  as  an  enemy  to  the 
cause  of  Charalois,  and  as  a  contrast  to  Rochfort.  But  the  re- 
probalion  of  him  is  so  frequently  indulged,  and  with  such 
vehemence  and  accumulation  of  circumstances,  as  to  raise  a 
suspicion  that  a  portrait  was  intended.  His  hard  and  in- 
sulting disposition,  his  savage  abuse,  and  his  readiness  to 
"  cross  every  deserving  soldier  and  scholar,"  seem  to  allude 
to  Sir  Edward  Coke,  and  to  the  base  and  unfeeling  treat- 
ment of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  But  it  is  impossible  to  notice 
all  the  observable  parts  of  this  admirable  Tragedy.  I  will 
proceed  to  the  moral,  after  the  discussion  of  a  point  or  two 
with  Mr.  M.  Mason.  In  a  very  summary  manner  he  has 
pronounced  that  ihe  second,  third,  and  part  of  the  fourth  act, 
were  not  written  by  Massinger. 

There  is  an  apparent  change  of  writing  in  the  second  act ; 
and  Charalois  himself,  though  some  of  his  thoughts  and  ex- 
pressions are  excellent,  spoils  his  grief  with  too  much  fond- 
ness for  antithesis,  and  metaphors  coldly  and  formally  drawn 
out.  He  becomes  a  quibbler  too  as  he  proceeds,  and  doei 
not  express,  with  his  usual  frankness,  either  his  gratitude  01 
his  love.  The  business  is  also  unduly  hurried  on  (though 
Massinger  himself  is  strongly  marked  with  this  precipitation;; 
and  the  music  which  lately  played  at  the  funeral  of  the  mar- 
shal, i<  too  qnickly  called  upon  to  celebrate  the  marriage  of 
Cbaralo's.  But  in  the  third  -»ct  Ma»singer  seems  to  me  to  return. 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY. 


3*7 


The  proof  of  this  shall  not  rest  upon  the  general  style  of  it, 
for  that  would  not  so  effectually  determine  the  question,  but 
upon  the  similarity  of  tlmiu)  I:-  and  expressions  scattered 
throughout  his  other  plays.  In  the  very  first  scene,  Bella- 
pert  uses  a  significant  image  which  Antoninus  has  employed 
in  The  Ttrj/m  Martyr.  Romont  afterwards  observes,  that 
it  is  as  easy  to  "  prop  a  falling  tower,"  as  to  "  stay  a  wo- 
man" who  has  once  given  herself  to  viciousness :  and  this 
thought,  with  the  very  expression  of  it,  has  been  used  by 
Alathias  in  the  Pieture.  Charalois  infers  that  the  lion  is  not 
to  be  insulted  because  he  does  not  happen  to  be  angry:  and 
Thcodosius  has  lately  dwelt  with  some  enlargement  on  this 
very  instance.  Romont  hopes  that  his  discovery  of  Bean- 
melle's  infidelity  u ill  not  "meet  with  an  ill  construction," 
and  uses  perhaps  the  most  common  phrase  of  Massinger.  He 
remarks  too  that  women  have  "  no  cunning  to  gull  the 
world  ;" — a  method  of  affirmation  frequent  with  Massinger. 
Shall  I  add  more  proof?  Rochfort  says  to  Beanmelle,  "  1 
have  that  confidence  in  your  goodness,  t" — a  reduplication 
which  cannot  be  missed  by  any  reader  of  these  plays.  Yet 
the  language  of  Rochfort  himself  is  adduced  by  Mr.  M.  Ma- 
ton,  to  prove  that  this  act  was  not  written  by  Massinger. 
Rochfort  utters  scarcely  more  than  twenty  lines  in  the  whole 
act ;  and  from  thai  small  portion  the  above  is  one  instance 
to  Ibe  contrary  of  the  assertion.  It  would  De  superfluous  to 
lay  more,  though  similar  incidents  might  also  be  produced. 


I  shall  only  draw  the  proper  conclusion :  if  this  Play  was 
written  at  the  early  tince  sujf-csert  by  Mr.  Malone,  Mas- 
singer  must  either  have  male  it.  a  storehouse  from  which  to 
draw  incidents  and  images  for  his  future  plays,  a  supposi- 
tion not  very  probable,  or  he  must  have  consented  to  adopt 
for  ever  the  thoughts  of  Field  in  preference  to  his  own:  a 
supposition  still  less  probable.  Again, — if  it  was  written  in 
the  order  in  which  it  is  now  printed,  Field  would  hardly 
have  been  allowed  to  plunder  him  of  his  most  famili.ir 
thoughts  by  way  of  assisting  him.  In  either  case  the  third 
act  must  be  given  to  Malinger.  Field  is  welcome  to  the 
first  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  if  that  is  the  part  claimed  for 
him  by  Mr.  M.  Mason. 

I  pass,  with  pleasure,  from  this  uninteresting  enquiry  to  a 
great  moral,  which,  after  all  the  discussion  bestowed  upon 
this  Play,  is  as  yet  fresh  and  untouched. 

Charalois  slew  an  offending  wife,  and  the  partner  of  her 
crime,  with  his  own  hand,  and  washimself  slain.  Vengeance 
belongs  to  heaven ;  and  by  the  divine  will,  the  administra- 
tion of  it  for  moral  purposes  is  vested  in  the  laws.  To 
avenge  our  own  cause  is  to  despise  the  scat  of  justice,  and 
the  order  of  providence ;  and  to  involve  ourselves  in  guilt 
and  the  punishment  of  it.  Virtue  must  employ  only  vir- 
tuous means  in  the  coercion  of  vice  itself.  Her  injuries  wirl 
therefore  wait  upon  the  laws  ;  for  in  the  very  forms  of  jus- 
tice there  is  virtue.  DR.  IRKLANO> 


NEW    WAY    TO    PAY    OLD    DEBTS. 

A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS.]  This  "  COMEDY"  does  not  appear  in  Sir  Henry  Herbert's  boot ; 
it  must  however,  have  been  produced  on  the  stage  before  1633*,  in  which  year  it  was  printed  for  Henry 
Seyle.  The  author  of  the  Companion  to  the  Playhouse  terms  it  "  one  of  the  best  of  the  old  comedies,"  and, 
in  his  opinion,  "  the  very  best  of  Massinger's  writing."  It  is,  indeed,  a  most  admirable  piece  ;  but  while 
The  City  Madam,  and  two  or  three  others  of  this  writer's  comedies  remain,  it  will  not,  I  think,  be  universally 
placed  at  the  bead  of  the  list. 

This  play  is  preceded  by  two  short  commendatory  poems,  by  Sir  Thomas  Jay,  and  Sir  Henry  Moody  ; 
the  former  of  which  must  have  been  peculiarly  gratifying  to  Massinger,  as  Sir  Thomas  was  no  flatterer 

The  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts  was  extremely  well  received  on  its  first  appearance,  and,  as  the  quarto 
informs  us,  "  often  acted  at  the  Phoenix  in  Drurie  Lane."  It  has  been  revived  at  different  periods  with 
considerable  success,  and  still  holds  a  distinguished  place  on  the  stage. 


THE    RIGHT    HONOURABLE 


ROBERT  EARL  OF  CARNARVON, 

MASTER  FALCONER  OF  ENGLAND. 

MY  GOOD  LORD, 

Pardon,  I  beseech  you,  my  boldness,  in  presuming  to  shelter  this  Comedy  under  the  wings  of  your  lord- 
ship's favour  and  protection.  I  am  not  ignorant  (having  never  yet  deserved  you  in  my  service)  that  it 
cannot  but  meet  with  a  severe  construction,  if,  in  the  clemency  of  your  noble  disposition,  you  fashion  not  a 
better  defence  for  me,  than  I  can  fancy  for  myself.  All  I  can  allege  is,  that  divers  Italian  princes,  and 
lords  of  eminent  rank  in  England,  have  not  disdained  to  receive  and  read  poems  of  this  nature  ;  nor  am  I 
wholly  lost  in  my  hopes,  but  that  your  honour  (who  have  ever  expressed  yourself  a  favourer  and  friend  to 
the  Muses)  may  vouchsafe,  in  your  gracious  acceptance  of  this  trifle,  to  give  me  encouragement  to  pie.-?fiit 
you  with  some  laboured  work,  and  of  a  higher  strain,  hereafter.  I  was  born  a  devoted  servant  to  the 
thrice  noble  family  of  your  incomparable  ladyf,  and  am  most  ambitious,  but  with  a  becoming  distance,  to 
be  known  to  your  lordship,  which,  if  you  please  to  admit,  I  shall  embrace  it  as  a  bounty,  that  while  I  live 
shall  oblige  me  to  acknowledge  you  for  my  noble  patron,  and  profess  myself  to  be, 

Your  honour's  true  servant, 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 
Lord  LOVELL.  ORDER,  steward 


Sir  GILES  OVERREACH,  a  cruel  extortioner. 
FRANK   WELLBORV,  a  prodigal. 
TOM  AI.LWORTH,   a  young  gentleman,  page  to  Lard 

Lovell. 

GREEDY,  a  hungry  justice  of  peace. 
MARRALL,  a  term-driver;  a  creature   of   Sir    Giles 

Overreach. 
WILLDO,  a  parson. 


tUJMB|    AlCU/UfU  -. 

IBLE,  usher  I . 

RNACE,    COok  f 

HTCIIALL,  porter  J 


Aw 

FUR> 

WATCHALL.pO 

Creditors,  Servants,  $c. 

Lady  ALLWORTH,<J  rich  widow. 
MARGARET,  Overreach's  daughter. 
FROTH,  Tap  well's  wife. 


TAP  WELL,  an  ale-house  keeper.  Chambermaid. 

rvaitingwoman. 

SCENE,  the  Country  near  Nottingham. 

•  There  are  several  allusions  to  a  state  of  war  in  it ;  and  peace  had  been  made  with  France  and  Spain  in  1029. 
t  Anna  Sophia,  daughter  of  Plul.p  Larl  of  Pembroke  and  Montgomery,  and  wife  of  Robert  Dormer   Earl  of  Caru.i  vcm 
who  was  slain  at  Newbury,  fighting  for  his  king,  20th  September,  1643.    MALONS. 


SCENE  I.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


340 


ACT  I 


SCENE.  I.— Before  Tapwell's  House. 


Enter  WELLBORN  in  tattered  apparel,  TAPWELL  and 
FROTH. 

Well.  No  bouse  ?  nor  no  tobacco  ? 

Tap.  Not  a  suck,  sir ; 
Nor  the  remainder  of  a  single  can 
Left  by  a  drunken  porter,  all  night  pall'd  too. 

Froth.  Not  the  dropping  of  the  tap  for  your  morn- 
ing's draught,  sir : 
"Tis  verity,  I  assure  you. 

Well.  Verity,  you  brache*  ! 
The  devil  turn'd  precisian  !  Rogue,  what  am  I  ? 

Tap.  Troth,  durst  I  trust   you  with   a  looking- 
glass, 

To  let  you  see  your  trim  shape,  you  would  quit  me 
And  take  the  name  yourself. 

Well.  How,  dog  ! 

Trip.  Even  so,  sir. 

And  I  must  tell  you,  if  you  but  advance 
Your  Plymouth  cloakf,  you  shall  be  soon  instructed 
There  dwells,  and  within  call,  if  it  please  your  wor- 
ship, 

A  potent  monarch  call'd  a  constable. 
That  does  command  a  citadel  call'd  the  stocks  ; 
Whose  guards  are  certain  files  of  rustyj  billmen, 
Such  as  with  great  dexterity  will  haul 
Your  tattered,  lousy 

Well.  Rascal!   Slave! 

Froth.  .No  rage,  sir. 

Tap.  At  his  own  peril :  do  not  put  yourself 
In  too  much  heat,  there  being  no  water  near 
To  quench  your  thirst ;  and,  sure,  for  other  liquor, 
As  mighty  ale,  or  beer,  they  are  things,  I  take  it, 
You  must  no  more  remember  ;  not  in  a  dream,  sir. 

Welt.  Why  thou   unthankful  villain,  dar'st  thou 

talk  thus! 
Is  not  thy  house,  and  all  thou  hast,  my  gift? 

Tap.  I  find  it  not  in  chalk;  and  Timothy  Tapwell 
Does  keep  no  other  register.  . 

Well.  Am  not  I  he 

Whose  riots  fed  and  clothed  thee !  wert  thou  not 
Born  on  my  father's  land,  and  proud  to  be 
A  drudge  in  his  house  ? 

Tap.  What  I  was,  sir,  it  skills  not; 


•   Well.     Verity,  you  bracbe ! 

The  devil  turn'd  precisian  !]  Bracks  is  a  hunting  term  for 
a  female  hound.  A  precisian  is  a  puritan  ;  a  very  general 
object  of  dislike  in  those  times. 

t  And  1  must  tell  you,  (f  you  but  advance 

Your  Plymouth  cloak,]  Coxeter,  ignorant  of  the  meaning 
of  this  expression,  boldly  changed  it  to  pile-worn  cloak  !  and 
so  it  stands  in  liis  and  Mr.  M.  Mason's  precious  editions; 
though  why  Tapwell  should  be  so  irritated  by  the  advancing 
of  a  pile-worn  cloak,  neither  of  the  gentlemen  has  thought 
fit  to  explain,  \\lien  A\  ellborn  exclaims,  "How,  dog!" 
he  raises  his  cudyel  to  heat  Tapwell,  who  threatens  him,  in 
his  turn,  with  a  constable,  &c.,  if  he  presumes  to  strike  him  ; 
this  is  the  purport  of  the  passage.  That  a  staff  was  an- 
ciently called  a  Plymouth  cloak  may  be  proved  by  many 
instances;  but  the  two  following  will  be  sufficient: 
"  Whose  cloak,  at  Plymouth  spun,  was  crab-tree  wood." 
DAVENANT,  Fol.  p.  229. 

"  Do  you  hear,  frailty  ?  shall  I  walk  in  a  Plymouth  cloak, 
that  is  to  say,  like  a  rogue,  in  my  hose  and  doublet,  and  a 
crab-tree  cudyel  in  my  hand?"  The  Honest  If'hore. 

J  Whose  guards  are  certain  filet  of  rusty  billmen,]  Cox- 
eter and  Mr.  M.  Mason  have — lusty  billmeu :  the  old  read- 
tug  is  mrely  more  humorous. 


What  you  are,  is  apparent:  now,  for  a  farewell, 
Since  you  talk  of  father,  in  my  hope  it  will  torment 

you, 

I'll  briefly  tell  your  story.     Your  dead  father, 
My  quondam  mas'er,  was  a  man  of  worship, 
Old  Sir  John  Wellborn,  justice  of  pe;ice  and  quorum, 
And  stood  fair  to  be  custos  rotulorum  ; 
Bore  the  whole  sway  of  the  shire,  kept  a  great  house, 
Relieved  the  poor,  and  so  forth  ;  but  he  dying, 
And  the  twelve  hundred  a  year  coming  to  you, 
Late  master  Francis,  but  now  forlorn  Wellborn 

Well.   Slave,  stop!  or  I  shall  lose  myself. 

Forth.  Very  hardly  ; 
You  cannot  out*  of  your  way. 

Tap.  But  to  mv  story: 

You  were  then  a  lord  of  acres,  the  prime  gallant, 
And  I  your  under  butler ;  note  the  change  now  : 
You  had  a  merry  time  oft;  hawks  and  hounds, 
With  choice  of  running  horses  :  mistresses 
Of  all  sorts  and  all  sizes,  yet  so  hot, 
As  their  embraces  made  your  lordships  melt; 
Which  your  uncle,  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  observing 
(Resolving not  to  lose  a  drop  of  them), 
On  foolish  mortgages,  statutes,  and  bonds, 
For  a  while  supplied  your  looseness,  and  then  left 
you. 

Well.  Some   curate   hath  penn'd   this  invective, 

mongrel, 
And  you  have  studied  it. 

Tap.  I  have  not  done  yet : 

Your  land  gone,  and  your  credit  not  worth  a  tokenf, 
You  grew  the  common  borrower  ;  no  man  scaped 
Your  piiper-pellets,  from  ihe  gentleman 
To  the  beggars  on  highways,  that  sold  you  Switches 
In  your  gallantry. 

Weil.  I  shall  switch  your  brains  out. 

Tap.    WhereJ  poor   Tim   Tapwell,  with  a  little 

stock, 

Some  forty  pounds  or  so,  bought  a  small  cottage ; 
Humbled  myself  to  marriage  with  my  Froth  here, 
Gave  entertainment 

II  ell.  Yes,  to  whores  and  cautersj, 
Clubbers  by  night. 

Tap.  True,  but  they  brought  in  profit, 
And  had  a  gift  to  pay  for  what  they  called  for; 
And   stuck  not  like  your  mastership.     The  poor 

income 
I  glean 'd  from  them  hath  made  me  in  my  parish 

*  You  cannot  out  ef  your  way.]    The  modern  editors  mis 
understanding    this   simple    phrase,   have   been   pleased  to 
adapt  it  to  ttieir  own  conceptions ;  they  read, 
You  cannot  be  out  of  your  way  I 

+  Your  land  gone,  and  your  credit  not  worth  a  token,] 
"  During  the  reign  of  Queen  Eliz.ibcth,  ;md  from  thence 
forward  to  that  of  Charles  the  Second,  very  little  brass  or 
copper  money  was  coined  by  authority.  For  the  convenience 
of  the  public,  therefore,  tradesmen  were  permitted  to  coin 
small  money,  or  tokens,  as  they  were  called,  which  were 
used  tor  change."  Old  Plays,  Vol.  III.  p.  2C7.  These 
little  pieces  are  mentioned  by  most  of  our  old  writers ;  their 
value  is  not  ascertained,  but  seems  to  have  been  about  a 
faithint;. 

I  \V  here  poor  Tim  Tapwell,  &c.]  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M. 
Mason  read,  When  poor  Tim  Tapwell,  &c.  but  the  quarto 
is  right.  U  here  stands  for  whereas,  as  it  frequently  does  in 
our  ancient  writers. 

§ canters,]  i.  e.  Rogues,  sturdy  beg- 
gars, &c. 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[  ACT  I. 


Thought  worthy  to  be  scavenger,  and  in  time 
May  rise  to  be  overseer  of  the  poor  ; 
Which  if  I  do,  on  your  petition,  Wellborn, 
I  may  allow  you  thirteen-pence  a  quarter, 
And  you  shall  thank  my  worship. 

Well.  Thus,  you  dog-bolt, 
And  thus [Beats  and  kicks  him. 

Tap.  Cry  out  for  help  ! 

Well.    Stir,  and  thou  diest  : 

Your  potent  prince,  the  constable,  shall  not  save  you. 
Hear  me,  ungrateful  hell-hound  !  did  not  I 
JVlake  purses  for  you  ?  then  you  lick'd  my  boots, 
And  thought  your  holiday  cloak  too  coarse  to  clean 

them. 

Twas  I  that,  when  I  heard  thee  swear  if  ever 
Thou  coulrist  arrive  at  forty  pounds,  thou  wouldst 
Live  like  an  emperor ;  'twas  I  that  gave  it 
Jn  ready  gold.     Deny  this,  wretch  ! 

Tap.  1  must,  sir  ; 

For,  from  the  tavern  to  the  taphouse,  all, 
On  forfeiture  of  their  licenses,  stand  bound 
Ne'er  to  remember  who  their  best  guests  were, 
If  they  grow  poor  like  you. 

Well.  They  are  well  rewarded 
That  beggar  themselves    to    make   such   cuckolds 

rich. 

Thou  viper,  thankless  viper !  impudent  bawd  ! — 
But  since  you  are  forgetful,  I  will  help 
Your  memory,  and  tread  thee  into  mortar ; 
Not  leave  one  bone  unbroken.         [Beats  him  again. 

Tap.  Oh! 

Froth.  Ask  mercy. 

Enter  ALLWOHTH. 

Well.  Twill  not  be  granted. 

All.  Hold,  for  my  sake  hold. 
Deny  me,  Frank  !  they  are  not  worth  your  anger. 

Well.  For  once  thou   hast  redeem'd  them   from 

this  sceptre* ; 

But  let  them  vanish,  creeping  on  their  knees, 
And,  if  they  grumble,  I  revoke  my  pardon. 

Froth.  This  comes  of  your  prating,  husband ;   you 

presumed 
On   your  ambling   wit,    and  must   use  your  glib 

tongue, 
Though  you  are  beaten  lame  for't. 

Tap.  Patience,  Froth  ; 
There's  law  to  cure  our  bruises. 

[They  go  off  on  their  hands  and  knees. 

Well.  Sent  to  your  motherf  ? 

All.  My  lady,  Frank,  my  patroness,  my  all ! 
She's  such  a  mourner  for  my  father's  death, 
And,  in  her  love  to  him,  so  favours  me, 
That  I  cannot  pay  too  much  observance  to  her: 
There  are  few  such  stepdames. 

Well.  'Tis  a  noble  widow, 
And  keeps  her  reputation  pure,  and  clear 
From  the  least  taint  of  infamy  ;  her  life, 
With  the  splendour  of  her  actions,  leaves  no  tongue 
To  envy  or  detraction.     Prithee  tell  me, 
Has  she  no  suitors? 

•  Well.  For  once  thou  hast  redeem'd  them  from  this 
iceptre;]  The  old  copy  has  a  marginal  explanation  here;  it 
•ays,  "  his  cudyel,"  i.  e.  the  Plymouth  cloak  mentioned  in  a 
former  page. 

t  Well.  Sent  to  your  mother  ?}  If  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Ma- 
ion  had  but  patience  to  have  read  a  little  further,  they  would 
have  seen  that  Allworth  wai  dispatched  on  his  present  er- 
rand by  Lord  Lovell ;  and  might  then  have  suffered  the 
text  tos  land  as  Maasingcr  left  it.  They  inaccurately  read: 
Well.  Sent  for  to  your  mother  I 


All.  Even  the  best  of  the  t.liire,  Frank, 
My  lord  excepted  ;  such  as  sue  and  send, 
And  send  and  sue  again,  but  to  no  purpose  ; 
Their  frequent  visits  have  not  gain'd  her  presence. 
Yet  she's  so  far  from  sullenness  and  pride, 
That  I  dare  undertake  you  shall  meet  from  her 
A  liberal  entertainment  :   I  can  give  you 
A  catalogue  of  her  suitors'  names. 

Well.  Forbear  it, 

While  I  give  you  good  counsel :  I  am  bound  to  it. 
Thy  father  was  my  friend  ;  and  that  affection 
I  bore  to  him,  in  right  descends  to  thee  ; 
Thou  art  a  handsome  and  a  hopeful  youth, 
Nor  will  I  have  thj  least  affront  stick  on  thee, 
If  I  with  any  danger  can  prevent  it. 

All.  I    thank  your   noble   care ;  but,  pray   you, 

in  what 
Do  I  run  the  hazard  1 

Well.  Art  thou  not  in  love? 
Put  it  not  off  with  wonder. 
All.  In  love,  at  my  years  ! 
Well.  You   think  you    walk   in   clouds,  but  are 

transparent*. 

I  have  heard  all,  and  the  choice  that  you  have  made  : 
And,  with  my  finger,  cun  point  out  the  north  star 
By  which  the  loadstone  of  your  folly's  guided ; 
And,  to  confirm  this  true,  what  think  you  of 
Fair  Margaret,  the  only  child  and  heir 
Of    Cormorant    Overreach  ?      Does  itf  blush   and 

start, 

To  hear  her  only  named  ?  blush  at  your  wnnt 
Of  wit  and  reason. 

All.  You  are  too  bitter.  SIT. 

Well.  Wounds  of  this  nature  are  not  to  be  cured 
With  balms,  but  corrosives.     I  must  be  plain  : 
Art  thou  scarce  manumised  from  the  porter's  lodge|, 
And  yet  sworn  servant  to  the  pantofle. 
And  dar'st  thou  dream  of  marriage  ?  I  fear 
'Twill  be  concluded  for  impossible, 
That  there  is  now,  or  e'er  shall  he  hereafter, 
A  handsome  page,  or  player's  boy  of  fourteen, 
But  either  loves  a  wench,  or  drabs  love  him  ; 
Court-waiters  not  exempted. 

All.  This  is  madness. 
Howe'er  you  have  discover'd  my  intents, 
You  know  my  aims  are  lawful ;  and  if  ever 
The  queen  of  flowers,  the  glory  of  the  spring, 
The  sweetest  comfort  to  our  smell,  the  rose, 
Sprang  from  an  envious  briar,  I  may  infer 
There's  such  disparity  in  their  conditions, 
Between  the  goddess  of  my  soul,  the  daughter, 
And  the  base  churl  her  father. 

Well.  Grant  this  true, 
As  I  believe  it,  canst  thou  ever  hope 
To  enjoy  a  quiet  bed  with  her,  whose  father 
Kuin'd  thy  state  ? 
All.  And  your's  too. 

*  You  think  you  walk  in  clouds,  but  are  transparent.]  The 
old  reading  was, 

You  think  you  walk  in  clouds,  but  are  transient, 
Which  certainly  was  an  error  of  the  press.—  Cox  KTEB  and 
M.  MASON. 

So  say  the  former  editors  ;  the  truth,  however,  is,  that 
the  old  reading  is  trans-rent,  and  the  ominion  of  pa  was 
solely  occasioned  by  a  break  in  the  line.  It  is  pleasant  to  see 
Mr.  M.  Mason  vouch  for  the  reading  of  a  c.  py  into  which 
he  never  condescended  to  look,  and  of  the  exigence  of  which 
it  is  for  his  credit  to  suppose  him  altogether  ignorant- 

+  Does  it  blush  and  start,}  So  the  quarto ;  the  modern 
editors  poorly  read — Host  blush,  &e. 

J  Art  thou  scarce  manumised  from  the  porter's  lodge,} 
The  first  decree  of  servitude,  as  1  have  already  observed. 


SCENE  II.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


S5J 


Well.  I  confess  it*. 

True  ;   I  must  tell  you  as  a  friend,  and  freely, 
That,  where  impossibilities  are  apparent, 
'Tis  indiscretion  to  nourish  hopes. 
Canst  thou  imagine  (let  not  self-love  blind  thee) 
That  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  that,  to  make  her  great 
In  swelling  titles,  without  touch  of  conscience, 
Will  cut  his  neighbour's  throat,  and  I  hope  his  own 

too, 

Will  e'er   consent  to  make  her  thine?     Give  o'er, 
And  think  of  some  course  suitable  to  thy  rank, 
And  prosper  in  it. 

All.  You  have  well  advised  me. 
But,  in  the  mean  time,  you,  that  are  so  studious 
Of  my  affairs,  wholly  neglect  your  own  : 
Remember  yourself,  and  in  what  plight  you  are. 

Well.  No  matter,  no  matter. 

All.  Yes,  'tis  much  material : 

You  know  my  fortune,  and  my  means ;  yet  some- 
thing 
I  can  spare  from  myself  to  help  your  wants. 

Well.  How's  this? 

All.  Nay,  be  not  angry;  there's  eight  pieces, 
To  put  you  in  better  fashion. 

Well.  Money  from  thee ! 
From  a  boy !  a  stipendiary  !  one  that  lives 
At  the  devotion  of  a  stepmother, 
And  the  uncertain  favour  of  a  lord  ! 
I'll  eat  my  arms  first.     Howsoe'er  blind  Fortune 
Hath  spent  the  utmost  of  her  malice  on  me : 
Though   I  am  vomited  out  of  an  alehouse, 
And  thus  accoutred  ;  know  not  where  to  eat, 
Or  drink,  or  sleep,  but  underneath  this  canopy; 
Although  I  thank  thee,  I  despise  thy  offer ; 
And  as  I,  in  my  madness,  broke  my  state, 
Without  the  assistance  of  another's  brain, 
In  my  right  wits  I'll  piece  it ;  at  the  worst, 
Die  thus,  and  be  forgotten. 

All.  A  strange,  humour  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  Lady  Allworth's  House. 
Enter  ORDER,  AMBLE,  FURNACE,  and  WATCHALL. 

Ord.  Set  all  things  right,  or,  as  my  name  is  Order, 
And  by  this  staff  of  office,  that  commands  you, 
This  chain  and  double  ruff,  symbols  of  power, 
Whoever  misses  in  his  function, 
For  one  whole  week  makes  forfeiture  of  his  break- 
fast 
And  privilege  in  the  wine-cellar. 

Amb.  You  are  merry, 
Good  master  steward. 

Furn.  Let  him  ;  I'll  be  angry. 

Amb.  Why,  fellow  Furnace, 'tis  not  twelve  o'clock 

yet, 

Nor  dinner  taking  up  ;  then  'tis  allow'd 
Cooks,  by  their  places,  may  be  choleric. 

Furn.  You  think  you  have  spoke  wisely,  good- 
man  Amble, 
My  lady's  go-before ! 

Ord.  Nay,  nay,  no  wrangling. 

Furn.  Twit  me  with  tlie  authority  of  the  kitchen  ! 
At  all  hours,  and  all  places,  I'll  be  angry  ; 

•  Well,  /confess  it. 

True,  I  mutt,  &c.|    So  the  old  copy.     Coxeter  and  Mr. 
Ji..  Mason,  that  they  may  spoil  tlie  metre  of  two  lines,  read, 

Well,  /confetti  it  true, 
/  must,  &c. 


And  thus  provoked,  when  I  am  at  my  prayers 
1  will  be  angry. 

Amb.  There  was  no  hurt  meant. 

Fur  a.  1  am  friends  with  thee,  and  yet  I  will  be 
angry. 

Ord.  With  whom? 

Furn.  No  matter  whom :  yet,  now  I  think  on  it, 
t  am  angry  with  my  lady. 

W*tck.  Heaven  forbid,  man  ! 

Ord.  What  cause  has  she  given  thee? 

Furn.  Cause  enough,  master  steward. 
I  was  entertained  by  her  to  please  her  palate, 
And,  till  she  forswore  eating,  I  perform 'd  it. 
Now,  since  our  master,  noble  Allworth,  died, 
Though   I  crack   my  brains  to    find  out  tempting 

sauces, 

And  raise  fortifications*  in  the  pastry, 
Such   as   might  serve    for    models    in    the    Low 

Countries  ; 

Which,  if  they  had  been  practised  at  Breda, 
Spinola  might  have  thrown  his  cap  at  it,  and  ne'er 
took  it 

Amb.  But  you  had  wanted  matter  there  to  work  on. 

Furn.  M alter  !  with  six  eggs,  and  a  strike  of  rye 

meal, 
I  had  kept  the  town  till  doomsday,  perhaps  longer. 

Ord.   But  what's  this  to  your  pet  against  my  lady? 

Furn.  What's  this  ?  marry,  this;  when  I  am  three 

paits  roasted, 

And  tlie  fourth  part  parboil'd,  to  prepare  her  viands, 
She  keeps  her  chamber,  dines  with  a  panada, 
Or  water  gruel,  my  sweat  never  thought  on. 

Ord.  But  your  art  is  seen  in  the  dining-room. 

Furn.  By  whom  ? 

By  such  as  pretend  to  love  her  ;  but  come 
To  feed  upon  her.     Yet,  of  all  the  harpies 
That  do  devour  her,  1  am  out  of  charity 
With  none  so  much  as  the  thin-gutted  squire 
That's  stolen  into  commission. 

Ord.  Justice  Greedy  ? 

Furn.  The  same,  the  same  ;  meat's  cast  away  upon 

him, 

It  never  thrives  ;  he  holds  this  paradox, 
Who  eats  not  well,  can  ne'er  do  justice  well : 
His  stomach's  as  insatiate  as  th«  grave, 
Or  strumpets'  ravenous  appetites. 

[Knocking  within. 

Watch.  One  knocks.  [Exit. 

Ord.  Our  lute  young  master  ! 

Re-tnter  WATCHAI.L  with  ALLWOHTH. 
Amb.  Welcome,  sir. 


•  And  raise  fortifications  in  the  pastry, 
II  hick,  if  they  had  been  practised  at  Breda, 
•Vpinola,  &c.]  This  was  one  of  the  must  celebrated  sieges 
of  llie  lime,  and  is  frequently  mentioned  by  onr  old  dra- 
matics. Spiuola  sat  down  before  Breda  on  the  with  of 
August,  102-1,  and  the  town  diil  not  surrender  until  the  1st 
of  July  in  the  following  year.  The  besieged  guttered  incre- 
dible hardships  :  "  butter,"  says  the  historian,  Herman  Hugo, 
"  was  sold  for  six  florins  a  pound ;  a  calf  of  17  days  old,  for 
forty-eight;  a  hog,  for  one  hundred  and  fifteen;  and  tobacco, 
for  one  hundred  florins  the  Ib. ;"  this  was  after  they  had 
c.  nsiiined  most  of  the  horses.  A  few  days  alter,  the  narra- 
tor adds,  that  "  as  much  tobacco  as  in  olher  plates  might 
have  been  had  for  ten  florins,  was  sold  in  Breda  for  twelve 
hundred  .'"  It  appears  that  this  tobacco  was  used  as  "phy- 
sic, it  being  the  only  remedy  they  had  against  the  scurvy." 

The  raising  of  fortifications  in  pastry  seems  to  have 
been  a  fashionable  practice,  since  I  scarcely  recollect  the 
details  of  any  great  entertainment  in  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth 
and  James,  whtre  the  fortifications  of  ths  cook  or  the  eon- 
fectioner  are  not  duly  commemorated. 


352 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[Acrl 


Furn.  Your  hand; 
If  you  have  a  stomach,  a  cold  bake-meat's  ready. 

Ord.  His  father's  picture  in  little. 

Furn.  We  are  all  your  servants. 

Amb.  In  you  he  lives. 

All.  At  once,  my  thanks  to  all ; 
This  is  yet  some  comfort.     Is  my  lady  stirring  ? 

Enter  Lady  ALLWORTH,   Waiting  Woman,  and 
Chambermaid. 

Ord.  Her  presence  answers  for  us. 

L.  Alt.  Sort  those  silks  well. 
I'll  take  the  air  alone. 

[Exeunt  Waiting  Woman  and  Chambermaid. 

Furn.  You  air  and  air  ; 

But  will  you  never  taste  but  spoon-meat  more  ? 
To  what  use  serve  1  ? 

L.  Alt.   Prithee,  be  not  angry  ; 
/  shall  ere  long; ;  i'the  mean  time,  there  is  gold 
To  buy  thee  aprons,  and  a  summer  suit. 

Furn.  I  am  appeased,    and   Furnace   now  grows 
cool*. 

L.  Alt.  And  as  I  gave  directions,  if  this  morning 
1  am  visited  by  any,  entertain  them 
As  heretofore  ;  but  say,  in  my  excuse, 
I  am  indisposed. 

Ord.  I  shall,  madam. 

L.  All.  Do,  and  leave  me. 
Nay,  siay  you,  Allworth. 

[Exeunt  Order,  Amble,  Furnace,  and  Watchatl. 

All.  I  shall  gladly  grow  here, 
To  wait  on  your  commands. 

L.  All.  So  soon  turn'd  courtier! 

All.  Style   not  that  courtship,   madam,  which  is 

duty 
Purchased  on  your  part. 

L.  All.  Well,  you  shall  o'ercome; 
I'll  not  contend  in  words.     How  is  it  with 
Your  noble  master  ? 

All.  Ever  like  himself: 

No  scruple  lessen'd  in  the  full  weight  of  honour  : 
He  did  command  me,  pardon  my  presumption, 
As  his  unworthy  deputy,  to  kiss 
Your  ladyship's  fair  hands. 

L.AIL  I  am  honour'd  in 
His  favour  to  me.     Does  he  hold  his  purpose 
For  the  Low  Countries? 

All.  Constantly,  good  madam  ; 
But  he  will  in  person  first  present  his  service. 

L.  All.  And  how  approve  you  of  his  course?  you 

are  yet 

Like  virgin  parchment,  capable  of  any 
Inscription,  vicious  or  honourable. 
I  will  not  force  your  will,  but  leave  you  free 
To  your  own  election. 

AIL  Any  form,  you  please, 
J  will  put  on  ;  but,  might  I  make  my  choice, 
With  humble  emulation  I  would  follow 
The  path  my  lord  marks  to  me. 

L.  All.  'Tis  well  answer'd, 
And  I  commend  your  spirit :  you  had  a  father, 
Bless'd  be  his  memory  !  that  some  tew  hours 
Before  the  will  of  heaven  took  him  from  me, 
vVho  did  commend  you,  by  the  dearest  ties 
Of  perfect  love  between  us,  to  my  charge  ; 
And,  therefore,  what  I  speak  you  are  bound  to  hear 
With  such  repect  as  if  he  lived  in  me. 

*  /  am  appeased,  and  Furnace  now  grows  cool.]  Old  Copy. 
Coo/te  ;  auii-mltd  by  Coxeter. 


He  was  my  husband,  and  howe'er  you  are  not 
Son  of  mv  womb,  you  mav  be  of  my  love, 
Provided  you  deserve  it. 

All.  I  have  found  you, 

Most  honour'd  madam,  the  best  mother  to  me; 
And,  with  my  utmost  strengths  of  care  and  service, 
Will  labour  that  you  never  mav  repent 
Ycur  bounties  shower'd  upon  me. 

L.All.  1  much  hope  it. 

These  were  jour  father's  words  :   ]f  e'er  my  son 
Follow  the  war,  tell  him  it  is  a  school 
Where  all  the  principles  tending  to  honour 
Are  taught,  if  truly fotlo&'d  :  but  for  such 
As  repair  thither,  as  a  place  in  which 
They  do  presume  they  may  with  licence  practise 
Their  lusts  and  ijots.  ihey  shnll  necer  merit 
The  noble  name  of  soldiers.     To  dare  boldly 
In  a  fair  cause,  and,  for  their  country's  safety, 
To  run  upon  the  cannon's  moulh  undaunted  ; 
To  obey  their  leaders,  and  shun  mutinies  ; 
To  bear  with  patience  the  winter's  cold, 
And  summer's  scorching  heat,  and  no:  to  faint, 
When  plcntij  of  provision  fails   with  hunger; 
Are  the  essential  parts  make  np  a  soldier, 
Nut  swearing,  dice,  or  drinking. 

All.  There's  no  syllable 
You  speak,  but  is  to  mean  oracle, 
Which  but  to  doubt  were  impious. 

L.  Alt.  To  conclude  : 
Beware  ill  company,  for  often  men 
Are  like  to  those  with  whom  they  do  converse; 
And,  from  one  man  I  warn  you,  and   that's  Well* 

born  : 

Not  'cause  he's  poor,  that  rather  claims  your  pity ; 
But  that  he's  in  his  manners  so  debauch'd, 
And  hath  to  vicious  courses  sold  himself. 
'Tis  true  your  father  loved  him,  while  he  was 
Worthy  the  loving  ;  but  if  he  had  lived 
To  have  seen  him  as  he  is,  he  had  cast  him  off, 
As  you  must  do. 

Alt.  I  shall  obey  in  all  things. 

L.  Alt.  Follow  me  to  my  chamber  you  shall  have 

gold 

To  furnish  you  like  my  son,  and  still  supplied, 
As  I  hear  from  you. 

All.  I  am  still  your  creature.  [Eirunt. 


SCENE  III.— A  Hall  in  the  same. 

Enter  OVERREACH,  GREEDY,  ORDER,  AMBLE, 
FURNACE,  WATCHALL,  and  MARRALL. 

Greedy.  Not  to  be  seen ! 

Over.  Still  cloister'd  up !     Her  reason, 
I  hope,  assures  her,  though  she  make  herself 
Close  prisoner  ever  for  her  husband's  loss, 
'Twill  not  recover  him. 

Ord.  Sir,  it  is  her  will, 

Which  we,  that  are  her  servants,  ought  to  serve, 
And  not  dispute  ;  howe'er,  you  are  nobly  welcome, 
And  if  you  please  to  stay,  that  you  may  think  so, 
There  came,  not  six  days  since,  from  Hull,  a  pipe 
Of  rich  Canary,  which  shall  spend  itself 
For  my  lady's  honour. 

Greedy.  Is  it  of  the  right  race? 

Ord.  Yes,  master  Greedy. 

Amb.  How  his  mouth  runs  o'er ! 

Furn.  I'll  make  it  run,  and  run.    Save  your  good 
worship ! 


8-CEXE 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  FAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


Greedy.  Honest  master  cook,  thy  band ;  again  : 

how  I  love  thee  ! 
Are  the  good  dishes  still  in  being?  speak,  boy. 

Fwn.lt  you  have  a  mind  to  feed,  there    is  a 

chine 
Of  beef,  well  seasoned. 

Greedy.  Good  ! 

Furn.   A  pheasant,  larded. 

Greedy.  That  I  might  now  give  thanks  for't ! 

Furn.  Other  kickshaws. 
Besides,  there  came  last  night,  from  the  forest  of 

Sherwood, 
The  fattest  stag  I  ever  cook'd. 

Greedy    A  stag,  man  ! 

Fnrn.  A  stag,  sir ;  part  of  it  prepared  for  dinner, 
And  baked  in  putt-paste. 

Greedy.  Puff-paste  too  !  Sir  Giles, 
A  ponderous  chine  of  beef!  a  pheasant  larded  ! 
And  red  deer  too,   Sir  Giles,    and  baked  in  puff- 
paste  ! 
All  business  set  aside,  let  us  give  thanks  here. 

Furn.  How  the  lean  skeleton's  rapt! 

Over.  You  know  we  cannot. 

Mar.  Your  worships  are  to  sit  on  a  commission, 
And  if  you  fail  to  come,  you  lose  the  cause. 

Greedy.  Cause  me  no  causes.     I'll   prove't,   for 

such  a  dinner, 

We  may  put  off  a  commission  :  you  shall  find  it 
Hen;  id  decimo  quart<>. 

Oter.  Fie,  master  Greedy  ! 

Will  you  lose  me  a  thousand  pounds  for  a  dinner? 
No  more,  for  shame  !  we  must  forget  the  belly 
\\  hen  we  think  of  profit. 

Greedy.   Well,  you  shall  o'er-rule  me  ; 
I  could  e'en  cry  now.     \)o  you  hear,  master  cook, 
Send  but  a  corner  of  that  immortal  pasty, 
And  I,  in  thankfulness,  will,  by  your  boy 
Send  you — a  brace  of  three-pences. 

Furn.  Will  you  be  so  prodigal  ? 

Enter  WELLBORN. 

Over.  Remember  me  to  your  lady.     Who  Lave 
we  here? 

Well.  You  knovr  me*, 

Over.  1  did  once,  but  now  I  will  not ; 
Tbou  art  no  blood  of  mine.     Avaunt,  thou  beggar  ! 
If  ever  thou  presume  to  own  me  more, 
I'll  have  thee  caged,  and  whipt. 

Greedy.  I'll  grant  the  warrant. 
Think  of  pie-corner.  Furnace! 

[Exeunt  Orerreuch,  Greedy,  aid  Msirall. 

Walch.  Will  you  out,  sir? 
(  wonder  how  you  durst  creep  in. 

Ord.  This  is  rudeness, 
And  saucy  impudence. 

Amb.  Cannot  you  stay 

To  be  served,  among  your  fellows,  from  the  basketf, 
But  you  must  press  into  the  hall ! 

Furn.   Prithee,  vanish 


*  Well.  You  know  me]  For  ihis  dignified  answer  the 
modern  editors,  with  equal  elegance  and  harmony,  read — 
Don't  you  know  me  f 

t  To  be  sfrred,  among  your  fellows,  from  the  basket,!  i.  e. 
from  tlie  broken  bread  and  meat  which,  in  great  houses, 
was  distributed  to  the  poor  at  the  porter's  lodge,  or  reserved 
to  be  carried  every  night  lo  the  prisons  for  debtors  and 
r-t\er  neoe«.*itou3  persons.  Hence,  perhaps,  ihe  allusion  of 
•  •nble.  Thus  Shirley:  "I'll  have  you  clapt  up  again,  where 
/(in  shall  howl  all  d.iy  at  the  grate,  for  a  meal  at  uij;ht/rom 
Ihe  baiket."  Bird  in  a  Cage. 


Into  some  outhouse,  though  it  be  the  pigstie  ; 
My  scullion  shall  come  to  thee. 

Enter  ALIAVORTH. 

Well.  This  is  rare  : 
Oh,  here's  Tom  Allworth.     Tom  ! 

All.  We  must  be  strangers  ; 
Nor  would  I  have  you  seen  here  for  a  million.  [Exit. 

We'd.  Better  and  better.     H  e  contemns  me  too  ! 

Enter  Waiting  Woman  and  Chambermaid. 
Woman.  Foh,  what  a  smell's  here !  what  thing's 

this? 

Cham.  A  creature 
Made  out  of  the  privy ;  let  us   hence,   for   love's 

sake, 
Or  I  shall  swoon. 

Woman.  I  begin  to  faint  already. 

[Eieunt  Waiting  Woman  and  Chambermaid. 
Watch.  Will  you  know  your  way  ? 
Amb.  Or  shall  we  teach  it  you 
By  the  head  and  shoulders? 

'Well.  No;  I  will  not  stir; 
Do  you  mark,  I  will  not  :  let  me  see  the  wretch 
That  dares  attempt  to  force  me.     Why,  you  slaves, 
Created  only  to  make  legs,  and  cringe  ; 
To  carry  in  a  dish,  and  shift  a  trencher; 
That  have  not  souls  only  to  hope  a  blessing 
Beyond  blackjacks  or  flagons;  you,  that  were  born 
Only  to  consume  meat  and  drink,  and  batten 
Upon  reversions? — who  advances?  who 
Shows  me  the  way  ? 

Ord.   My  lady  I 

Enter  Lady  ALLWORTH,    Waiting    Woman,   and 
Chambermaid. 

Cham.  Here's  the  monster. 

Woman.  Sweet  madam,  keep  your  glove  to  your 
nose. 

Cham.  Or  let  me 

Fetch  some  perfumes  may  be  predominant ; 
You  wrong  yourself  elj-e. 

Well.  Madam,  my  designs 
Bear  me  to  you. 

L.  All.  Tome! 

Well.  And  though  I  have  met  with 
But  ragged  entertainment  from  your  grooms  here, 
I  hope  from  you  to  receive  that  noble  usage 
As  may  become  the  true  friend  of  your  husband, 
And  then  1  shall  forget  these. 

L.  All.  I  am  amazed 

To  see,  and  hear  this  rudeness.     Darest  thou  think, 
Though  sworn,  that  it  can  ever  find  belief. 
That  I,  who  to  the  best  men  of  this  country 
Denied  my  presence,  since  my  husband's  death, 
Can  fall  so  low,  as  to  change  words  with  thee? 
Thou  son  of  infamy,  forbear  my  house, 
And  know,  and  keep  the  distance  that's  between  us 
Or.  though  it  be  against  my  gentler  temper, 
1  shall  take  jrder  you  no  more  shall  be 
An  eyesore  to  me. 

\\'eU.  Scorn  me  not,  good  lady; 
But,  as  in  form  you  are  angelical, 
Imitate  the  heavenly  natures,  and  vouchsafe 
At  the  least  awhile  to  hear  me.     You  will  grant 
The  blood  that  runs  in  this  arm  is  as  noble 
As  that  which  fills  your  veins;  those  costly  jewel?. 
And  those  rich  clothes  you  wear,  your  men's  ob- 
servance, 

And  women's  flattery,  are  in  you  no  virtues ; 
Xor  these  rags,  with  my  poverty,  in  me  vices. 


A  NEW  WAY  10  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


You  have  a  fair  fame,  and,  I  know,  deserve  it ; 
Yet,  lady,  I  must  say,  in  nothing  more 
Than  in  the  pious  sorrow  you  have  shown 
For  your  late  noble  husbuud. 
Ord.   How  she  starts  ! 

Furn.  And  hanily  can  keep  finger  from  the  eye, 
To  hear  him  named. 

L.  AIL  Have  you  aught  else  to  say  ? 

Well    That  husband,    madam,  was    once  in  his 

fortune 

Almost  as  low  as  I ;  want,  debts,  and  quarrels 
Lay  heavy  on  him  :  let  it  not  be  thought 
A  boast  in  me,  though  I  sny,  I  relieved  him. 
Twas  I  that  gave  him  fashion  ;  mine  the  sword 
That  did  on  all  occasions  second  his ; 
I  brought  him  on  and  off,  with  honour,  lady  ; 
And  when  in  all  men's  judgments  he  was  sunk, 
And  in  his  own  hopes  not  to  be  buoy'd  up*, 
I  stepp'd  unto  him,  took  him  by  the  hand, 
And  set  him  upright. 

Funt.  Are  not  we  base  rogues 
That  could  forget  this? 

Well.   1  confess,  you  made  him 
Master  of  your  estate  ;  nor  could  your  friends, 
Though  lie  brought  no  wealth  with  him,  blame  you 

for  it  ; 

For  he  had  a  shape,  and  to  that  shape  a  mind 
Made  up  of  all  parts,  either  great  or  noble  ; 


So  winning  a  behaviour,  not  to  be 
Resisted,  madam. 

L.  All.  'Tis  most  true,  he  had. 

Well.  For  his  sake,  then,  in  that  1  was  bis  friend, 
Do  not  contemn  me. 

L.  All.  For  what's  past  excuse  me, 
I  will  redeem  it.     Order,  give  the  gentleman 
A  hundred  pounds. 

Well.  No,  madam,  on  no  terms  : 
I  will  nor  beg  nor  borrow  sixpence  of  you, 
But  be  supplied  elsewhere,  or  want  thus  ever. 
Only  one  suit  I  make,  which  you  deny  not 
To  strangers  ;  and  'tis  this.  [Whispers  taker 

L.  AIL.   Kie!  nothing  else? 

Well.  Nothing,  unless  you  please  to  charge  your 

servants, 
To  throw  away  a  little  respect  upon  me. 

L.  Ail.  What  you  demand  is  yours.  [Exit. 

Well.  I  thank  you,  lady. 

Now  what  can  be  wrought  out  of  such  a  suit 
Is  yet  in  supposition  :  1  have  said  all; 
When  you  please,  you  may  retire  : — nay,  all's  for- 
gotten ; 

And,  for  a  lucky  omen  to  my  project, 
Shake  hands,  and  end  all  quarrels  in  the  cellar. 

Ord.  Agreed,  agreed. 

Furn.  Still  merry  master  Wellborn.  [Exeunt, 


ACT  II. 


•CCENE  T. — A  Itoom  >n  Overreach's  Haute. 
Eitier  OVERREACH  and  MARRALL. 

Over.  He's   gone,  I  warrant  thee ;  this  commis- 
sion crush 'd  him. 

Mar.  Your   worships!    have  the  way   on't,  and 

ne'er  miss 

To  squeeze  these  unthrifts  into  air  :  and  yet 
The  chapfall'n  justice  did  his  part,  returning, 
For  your  advantage,  the  certificate, 
Against  his  conscience,  and  his  knowledge  too, 
With  your  good  favour,  to  the  utter  ruin 
Of  the  poor  farmer. 

Oner.  'Twas  for  these  good  ends 
I  made  him  a  justice  :  he  that  bribes  his  belly 
Is  certain  to  command  his  soul. 

Mar.  I  wonder, 

Still  with  your  license,  why,  your  worship  having 
The  power  to  put  this  thin-gut  in  commission, 
You  are  not  in'l  yourself? 

Over.  Thou  art  a  fool  ; 
In  being  out  of  office  I  am  out  of  danger; 
Where,  if  I  were  a  justice,  besides  the  trouble, 
I  might  or  out  of  wilfulness,  or  error, 
Hun  myself  finely  into  a  premunire. 
And  s.o  become  a  prey  to  the  informer. 


*  not  to  be  buoy'd  np,l  So 

Dodsley,  ami  perhaps  rightly :  the  qiMito  reads,  buny'd  up. 

t  Mar.  Your  worships  have  the  way  on't,  and  ne'er  miss] 
This  I  take  to  be  the  genuine  reading,  for  the  quarto  is  boih 
incorrect  aii'l  nnjjrammatical  here.  The  former  editors 
real,  Your  worship  hat,  &.,  as  ii  a  compliment  were  in- 
•ended  to  Overreach;  but  Overreach  was  not  in  the  com- 
a'-st inn,  which  is  here  said  to  have  the  way  on't. 


No,  I'll  have  none  oft ;  'tis  enough  I  keeo 
Greedy  at  my  devotion  :  so  he  serve 
My  purposes,  let  him  hang,  or  damn,  I  care  not ; 
Friendship  is  but  a  word. 

Mar.   You  are  all  wisdom. 

Over.  I  would  be   worldly  wise;  for  the  other 

wisdom, 

That  does  prescribe  us  a  well-govern'd  life, 
And  to  do  right  to  others,  as  ourselves, 
I  value  not  an  atom. 

Mar.  What  course  take  you, 
With  your  good  patience,  to  hedge  in  the  manor 
Of  your  neighbour,  master  Frugal?  as  'tis  said 
He  will  nor  sell,  nor  borrow,  nor  exchange  ; 
And    his   land    lying   in  the   midst  of   your  many 

lordships 
Is  a  foul  blemish. 

Over.  I  have  thought  on't,  Marrall, 
And  it  shall  take.     1  must  have  all  men  sellers, 
And  I  the  only  purchaser. 

Mar.  'Tis  most  fit,  sir. 

Over.  I'll   therefore   buy   some  cottage  near  his 
manor*, 

•  Over.  I'll  therefore  buy  some,  cottage  near  his  manor 
&c.]  Sir  Giles  is  a  bold  and  daring  oppressor,  sufficiently 
original  in  his  general  plans,  and  not  scrupulous  of  the 
means  employed  in  their  execution.  Here,  however,  he  ii 
but  an  imitator;  the  methods  of  wresting  a  defenceless 
neighbom-'scnvied  property  from  him  have  been  understood, 
and  practised,  by  the  Overreaches  of  iill  agep,  from  ihat  of 
Ahab  to  the  present. — Licet  ayros  ayris  adjiciat,  says  Seneca, 
vicinum  vel  pretio  ptllat  eeris,  vel  injuria.  And  Jnvend, 
more  at  large : 

majiirqitr  vidrtur, 

Et  melior  vicina  Sfgrs  ;  mmarii  e.l  ham ,  et 
Arbusta,  et  di'nta  inonfem  qui  c.umt  diva. 
Quorum  si  pretio  dominia  iitm  vinci/ur  ullo. 


SCENE  I.] 


A  NEW    WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


355 


Which  done,  I'll  make  my  men  break  ope  his  fences, 
Ride  o'er  his  standing  corn,  and  in  the  night 
Set  fire  on  his  barns,  or  break  his  cattle's  legs : 
These  trespasses  draw  on  suits,  and  suits  expenses, 
Which  I  can  spare,  but  will  soon  beggar  him. 
When  I  have  harried  him  thus  two  or  three  year, 
Though  he  sue  in  forma  pauper  is,  in  spite 
Of  all  his  thrift  and  care,  he'll  grow  behind  hand. 

Mar.  The  best  I  ever  heard  :   I  could  adore  you. 

Over,  Then,  with  the  favour  of  my  man  of  law, 
I  will  petend  some  title :  want  will  force  him 
To  put  it  to  arbitrement  ;  then,  if  he  sell 
For  half  the  value,  he  shall  have  ready  money, 
And  I  possess  his  land. 

Mar.  'Tis  above  wonder  ! 
Wellborn  was  apt  to  sell,  and  needed  not 
These  fine  arts,  sir,  to  hook  him  in. 

Ocer.   Well  thought  on. 


Node  bove-i  macri,  lassoque  famtlica  colla 
Jumenta  ad  virides  hujus  mittentur  aristas. 
Dicere  v'uc  possis,  quam  mulii  talia  plerent, 
Et  quot  venales  injuria  fecerit  ayros. 

Sat.  xiv.  ver.  142. 

Sir  Giles  has  been  usually  accounted  the  creature  of  the 
poet.  Fortunately  for  mankind,  indeed,  such  monstrous 
anomalies  in  the  moral  world  do  not  often  appear ;  there 
can,  however,  be  no  doubt  of  their  reality,  and  the  age  of 
Massinger  was  not  without  a  proof  of  it. 

Sir  Giles  Moinpesson  was  undoubtedly  the  prototype  of 
Sir  Giles  Overreach.  Me  and  one  Michel  had  obtained  of 
the  facile  James  a  patent  for  the  sole  manufacturing  of  gold 
and  silver  thread,  which  they  abused  to  the  most  detestable 
purposes.  "  They  found  out,"  says  Wilson,  "a  new  alche- 
mistical  way  to  make  gold  and  silver  lace  with  ropper  and 
other  sophistical  materials,  to  cozen  and  deceive  the  people. 
And  so  poysonous  were  the  drugs  that  made  up  this  deceit- 
ful composition,  that  they  rotttd  the  hands  and  arms,  and 
brought  lameness  upon  those  that  wrought  it ;  some  losing 
their  ejcs,  and  many  their  lives,  by  the  venom  of  the  vapours 
that  came  from  it." 

The  clamours  were  so  great  on  this  occasion,  that  the  king 
was  obliged  to  call  in  the  patent,  and  prosecute  the  offend- 
ers. There  is  an  allusion  to  these  circumstances  in  The 
Bondman,  which  was  published  while  the  affair  was  yet 
recent : 

Here's  another, 

Observe  but  what  a  cozeniny  look  he  has ! — 

Hold  up  thy  head,  man;  if,  for  drawing  gallants 

Into  mortgages  for  commodities,  cheating  heirs 

With    your  new   counterfeit  gold  thread,  and  gumm'd 

velvets, 

He  does  not  transcend  all  that  went  before  hint, 
Call  in  hit  patent :"  Act  II.  sc.  iii. 

But  to  proceed:  "Sir  Giles  Moinpesson  had  fortune 
enough  in  the  country  to  make  him  happy,  if  that  sphere 
could  have  contained  him,  but  the  vulgar  and  universal 
error  of  satiety  with  present  enjoyments,  made  him  too  big 
for  a  rustic-all  condition,  and  when  he  came  at  court  he  was 
too  little  for  that,  so  that  some  novelty  must  be  taken  up  to 
set  him  in  rcquilibrio  to  the  place  he  was  in,  no  matter 
what  it  was,  let  it  be  never  so  pestilent  and  mischievous  to 
others,  lie  cared  not,  so  he  found  benefit  by  it.  To  him 
Michel  is  m.ide  compartner;  a  poor  sneaking  justice,  that 
lived  among  the  brothels  near  Clarton-wel,  whose  clerk  and 
lie  picked  a  livelyhood  out  of  those  corners,  giving  warrants 
for  what  chey  did,  besides  anniversary  stipends  (the  frequent 
revenue  of  some  justices  of  those  times)  for  conniving. 
This  thing  was  a  poysonous  plant  in  its  own  nuture,  and  the 
fitter  to  be  an  ingredient  to  such  a  composition— whereby 
he  took  liberty  to  be  more  ravenous  upon  poor  people,  to 
the  grating  of  the  bone?,  and  sucking  out  the  very  marrow 
of  their  substance."  Wilson's  Life  and  Rciyn  of  Jamet  1. 
sub  anno  1621.  Fol.  155. 

From  this  apposite  extract,  which  I  owe  to  the  kindness 
of  my  ingenious  friend  Mr.  Gilchrist,  it  will  be  sufficiently 
apparent  not  only  from  whence  Massinger  derived  his 
principal  character,  but  also  where  he  found  Marrall  and 
Greedy.  The  sneaking  justice.  Michel,  undoubtedly  sat 
for  the  latter, and  his  clerk  for  the  "  term-driving"  Marrall; 
whose  hopeful  education  will  now  enable  the  reader  to 
"cconnt  for  his  l-nowledge  of  the  "  minerals  which  he  in- 
•wirviiaied  wilh  he  ink  and  wax"  of  Wellborn's  bond. 


This  rarlet,  Marrall*,  lives  too  long  to  upbraid  me 
With  my  close  cheat  put  upon  him.     Will  nor  cold, 
Nor  hunger  kill  him? 

Mar.  I  know  not  what  to  think  on't. 
I  have  used  all  means  ;  and  the  last  night  I  caused 
His  host  the  tapster  to  turn  him  out  of  doors  ; 
And    have    been   since  with   all  your   friends    and 

tenants, 

And,  on  the  forfeit  of  your  favour,  charged  them, 
Though    a  crust   of  mouldy  bread  would  keep  him 

from  starving, 
Yet  they  should  not  relieve  him.     This  is  done,  sir. 

Over.  That    was   something,   Marrall  ;  but   thou 

must  go  further, 
And  suddenly,  Marrall. 

Mar.  Where,  and  when  you  please,  sir. 

Over.  I  would   have  thee  seek  him   out,  and   if 

thou  canst, 

Persuade  him  that  'tis  better  steal  than  beg  ; 
'1  hen,  if  I  prove  he  has  but  robb'd  a  henroost, 
Not  all  the  world  shall  save  him  from  the  gallows. 
Do  any  thing  to  work  him  to  despair, 
And  'tis  thy  masterpiece. 

Mar.  I  will  do  my  best,  sir. 

Over.  I  am  now  on  my  main  work  with  the  lord 

Lovell, 

The  gallant-minded,  popular  lord  Lovell, 
The  minion  of  the  people's  love.     I  hear 
He's  come  into  the  country,  and  my  aims  are 
To  insinuate  myself  into  his  knowledge, 
And  then  invite  him  to  my  house. 

Mar.  I  have  you  : 
This  points  at  my  young  mistress. 

Over.  She  must  part  wrcii 
That  humble  title,  and  write  honourable, 
Right   honourable,   Marrall,   my  right    honourable 

daughter ; 

If  all  1  have,  or  e'er  shall  get,  will  do  it  ! 
I'll  have  her  well  attended  ;  there  are  ladies 
Of  errant  knights  decav'd,  and  brought  so  low, 
That  for  cast  clothes  and  meat  will  gladly  serve  her. 
And  'tis  my  glory,  though  I  come  from  the  city, 
To  have  their  issue  whom  I  have  undone 
To  kneel  to  mine  as  bondslaves. 

Mar.  'Tis  fit  state,  sir. 

Over.  And  therefore,    I'll  not  have  a  chamber- 
maid 

That  ties  her  shoes,  or  any  meaner  office, 
But  such  whose  fathers  were  right  worshipful. 
'Tis  a  rich  man's  pride  !  there  having  ever  been 
More  than  a  feud,  a  strange  antipathy, 
Between  us  and  true  gentry. 

Enter  WELLBORN. 

Mar.  See,  who's  here,  sir. 

Over.  Hence,  monster  !  prodigy  ! 

Well.  Sir,  your  wife's  nephew*; 
She  and  my  father  tumbled  in  one  belly. 

Over.  Avoid    my  sight !    thy  breath's  infectious, 

rogue ! 
I  shun  thee  as  a  leprosy,  or  the  plague. 


•  Thin  varlft,  Marrall,  liee*  too  long,}  So  the  old  copy. 
The  modern  editors,  for  no  apparent  cau-e,  at  least  none 
that  I  can  discover,  choose  to  read,  This  varlet,  Wellborn, 
lives  too  long ! 

t  Well.  Sir,  your  wife's  nephew  ;]  Coxeter  thinks  some- 
thing is  lost,  because,  when  Overreach  exclaims  monster! 
prodiyy!  Wellborn  replies,  .Sir,  your  wife'*  nephew.  But 
all  is  as  it  should  be;  his  answer  evidently  implies,  Sir,  I 
ain  neither  one  nor  the  other,  but,  &c.  This  is  a  common 
form  of  speech. 


56 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[Acrll 


Come  hither,    Marrall— this   is    the  time   to  work 
him.  {.Exit- 

Mar.  I  warrant  you,  sir. 

Well.  By  this  light,  I  think  he's  mad. 

Mar.  Mad !  had  you  ta'en  compassion  on  your- 
self, 
You  long  since  had  been  mad. 

Well-  You  have  ta'en  a  course 
Between  you  and  my  venerable  uncle, 
To  make  me  so. 

Mar.  The  more  pale-spirited*  you, 
That  would  not  be  instructed.    I  swear  deeply 

Well.   By  what? 

Mar.  By  my  religion. 

Well.   Thy  religion ! 
The  devil's  creed  ! — but  what  would  yoa  have  done? 

Mar.  Had  there  been  but  one  tree  in  all  the  shire, 
Nor  any  hope  to  compass  a  penny  halter, 
Before,  like  you,  1  had  outlived  my  fortunes, 
A  withe  had  served  my  turn  to  hang  myself. 
I  am  zealous  in  your  cause  ;  pray  you  hang  yourselff, 
And  presently ,'as  you  love  your  credit. 

Well.  I  thank  you. 

Mar.   Will  you  stay  till  you  die  in  a  ditch,  or 

lice  devour  you  ? 

Or,  if  you  dare  not  do  the  feat  yourself, 
But  that  you'll  put  the  state  to  charge  and  trouble, 
Is  there  no  purse  to  be  cut,  house  to  be  broken, 
Or  market-woman  with  eggs,  that  you  may  murder, 
And  so  dispatch  the  business  ? 

Well.  Here's  variety, 
I  must  confess ;  but  I'll  accept  of  none 
Of  all  your  gentle  offers,  I  assure  you. 

Mar.  Why,  have  you  hope  ever  to  eat  again, 
Or  drink  ?  or  be  the  master  of  three  farthings  ? 
If  you  like  not  hanging,  drown  yourself;  take  some 

course 
For  your  reputation. 

Well.  'Twill  not  do,  dear  tempter, 
With  all  the  rhetoric  the  fiend  hath  taught  you. 
I  am  as  far  as  thou  art  from  despair ; 
Nay,  I  have  confidence,  which  is  more  than  hope, 
To  live,  and  suddenly,  better  than  ever. 

Mar.  Ha !  ha !  these  castles  you  build  in  the  air 
Will  not  persuade  me  or  to  give  or  lend 
A  token  to  you. 

Well.  I'll  be  more  kind  to  thee  : 
Come,  thou  shalt  dine  with  me. 

Mar.  With  you ! 

Welt.  Nay  more,  dine  gratis. 

Mar.  Under  what  hedge,  I  pray  you?  or  at  whose 

cost  ? 

Are  they  padders,    or  abram-men$,  that  are  your 
consorts  ? 

•  Mar.  The  more  pale-spirited  you.]  Surely  this  is  very 
good  sense;  and  yet  the  modern  editors  choose  to  read, 
Thf  more  dull-spirited  you.  I  tm  weary  of  these  everlasting 
lophiMicalions,  without  judgment,  and  without  necessity. 

Since  this  was  written,  I  have  found  the  same  expression 
in  The  Parliament  of  Lone. 

"  To  what  purpose, 

Poor  and  pale-tpirited  man,  should  I  expect 
Prom  thee  the  satisfaction ,"&c.  Act  II.  Sc.  2. 

So  that  the  old  reading  is  established  beyond  the  possibility 
of  a  doubt. 

t  1  am  zealous  in  your  cause  ;  pray  you,  hang  yourtelf, 
And  presently,}  This  line  is  wholly  omitted  both  by  Cox- 
eter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason,  though   the  sense  of  the  next  de- 
pends upon  it.     Less  cure  to  amend  their  author,  and  more 
to  exhibit  him  faithfully,  might  be  wished  in  both  of  them. 

I  Are  they  padders,  or  abram-men,  that  are  your  con- 
torts?} An  abram-man  was  an  impudent  impostor,  who, 
under  the  garb  and  appearance  of  a  lunatic,  rambled  about 


Well.  Thou  art  incredulous  ;  but  thou  shall  dine 
Not  alone  at  her  house,  but  with  a  gallant  lady; 
With  me,  and  with  a  lady. 

Mar.  Lady!  what  lady? 

With  the  lady  of  the  lake*,  or  queen  of  fairies  ? 
For  I  know  it  must  be  an  enchanted  dinner. 

Well.   With  the  lady  Allworth,  knave. 

Mar.  Nay,  now  there's  hope 
Thy  brain  is  crack'd. 

Weil.  Mark  there  with  what  respect 
I  am  entertain'd. 

Mar.  With  choice,  no  doubt,  of  dog-whips. 
Why,  dost  thou  ever  hope  to  pass  her  porter  ? 

Well.  Tis  not  far  off,  go  with  me ;  trust  thine 
own  eyes. 

Mar.  Troth,  in  my  hope,  or  my  assurance  rather, 
To    see   thee   curvet,   and  mount  like  a  dog  in  a 

blanket, 

If  ever  thou  presume  to  pass  her  threshold, 
I  will  endure  thy  company. 

Well.  Come  along  then.  I  Exeunt 


SCEXE  II.— A  Room  in  Lady  Allworth's  House. 

Enter  AlXWOBTB,   Waiting  Woman,  Chambermaid 
ORDER,  AMBLE,  FURNACE,  and  WATCHALL. 

Woman.  Could  you  not  command  your  leisure  one 
hour  longer? 

Cham.  Or  half  an  hour? 

All.  I  have  told  you  what  my  haste  is  : 
Besides,  being  now  another's,  not  mine  own, 
Howe'er  I  much  desire  to  enjoy  you  longer, 
My  duty  suffers,  if,  to  please  myself, 
I  should  neglect  my  lord. 

Woman.  Pray  you  do  me  the  favour 
To  put  these  few  quince-cakes  into  your  pocket 
They  are  of  mine  own  preserving. 

Cham.  And  this  marmalade  ; 
'Tis  comfortable  for  your  stomach. 

Woman.  And,  at  parting, 
Excuse  me  if  I  beg  a  farewell  from  you. 

Cham.  You  are  still  before  me.    I  move  the  same 
suit,  sir.  [Allicortk  kisses  them  severally. 

Fur.  How   greedy  these  chamberers    are  of   a 

beardless  chin  ! 
I  think  the  tits  will  ravish  him. 

All.  My  service 
To  both. 

Woman.  Ours  waits*  on  you. 

Cham.  And  shall  do  ever. 

Ord.  You   are  my  lady's    charge,   be  therefore 

careful 
That  you  sustain  your  parts. 

Woman.  We  can  bear,  1  warrant  you. 

[Eieunt  Waiting  Woman  and  Chambermaid. 

Fur.  Here,  drink  it  off;  the  ingredients  are  cor- 
dial, 
And  this  the  true  elixir ;  it  hath  boil'd 


the  country,  and  compelled,  as  Decker  says,  the  servants  of 
small  families  "  to  give  him,  through  fear,  whatever  he  de- 
manded." A  padder  (a  term  still  in  use)  is  a  lurkcr  in  the 
highways,  a  footpad. 

•  With  the  lady  of  the  lake,]  This  is  a  very  prominent 
character  in  Morte  Arthur,  and  in  m  my  of  our  old  ro- 
mances. She  seems  to  be  the  Circe  of  the  dark  ages  ;  an1 
is  frequently  mentioned  by  our  old  dramatists. 

t  Woman.  Ours  waiis  on  you.}  i.  e.  Our  service  :  cor- 
rupted by  the  forirer  editors  into — Ours  wait  on  you. 


SCENE  II.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


Since  midnight  for  you.    'Tis  the  quintessence 
Of  five  cocks  of  the  game,  ten  dozen  of  sparrows, 
Knuckles  of  veal,  potatoe-roots,  and  marrow. 
Coral,  and  ambergris:  were  you  two  years  older, 
And  I  had  a  wife,  or  gamesome  mistress, 
I  durst  trust  you  with  neither :  you  net- d  not  bait 
After  this,   I  warrant  you,   though  your  journey's 
long  ;  [morning. 

You  may  ride  on  the  strength  of  this  till  to-morrow 

AIL   Your  courtesies    overwhelm    me :    I   much 

grieve 

To  part  from  such  true  friends  ;  and  yet  find  comfort, 
My  attendance  on  my  honourable  lord, 
Whose  resolution  holds  to  visit  my  lady, 
Will  speedily  bring  me  back. 

[Knocking  within.    Exit  Watchall. 

Mar.  [ti-ithin.']   Dar'st  thou  venture  further? 

Well,  [within.']   Yes,  yes,  and  knock  again. 

Ord.  'Tis  lie  ;  disperse  ! 

Amb.  Perform  it  bravely. 

Furn.  I  know  my  cue,  ne'er  doubt  me. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Allworth. 

Re-enter   WATCHALL,   introducing    WELLBORN   and 
MARUALL. 

Watch.  Beast  that  I  was,  to  make  you  stay !  most 

welcome  ; 
You  were  long  since  expected. 

Well.  Say  so  much 
To  my  friend,  I  pray  you. 

Watch.  For  your  sake,  I  will,  sir, 

Mar.  For  his  sake  ! 

Well.  Mum  ;  this  is  nothing. 

Mir.  More  than  ever 

I  would  have  believed,  though  I  had  found  it  in  my 
primer. 

Alt.  When  I  have  given  you  reasons  for  my  late 

harshness, 

You'll  pardon  and  excuse  me  ;  for,  believe  me, 
Though  now  I  part  abruptly,  in  my  service 
I  will  deserve  it. 

Mar.  Service  !  with  a  vengeance  ! 

Wei!.  I  am  satisfied  :  farewell,  Tom. 

All.  All  joy  stay  with  you  !  [Exit. 

Re-enter  AMBLE. 

Amb.  You  are  happily  encounter'd  ;  I  yet  never 
Presented  one  so  welcome  as,  I  know, 
You  will  be  to  my  lady. 

Mar.  This  is  some  vision  ; 

Or,  sure,  these  men  are  mad,  to  worship  a  dunghill ; 
It  cannot  be  a  truth. 

Well.  Be  still  a  pagan, 
An  unbelieving  infidel  ;  be  so,  miscreant, 
And  meditate  on  blankets,  and  on  dog-whips  ! 

Re-enter  FURNACE. 
Furn.  I  am   glad  you   are  come  ;  until  I  know 

your  pleasure, 

I  knew  not  how  to  serve  up  my  lady's  dinner. 
Mar.  His  pleasure  !  is  it  possible  1 
Well.  What's  thy  will? 

Furn.  Marry,  sir,  I  have  some  grouse,  and  tur- 
key chicken, 

Some  rails  and  quails,  and  my  lady  will'd  me  ask  you, 
What  kind  of  sauces  best  affect  your  palate, 
That  I  may  use  my  utmost  skill  to  please  it. 

Mar.  The  devil's  enter'd  this  cook  :  sauce  for  his 
palate,  [month, 

That,  on  my  knowledge,  for  almost  this  twelve- 
26 


Durst  wish  but  cheeseparings  and  brown  bread  on 
Sundays ! 

Wttl.    I  hat  way  I  like  them  best. 

Furn.   It  shall  be  done,  sir.  [Exit. 

Well.  What  think  you  of  the  hedge  u-e  shall  dine 

under  ? 
Shall  we  feed  gratia? 

Mar.  I  know  not  what  to  think ; 
Pray  you  make  me  not  mad. 

Re-enter  ORDER. 

Ord.  This  place  becomes  you  not ; 
Pray  you  w;ilk,  sir,  to  the  dining-room. 

Well.  I  am  well  here 
Till  her  Isulvship  quits  her  chamber. 

Mar.  Well  here,  say  you? 
'Tis  a  rare  change  !  but  yesterday  you  thought 
Yourself  well  in  a  barn,  wrapp'd  up  in  pease-straw 
Re-enter  Waiting  Woman  and  Chambermaid. 

Woman.   O  !  sir,  you  are  wish'd  for. 

Cham.  My  lady  dreamt,  sir,  of  you. 

Woman.  And  the  first  command  she  gave,  after 

she  rose, 

Was  (her  devotions  done),  to  give  her  notice 
When  you  approach'd  here. 

Cham.   Which  is  done,  on  my  virtue. 

Mar.  I  shall  he  converted  ;  I  begin  to  grow 
Into  a  new  belief,  which  saints  nor  angels 
Could  have  won  me  to  have  faith  in. 

Worn.  Sir,  mv  lady  ! 

Enter  LADY  ALLWORTH. 

L.  All.  I  come  to  meet  you,  and  languish'd  till  I 

saw  you. 

This  first  kiss  is  for  form*;  I  allow  a  second 
To  such  a  friend.  [Kisses  Wellborn. 

Mar.  To  such  a  friend  !  heaven  bless  me  ! 

Well.  I  am  wholly  yours  ;  yet,   madam ,  if  you 

please 
To  grace  this  gentleman  with  a  salute— 

Mai-.  Salute  me  at  his  bidding ! 

Well.  I  shall  receive  it 
As  a  most  liii>h  favour. 

L.  All.  Sir,  you  may  command  me. 

[Advances  to  salute  Marrall. 

Well.  Run  backward  from  a  lady  !  and  such  a  lady ! 

Mar.  To  kiss  her  foot  is,  to  poor  me,  a  favour 
I  am  unworthy  of.  [Offers  to  feiw  her  foot. 

L.  All.  Nay,  pray  you  rise  ; 
And  since  you  are  so  humble,  I'll  exalt  you: 
You  shall  dine  with  me  to-day,  at  mine  own  table. 

Mar.  Your    ladyship's   table !      I  am  not   good 

enough 
To  sit  at  your  steward's  board. 

L.  All.  You  are  too  modest : 
I  will  not  be  denied. 

Re-enter  FURNACE. 

Furn.  Will  you  still  be  babbling 
Till  your  meat  freeze  on  the  table?  the  old  trick  still , 
My  art  ne'er  thought  on ! 

L.  All.  Your  arm,  master  Wellborn  : 

Nay,  keep  us  company.  [To  Marrall. 

Mar.  I  was  ne'er  so  graced. 

[Exeunt  Wellborn,  Lady  Allwnrth.  Amble,  Marrall, 
Waiting  Woman,  and  Chambermaid. 

Ord.  So!  we  have  play 'd  our  parts,  and  are  come 
off  well  : 

•  This  first  trits  it  for  form ;]  So  the  qnarto :  Coxeter  »b 
surdly  rends  for  me. 


358 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[Acr  II 


But  if  I  know  the  mystery  why  my  lady 
Consented  to  it,  or  why  master  Wellborn 
Desired  it,  may  I  perish! 

Fnrn.  Would  I  had 

The  roasting  of  his  heart  that  cheated  him, 
And  foices  the  poor  gentleman  to  these  shifts  ! 
By  fire  !  for  cooks  aie  Persians,  and  swear  by  it, 
Of  all  the  griping  and  extorting  tyrants 
I  ever  heard  or  read  of,  I  ne'er  met 
A  match  to  Sir  Giles  Overreach. 

Watch.  What  will  you  take 
To  tell  him  so,  fellow  Furnace  ? 

Fnrn.  Just  as  much 

As  my  throat  is  worth,  for  that  would  be  theprice  on't 
To  have  a  usurer  that  starves  himself, 
And  wears  a  cloak  of  one-and-twenty  years 
On*  a  suit  of  fourteen  groats  bought  of  the  hang- 
man, 

To  grow  rich,  and  then  purchase,  is  too  common : 
But  this  sir  Giles  feeds  high,  keeps  many  servants, 
Who  must  at  his  command  do  any  outrage  ; 
Rich  in  his  habit,  vast  in  his  expenses ; 
Yet  he  to  admiration  still  increases 
In  wealth  and  lordships. 

Ord.  He  frights  men  out  of  their  estates, 
And  breaks  through  all  law-nets,  made  to  curb  ill 

men, 

As  they  were  cobwebs.  No  man  dares  reprove  him. 
Such  a  spirit  to  dare,  and  power  to  do,  were  never 
Lodged  so  unluckilyf. 

lie-enter  AMBLE. 

Amb.  Ah!  ha!  I  shall  burst. 

Ord.  Contain  thyself,  man. 

Furn.  Or  make  us  partakers 
Of  your  sudden  mirth. 

Amb.  Ha  !  ha  !  my  lady  has  got 
Such  a  guest  at  her  table  !  — this  term-driver,  Marrall, 
This  snip  of  an  attorney 

Furn.  What  of  him,  man  ? 

Amb.  The  knave   thinks   still  he's  at  the  cook's 

shop  in  Ham  AlleyJ, 

Where  the  clerks  divide,  and  the  elder  is  to  choose ; 
And  feeds  so  slovenly  ! 

Fnrn.  Is  this  all] 

Amh.  My  lady 
Drank  to  him  for  fashion  sake,  or  to  please  master 

Wellborn  ; 

As  I  live,  he  rises,  and  takes  up  a  dish 
In  which   there  was  some  remnants  of  a  boil'd 

capon, 
And  pledges  her  in  white  broth  ! 

Funi.  Nay,  'tis  like 
The  rest  of  his  tribe. 

Amb    And  when  I  brought  him  wine, 
He  leaves  his  stool,  and,  after  a  leg  or  two, 
Most  humbly  thanks  my  worship. 

Ord.  Risen  already  ! 

Amb.  1  shall  be  chid. 

*  On  a  tuit,  &r.]  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason  read,  Or  a 
tuU,  which  totally  destroys  the  author's  meaning.  But  in 
their  editions  every  page,  and  almost  ever>  speech,  of  this 
fine  (  minds,  is  replete  with  similar  blunders. 

t  The  character  of  Sir  Giles  is  unfolded  by  these  men  with 
great  sphit  and  pred.-ion. 

t  —  the    rook's   shop  in  Ram    Alley,] 

Kath  Alley  is  one  of  the  avenue?  into  the  Temple  from  Fleet 
Sin-el :  ilie  number  of  its  cook*'  shops  is  alluded  to  in  Barry's 
cuim-dy : 

"  And  ihongh  Ram  Alley  stinks  with  coo <U  and  ale, 
Yetsi>,  there's  many  a  worthy  lawjtr's  chamber 
That  buts  upon  it."  '  Ram  Alley,  Act  I. 


He-enter  LADY  ALLWORTH,  WELLBORN,  and 
MARRALL. 

Furn.  My  lady  frowns. 

L.  All.  You  wait  well.  [To  Amble. 

Let  me   have  no   more  of  this;    I  observed  your 

jeering : 

Sirrah,  I'll  have  you  know,  whom  I  think  worthy 
To  sit  at  my  table,  be  he  ne'er  so  mean, 
W  hen  I  am  present,  is  not  your  companion. 

Ord.  Nay,  she'll  preserve  what's  due  to  her. 

Furn.  This  refreshing 
Follows  your  flux  of  laughter. 

L.  All.  [To  Wellborn,."]  You  are  master 
Of  your  own  will.     I  know  so  much  of  manners, 
As  not  to  enquire  your  purposes ;  in  a  word 
To  me  you  are  ever  welcome,  as  to  a  house 
That  is  your  own. 

Well.  Mark  that. 

Mar.  With  reverence,  sir, 
An  it  like  your  worship*. 

Well.  Trouble  yourself  no  further  ; 
Dear  madam,  my  heart's  full  of  zeal  and  service, 
However  in  my  language  I  am  sparing. 
Come,  master  Marrall. 

Mar.  I  attend  your  worship. 

[  Exeuat  Wellborn  and  Marrall. 

L.  All.  I  see  in  your  looks  you  are  sorry,  and  you 

know  me 

An  easy  mistress:  be  merry  ;  I  have  forgot  all. 
Order  and  Furnace,  come  with  me;  I  must  give  you 
Further  directions. 

Ord.  What  you  please. 

Fnrn.  We  are  ready.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— The  Country  near  Lady  All  worth's 
Route. 

Enter  WELLBORN  and  MARRALL. 

Well.  I  think  I  am  in  a  good  way. 

Mar.  Good  !  sir ;  the  best  way, 
The  certain  best  way. 

Well.  There  are  casualties 
That  men  are  subject  to. 

Mar.  You  are  above  them  ; 
And  as  you  are  already  worshipful, 
I  hope  ere  long  you  will  increase  in  worship. 
And  be,  right  worshipful. 

Well.  Prithee  do  not  flout  me : 
What  I  shall  be,  1  shall  be.    Is't  for  your  ease 
You  keep  your  hat  off? 

Mar.  Ease,  an  it  like  your  worship ! 
I  hope  Jack  Marrall  shall  not  live  so  long, 
To  prove  himself  such  an  unmannerly  beast, 
Though  it  hail  hazel  nuts,  as  to  be  cover'd 
When  your  worship's  present. 

Well.  Is  not  this  a  true  rogue, 
That,  out  of  mere  hope  of  a  future  cozenage, 
Can  turn  thus  suddenly  1  'tis  rank  already.      [Aside. 

Mar.  I  know  your  worship's  wise,  and  needs  no 

counsel: 

Yet  if,  in  my  desire  to  do  you  service, 
I  humbly  offer  my  advice  (but  still 


•  Mar.    With  reverence,  tir, 

Anit  like  your  worship.]  This  change  of  language  in  Mar 
rail  is  worth  notice :  it  it  truly  characteristic. 


SCENE.  III.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


Under  correction),  I  hope  I  shall  not 
Incur  your  high  displeasure. 
Well,  No  ;  speak  freely. 
Mar.    Then,  in   my  judgment,  sir,   my   simple 

judgment 

(Still  with  your  worship's  favour),  I  could  wish  you 
A  better  habit,  for  this  cannot  be 
But  much  distasteful  to  the  noble  lady 
(I  say  no  more)  that  loves  you  :   for,  this  morning, 
To  me,  and  I  am  but  a  swine  to  her, 
Before  the  assurance  of  her  wealth  perfumed  you, 
You  savour'd  not  of  amber. 
Well.  I  do  now  then  ! 

Mar.  This  your  batoon  hath  got  a  touch  of  it. 

[A'mes  the  end  of  his  cudgel. 
Yet  if  you  please,  for  change,  I  have  twenty  pounds 

here, 

Which,  out  of  my  true  love,  I'll  presently 
Lay   down  at  your  worship's  feet ;  'twill  serve  to 

buy  you 
A  riding  suit. 

Well.  But  where's  the  horse  ? 
Mar.   My  gelding 

Is  at  your  service  :  nay,  you  shall  ride  me, 
Before  your  worship  shall  be  put  to  the  trouble 
To  walk  afoot.     Alas  !  when  you  are  lord 
Of  this  lady's  manor,  as  1  know  you  will  be, 
You  may  with  the  lease  of  glebe  land,  call'd  Knave 's- 

acre, 
A  pl-.ice  I  would  manure,  requite  your  vassal. 

Well.  I   thank  thy  love,  but  must  make  no  use 

of  it ; 
Wli-.it's  twenty  pounds? 

Mar.  ' Tis  all  that  1  can  make,  sir. 

Well.  Dost  thou  think,  though   I  want  clothes  I 

could  not  have  them, 
For  one  word  to  my  lady? 
Mar.  As  1  know  not  that*! 
Well.  Come,  I'll  tell  thee  a  secret,  and  so  leave 

thee. 

I'll  not  give  her  the  advantage,  though  she  he 
A  gallant-minded  lady,  after  we  are  married 
(  There  being  no  woman,  but  is  sometimes  froward), 
To  hit.  me  in  the  teeth,  and  say,  she  was  forced 
To  buy  my  wedding-clothes  and  took  me  on 
With  a  plain  riding-suit,  and  an  ambling  nag. 
No,  I'll  be  furnish 'd  something  like  myself, 
And   so  farewell :    for  thy  suit  touching  Knave's- 

acre, 
When  it  is  mine,  'tis  thine.  [Exit. 

Mar.   I  thank  your  worship. 
How  was  I  cozen'd  in  the  calculation 
Of  this  man's  fortune  !  my  master  cozen'd  too, 
Whose  pupil  1  am  in  the  art  of  undoing  men  ; 
For   that   is  our  profession  !     Well,    well,  master 

Wellborn, 
You  are   of  a   sweet   nature,   and    fit  again  to  be 

cheated  : 

Which,  if  the  Fates  please,  when  you  are  possess'd 
Of  the  land  and  lady,  you,  sans  question,  shall  be. 
I'll  presently  think'of  the  means. 

[  Walks  by,  muting. 

Enter  OVERREACH,  speaking  to  a  Servant  within. 
Over.  Sirrah,  take  my  horse. 


•  At  I  know  not  that !]  This,  like  too  many  others,  is 
priri'ed  by  the  modern  editors  as  an  imperfect  sentence:  tiie 
expression  if.  however,  rnm|>Ie(e,  and  means,  in -colloquial 
language,  As  {/"I  do,  or  did,  not  know  that  jou  might! 


I'll  walk  to  get  me  an  appetite  ;  'tis  but  a  mile, 
And  exercise  will  keep  me  from  being  pursey. 
Ha!  .Marrall!  is  he  conjuring?  perhaps 
The  knave  has  wrought  the  prodigal  to  do 
Some  outrage  on  himself,  and  now  he  feels 
Compunction  in  his  conscience  for't :  no  matter, 
So  it  be  done.     Marrall ! 

Mar.  Sir. 

Over.  How  succeed  we 
In  our  plot  on  Wellborn  ? 

Mar.  Never  better,  sir. 

Over.  Has  he  hang'd  or  drown'd  himself? 

Mar.   No,  sir,  he  lives  ; 
Lives  once  more  to  be  made  a  prey  to  you, 
A  greater  prey  than  ever. 

Over.  Art  thou  in  thy  wits  ? 
If  thou  art,  reveal  this  miracle,  and  briefly. 

Mar.  A  lady,  sir,  has  fall'n  in  love  with  him. 

Ocer.   With  him  !  what  lady  ? 

Mar.  The  rich  lady  A 11  worth. 

Over.  Thou  dolt !  how  dar'st  thou  speak  this  ? 

Mar.  I  speak  truth, 
And  I  do  so  but  once  a  year,  unless 
It  be  to  you,  sir;  we  dined  with  her  ladyship, 
I  thank  his  worship. 

Over.  His  worship ! 

Mar.  As  I  live,  sir, 

I  dined  with  him,  at  the  great  lady's  table, 
Simple  as  I  stand  here  ;  and    saw  when  she   kiss'd 

him, 

And  would,  at  his  request, have  kiss'd  me  too; 
But  I  was  not  so  audacious,  as  some  youths  are*, 
That  dare  do  any  thing,  be  it  ne'er  so  absurd, 
And  sad  after  performance. 

Over.  Why,  thou  rascal ! 
To  tell  me  these  impossibilities. 

Dine  at  her  table  !  and  kiss  him  !  or  thee  ! 

Impudent  vailet,  have  not  I  myself, 

To  whom    great   countesses'   doors    have  oft  flew 

open, 

Ten  times  attempted,  since  her  husband's  death, 
In  vain,  to  see  her,  though  I  came — a  suitor? 
And  yet  your  good  solicitorship,  and  rogue  Well- 

born, 
Were    brought    into    her   presence,    feasted   with 

her  ! — 

But  that  I  know  thee  a  dog  that  cannot  blush, 
This  most  incredible  lie  would  call  up  one 
On  thy  buttermilk  cheeks. 

Mo?-.  Shall  I  not  trust  my  eyes,  sir, 
Or  taste  ?     I  feel  her  good  cheer  in  my  belly. 

Over.  You  shall  feel  me,   if  you  give  not  over, 

sirrah  : 

Recover  your  brains  again,  and  be  no  more  gull'd 
With  a  beggar's  plot,  assisted  by  the  aids 
Of    serving-men    and   chambermaids,   for    beyond 

these 

Thou  never  saw'st  a  woman,  or  I'll  quit  you 
From  my  employments. 

*  But  I  was  not  so  audacious,  and  tome  youths  are,]  Mr 
Dodeley  has, 

"  hut  1  was  not  so  audacious  as  tome  youth's  are, 

And  dare  do  any  thing,  tltc. 
I  think  the  old  reading  right      COXETER. 
Mr.  M.   Mason  follows  Uodsley.     If  and  be  the  genuine 
word,  it  is   used  for  the  old  siibjuncti  c  particle  an  (if);  b« 


whatever  be  its  nature,  it  was  correc 
of  the  rcpit-s  as  it  now  stands  In  tl 
which  was  probably  taken,  by  a  co 
word  immediately  under  it.  1  have 
That. 


cd  .it  the  press  in  some 
c  n  xt  verse,  for  And, 
union  error,  from  the 
entured  to  substitult 


360 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[Acrlll 


Mar.  Will  you  credit  tbis  yet? 
On  my  confidence  of  their  marriage,  I  offer'd  Well- 
born— 

I  would  give  a  crown    now   I  durst  say  his    wor- 
ship—  [Aside. 
My  nag,  and  twenty  pounds. 

'Over.  Did  you  so,  idiot !  [Strike*  him  down. 

Was  this  the  way  to  work  him  to  despair, 
Or  rather  to  cross  me  1 

Mar.  Will  your  worship  kill  me? 

Over.  No,  no ;  but  drive  the  lying  spirit  out  of 

you. 
Afar.  He's  gone. 


Over.  I  have  done  then  :  now,  forgetting 
Your  late  imaginary  feast  and  lady, 
Know,  my  lord  Lovell  dines  with  me  to-morrow. 
Be  careful  nought  be  wanting  to  receive  him  ; 
And  bid  my  daughter's  women  trim  her  up, 
Though  they  paint  her,    so  she  catch  the  lord,   111 

thank  them  : 
There's  a  piece  for  my  late  blows. 

Mar.  I  must  yet  suffer : 
But  there  may  be  a  time —  [Aside 

Over.  Do  you  grumble? 

Mar.  No,  sir.  [Exeunt 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— The  Country  near  Overreach's  House. 

Enter  Lord  LOVELL,  ALLWORTH,  and  Servants. 

Lov.  Walk  the  horses  down  the  hill :    something 

in  private 
I  must  impart  to  Allworth.  [Exeunt  Servants*. 

AIL  O,  my  lord, 

What  sacrifice  of  reverence,  duty,  watching, 
Although  I  could  put  off  the  use  of  sleep, 
And  ever  wait  on  your  commands  to  serve  them  ; 
What  dangers,  though  in  ne'er  so  horrid  shapes, 
Nay  death  itself,  though  I  should  run  to  meet  it, 
Can  I,  and  with  a  thankful  willingness  suffer; 
But  still  the  retribution  will  fall  short 
Of  your  bounties  shower'd  upon  me  ! 

Lov.  Loving  youth ; 
Till  what  I  purpose  be  put  into  act, 
Do  not  o'erprize  it ;  since  you  have  trusted  me 
With  your  soul's  nearest,  nay,  her  dearest  secret, 
Rest  confident  'tis  in  a  cabinet  lock'd 
Treachery  shall  never  open.     I  have  found  you 
(For  so  much  to  your  face  I  must  profess, 
Howe'er  you  guard  your  modesty  with   a    blush 

for't) 

More  zealous  in  your  love  and  service  to  me, 
Than  I  have  been  in  my  rewards. 

All.  Still  great  ones, 
Above  my  merit. 

Lou.  Such  your  gratitude  calls  them :  * 

fir*  am  I  of  that  harsh  and  rugged  temper 
As  some  great  men  are  tax'd  with,  who  imagine 
They  part  from  the  respect  due  to  their  honours, 
If  they  use  not  all  such  as  follow  them, 
Without  distinction  of  their  births,  like  slaves. 
I  am  not  so  condition'd  :  I  can  make 
A  fitting  difference  between  my  footboy, 
And  a  gentleman  by  want  compell'd  to  serve  me. 

All.    Tis  thankfully  acknowledged;    you   Lave 

been 

More  like  a  father  to  me  than  a  master  : 
Pray  you  pardon  the  comparison. 

Lov.  I  allow  it ; 
And  to  give  you  assurance  I  am  pleased  in't, 


Co 


•  Exeunt  Servants.]  Exeunt  Servi,  says  tlie  quarto  •  this 
ixeter   translates   Exeunt  Servant,   and  is  faithfully  foj. 


lowed  by  Mr.  M.  Mason  in  bis  correcleat  of  all  editions  1 


My  carriage  and  demeanour  to  your  mistress, 
Fair  Margaret,  shall  truly  witness  for  me 
I  can  command  my  passions. 

All.  'T is  a  conquest 
Few  lords  can  boast  of  when  they  are  tempted. — Oh! 

Lov.  Why  do  you  sigh  ?  can  you  be  doubtful  of 

me  ? 

By  that  fair  name  I  in  the  wars  have  purchased, 
And  all  my  actions,  hitherto  untainted, 
I  will  not  be  more  true  to  mine  own  honour, 
'J  han  to  my  Allworth  ! 

All.  As  you  are  the  brave  lord  Lovell, 
Your  bare  word  only  given  is  an  assurance 
Of  more  validity  and  weight  to  me, 
Thin  all  the  oaths,  bound  up  with  imprecations, 
Which,  when   they  would  deceive,  most  courtiers 

practise : 

Yet  being  a  man  (for,  sure,  to  style  you  more 
Would  relish  of  gross  flattery),  I  am  forced 
Against  my  confidence  of  your  worth  and  virtues, 
To  doubt,  nay  more,  to  fear. 

Lov.  So  young,  and  jealous  ! 

All.  Were  you  to  encounter  with  a  single  foe, 
The  victory  were  certain  ;  but  to  stand 
The  charge  of  two  such  potent  enemies, 
At  once  assaulting  you,  as  wealth  and  beauty, 
And  those  too  seconded  with  power,  is  odds 
Too  great  for  Hercules. 

Lov.  Speak  your  doubts  and  fears, 
Since  you  will  nourish  them,  in  plainer  language, 
That  I  may  understand  them. 

All.  What's  your  will, 

Though  I  lend  arms  against  myself  (provided 
They  may  advantage  you),  must  be  obey'd. 
My  much-loved  lord,  were  Margaret  only  fair, 
The  cannon  of  her  more  than  earthly  form, 
Though  mounted  high,  commanding  all  beneath  it, 
And  ramm'd  with  bullets  of  her  sparkling  eyes, 
Of  all  the  bulwarks  that  defend  your  senses 
Could  batter  none,  but  that  which    guards  your 

sight. 

But  when  the  well-tuned  accents  of  her  tongue 
Make  music  to  you,  and  with  numerous  sounds 
Assault  your  hearing  (such  as  Ulysses,  if  [he] 
Now  lived  again*,  hovve'er  he  stood  the  syrens, 

* •    ntch  a*  Ulysset,  »/[he] 

Now  lived  again,  &c  ]  An  this  passage   stands  ia  &• 


SCENE  II.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


J6i 


Could  not  resist,),  the  combat  must  grow  doubtful 
Between  your  reason  and  rebellious  passions. 
Add    this   too ;    when    you   feel   her   touch,    and 

breath 

Like  a  soft  western  wind,  when  it  glides  o'er 
Arabia,  creating  gums  and  spices  ; 
And  in  the  van,  the  nectar  of  her  lips, 
Which  you  must  taste,  bring  the  battalia  on, 
Well  arm'd,  and  strongly  lined  with  her  discourse 
And  knowing  manners,  to  give  entertainment  j — 
Hippolytus  himself  would  leave  Diana, 
To  follow  such  a  Venus. 

Loo.  Love  hath  made  you 
Poetical,  All  worth. 

All.  Grant  all  these  beat  off, 
Which  if  it  be  in  man  to  do,  you'll  do  it, 
Mammon,  in  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  steps  in 
With  heaps  of  ill-got  gold,  and  so  much  land, 
To  make  her  more  remarkable,  as  wouW  tire 
A  falcon's  wings  in  one  day  to  fly  over. 
O  my  good  lord  !  these  powerful  aids,  which  would 
Make  a  mis-shapen  negro  beautiful 
(Yet  are  but  ornaments  to  give  her  lustre, 
That  in  herself  is  all  perfection),  must 
Prevail  for  her  :  1  here  release  your  trust ; 
'Tis  happiness,  enough,  for  me  to  serve  y  ou, 
And  sometimes,  with  chaste  eyes,  to  look  upon  her. 

Lov.   Why,  shall  I  swear? 

All.  O,  by  no  means,  my  lord  ; 
And  wrong  not  so  your  judgment  to  the  world, 
As  from  your  fond  indulgence  to  a  boy, 
Your  page,  your  servant,  to  refuse  a  blessing 
Divers  great  men  are  rivals  for. 

Lov.  Suspend 

Your  judgment  till  the  trial.     How  far  is  it 
To  Overreach*  house? 

All.  At  the  most  some  half  hour's  riding ; 
You'll  soon  be  there. 

Lov,  And  you  the  sooner  freed 
From  your  jealous  fears. 

All.  O  that  I  durst  but  hope  it !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Overreach's  House. 
Enter  OVERREACH,  GREEDY,  and  MARRALL. 

Over.  Spare  for  no  cost;  let  my  dressers   crack 

with  the  weight 
Of  curious  viands. 

Greedy.  Store  indeed's  no  sore,  sir. 

Over.    That  proverb  fits  your  stomach,   master 

Greedy. 

And  let  no  plate  be  seen  but  what's  pure  gold, 
Or  such  whose  workmanship  exceeds  the  matter 
That  it  is  made  of ;  let  my  choicest  linen 
Perfume  the  room,  and,  when  we  wash,  the  water, 
With  precious  powders  mix!d,  so  please  my  lord, 
That  be  may*  with  envy  wish  to  bathe  so  ever. 

former  editions  it  is  scarcely  reconcileable  either  to  gram  • 
mar  or  sense.  I  have  hazarded  the  transposition  of  one 
word  (if)  and  the  addition  of  another  (he).  For  th*  former, 
I  make  no  apology,  as  the  incorrect  slate  <>t  the  old  copies 
frequently  renders  it.  necessary ;  for  the  latter,  I  solicit  the 
reader's  indulgence. 

let  my  choicest  linen. 

Perfume  the  room,  and  ivhen  we  wash,  the  water, 
II  ith  precious  powders  mix'd.  so  please  my  ford, 
That  he  mail,  &c.]  Such  is. the  reading  of  the  quarto. 
Coxetcr,  who  probably  misunderstood  it,  adapted  it    to  his 


Afar.  'Twill  be  very  chargeable. 

Over.  Avaunt,  you  drudge  ! 
Now  all  my  labour'd  ends  are  at  the  stake, 
Is't  a  time  to  think  of  thrift?  Call  in  my  daughter. 
And,  master  justice,  since  you  love  choice  dishes. 
And  plenty  of  them 

Greedy.  As  I  do,  indeed,  sir, 
Almost  as  much  as  to  give  thanks  for  them. 

Over.    I   do  confer  that  providence*,  with  my 

power 

Of  absolute  command  to  have  abundance, 
To  your  best  care. 

Greedy.  I'll  punctually  discharge  it, 
And  give  the  best  directions.     Now  am  I 
In  mine  own  conceit  a  monarch,  at  the  least 
Arch-president  of  the  boil'd.the  roast,  the  baked  . 
For  which  I  will  eat  often  ;  and  give  thanks 
When  my  belly's  braced  up  like  a  drum,  and  that's 
pure  justice.  [Exit. 

Over.  It  must   be    so :     should  the  foolish  girl 

prove  modest, 

She  may  spoil  all  ;  she  had  it  not  from  me, 
But  from  her  mother  ;  I  was  ever  forward, 
As  she  must  be,  and  therefore  I'll  prepare  her. 

Enter  MARGARET. 

Alone,  and  let  your  women  wait  without. 

Marg.  Your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

Oner.  Ha  !  this  is  a  neat  dressing  ! 
These  orient  pearls  and  diamonds  well  placed  too  ! 
The  gown  affects  me  not,  it  should  have  been 
Embroider'd  o'er  and  o'er  with  flowers  of  gold  ; 
But  these  rich  jewels,  and  quaint  fashion  help  it. 
And  how  below  ?  since  oft  the  wanton  eye, 
The  face  observed,  descends  unto  the  foot, 
Which  being  well  proportion'd,  as  yours  is, 
Invites  as  much  as  perfect  white  and  red, 
Though  without   art.      How  like  you  your  new 

woman, 
The  lady  Downfallen  ? 

Marg.  Well,  for  a  companion  ; 
Not  as  a  servant. 

Oter.  Is  she  humble,  Meg, 
And  careful  too,  her  ladyship  forgotten  ? 

Marg.  I  pity  her  fortune. 

Over.  Pity  her !  trample  on  her. 
I  took  her  up  in  an  old  tamin  gownf, 


own  ideas  in  this  perverse  and  vapid  manner,  and  was,  of 
courst,  followed  by  Mr.  M.  Mason  : 

Lay  my  choicest  linen, 

Perfume  the  room,  and  when  we  wash,  the  water 
With  precious  powders  mix,  to  please  my  lord, 
That  he  may,  &c. 

•  /  do  confer  that  providence,!  All  the  modern  editors 
read,  that  province:  and  thus  they  keep  up  an  eternal  war 
against  thtir  author's  fancied  peculiarities  ! — but  indeed  the 
•word  is  used   by  other  writers,  and  precisely  in  the  sense 
here  required.    Thus  Shirley,  in  a  very  pretty  passage  : 
"  Lady,  yon  are  welcome  to  the  spring  ;  the  park 
Looks  fresher  to  salute  you :  how  the  birds 
On  every  tree  sing  with  more  cheei fulness 
At  your  access,  as  if  they  prophesied 
Nature  would  die,  and  resign  her  providence 
To  you, fit  to  succeed  her!"  Hyde  Park. 

t  /  took  her  up  in  an  old  tamin  gown.]  Uwbley  and 
Coxeter  (Mr.  M.  Mason  only  "  follows  as  a  hound  lhat  fills 
np  the  cry")  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  this  word, 
changed  it  without  ceremony  into  tattered,  nay,  without 
condescending  to  notice  the  variation!  But  tamin  is  nii- 
doubtedly  right;  it  is  a  coarse  Hnseywoolscy  stun,  Mill 
worn  by  the  poor  of  this  country  under  the  name  of  tamuiy 
or  rather  tammy;  a  corruption,  I  suppose,  of  etamine,  ri., 
which  has  the  i-ame  meaning.  The  annals  of  literature  r 
i.ot  afford  an  instance  of  another  writer  so  unworthily 
treated  as  Masdnger. 


36* 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBITS. 


[ACT  III. 


(Even    starved   for  wan:   of  twopenny   chops),  to 

serve  thee, 

And  if  1  understand  she  but  repines 
To  do  thee  any  duty,  though  neVr  so  servile, 
I'll  pack    her  to  her  knight,    where  1  have  lodged 

him, 
Into  the  Counter,  and  there  let  them  howl  together. 

Marg.  You  know  your  own  ways,  but  for  me,  I 

blush 

When  I  command  her,  that  was  once  attended 
With  persons  tiot  inferior  to  myself 
In  birth. 

Over.  In  birth  !  why,  art  thou  not  my  daughter, 
The  blest  child  of  my  industry  and  wealth  ? 
Why,  foolish  girl,  was't  not  to  make  thee  great, 
That  I  have  run,  and  still  pursue,  those  ways 
That  hale  down  curses  on  me,  which  1  mind  not! 
Part  with  these  humble  thoughts,  and  apt  thyself 
To  the  noble  state  1  labour  to  advance  thee  j 
Or,  by  my  hopes  to  see  thee  honourable, 
I  will  adopt  a  stranger  lo  my  heir, 
And  throw  thee  from  my  care  :  do  not  provoke  me. 

Marg.   I  will  not,  sir ;  mould  me  which  \vay  you 
please. 

Re-enter  GREEDY. 

Over.  How  !  interrupted ! 

Greedy.  'Tis  matter  of  importance. 
The  cook,  sir,  is  self-will'd,  and  will  not  learn 
From  my  experience  ;  there's  a  fawn  brought  in,  sir  ; 
And,  for  my  life,  I  cannot  make  him  roast  it 
With  a  Norfolk  dumpling  in  the  belly  of  it; 
And,  sir,  we  wise  men  know,  without  the  dumpling 
Til  not  worth  three-pence. 

Over.  Would  it  were  whole  in  thy  belly, 
To  stuff  it  out !  cook  it  any  way  ;  prithee  leave  me. 

Greedy    Without  order  for  the  dumpling? 

Over.  Let  it  be  dumpled 

Which  way  thou  wilt !  or  tell  him,  I  will  scald  him 
In  his  own  caldron. 

Greedy.  I  had  lost  my  stomach 
Had  1  lost  my  mistress  dumpling  ;    I'll  give  thanks 
for't.  [Exit. 

Over.  But  to  our  business,  Meg  ;  you  have  heard 
who  dines  here  1 

Marg.  1  have,  sir. 

Over.  'Tis  an  honourable  man  ; 
A  lord,  Meg,  and  commands  a  regiment 
Of  soldiers,  and,  what's  rare,  is  one  himself, 
A  bold  and  understanding  one  :  and  to  be 
A  lord,  and  a  good  leader,  in  one  volume, 
Is  granted  unto  few  but  such  as  rise  up 
The  kingdom's  glory. 

He-enter  GREEDY. 

Greedy.  I'll  resign  my  office, 
If  I  be  not  better  obey'd. 

Over.  'Slight,  art  thou  frantic  ? 

Greedy.  Frantic  !    'twould  make  me  frantic,  and 

stark  mad, 

Were  I  not  a  justice  of  peace  and  quorum  too, 
Which  this  rebellious  cook  cares  not  a  straw  for. 
There  are  a  dozen  of  woodcocks 

Over.  Make  thyself 
Thirteen,  the  baker's  dozen. 

Greedy.  I  am  contented, 
So  they  may  be  dress'd  to  my  mind  ;  he  has  found 

out 

A  new  device  for  sauce,  and  will  not  dish  them 
With  toasts  and  butter  ;  my  father  was  a  tailor. 


And  my  name,  though  a  justice,  Greedy  Woodcock  ; 
And,  ere  I'll  see  my  lineage  so  abused, 
I'll  g-ive  up  my  commission. 

Over.  Cook  ! — ttogue,  obey  him  ! 
I  have  given  the  word  ;  pray  you  now  remove  your- 
self 

To  a  collar  of  brawn,  and  trouble  me  no  further. 
Greedy.  I  will,  and  meditate  what  to  eat  at  dinner. 

[  rxit. 
Over.  And,  as   I  said,  Meg,  when  this  gull  dis- 

turb'd  us, 

This  honourable  lord,  this  colonel, 
I  would  have  thy  husband. 

Marg.  There's  too  much  disparity 
Between  his  quality  and  mine,  to  hope  it. 

Over.  I  more  than  hope,  and  doubt  not  to  effect  it, 
Be  thou  no  enemy  to  thyself;  my  wealth 
Shall  weigh  his  titles  down,  and  make  you  equals. 
Now  for  the  means  to  assure  him  thine,  observe  me; 
Remember  he's  a  courtier,  and  a  soldier, 
And  not  to  be  trifled  with  ;  and,  therefore,  when 
He  comes  to  woo  you,  see  you  rlo  not  coy  it  : 
This  mincing  modesty  has  spoil'd  many  a  mutch 
By  a  first  refusal,  in  vain  after  hoped  lor. 

Marg.  You'll  have  me,  sir,  preserve  the  distance 

that 
Confines  a  virgin  ? 

Over.  Virgin  me  no  virgins  ! 
I  must  have  you  lose  that  name,  or  yon  lose  me. 
I  will  have  you  private — start  not — I  say  private  : 
If  thou  art  my  true  daughter,  not  a  bas.anl, 
Thou  wilt  venture  alone  with  one  man,  though  he 

GUM 

Like  Jupiter  to  Semele,  and  come  off  too  ; 
And  therefore,  when  he  kisses  you,  kiss  close. 
Marg.  I  have  heard  this  is  the  strumpets'  fashion, 

sir, 

Which  I  must  never  learn. 
Over.  Learn  any  thing, 

And  from  any  creature,  that  may  mate  thee  great ; 
From  the  devil  himself. 

Marg.  This  is  but  devilish  doctrine! 
Oier.  Or,  if  his  blood  grow  hot,  suppose  Le  offer 
Beyond  this,  do  not  you  stay  till  it.  cool, 
But  meet  his  ardour  ;  if  a  couch  be  near, 
Sit  down  on't,  and  invite  him. 

Marg.  In  your  house, 
Your  own  house,  sir !  for  heaven's  sake,  what  are  you 

then  ? 
Or  what  shall  I  be,  sir? 

Over.  Stand  not  on  form  ; 
Words  are  no  substances. 

Marg.  Though  you  could  dispense 
With  your  own  honour,  cast  aside  religion, 
The  hopes  of  heaven,  or  fear  of  hell ;  excuse  me, 
In  worldly  policy  this  is  not  the  .way 
To  make  me  his  wife  ;  his  whore,  I  grant  it  may  do. 
My  maiden  honour  so  sgon  yielded  up, 
Nay,  prostituted,  cannot  but  assure  him 
I,  that  am  light  to  him,  will  not  hold  weight, 
Whene'er*  tempted  by  others  :  so,  in  judgment 
When  to  his  lust  I  have  given  up  my  honour, 
He  must  and  will  forsake  me. 
Over.  How  !  forsake  thee ! 


•  Whene'er  tempted  by  others .-]  The  quarto  reads,  When 
lie  U  tempted,  &c.  This  is  evidently  wrong,  but  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  have  struck  nut  tlic  genuine  reading.  Dodsley, 
whom  the  others  follow,  orai't  he  is,  which  leaves  a  very 
inharmonious  line. 


SCEXB  II.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


363 


Do  I  wear  a  sword  for  fashion  1  or  is  this  arm 
Sbrunk  up,  or  wither'd  ?  does  there  live  a  man 
Of  that  large  list  I  have  encounter'd  with, 
Can  truly  say  1  e'er  gave  inch  of  ground 
Not  purchased  with  bis  hlood  that  did  oppose  me? 
Forsake  thee  when  the  thing  is  done  !  he  dares  not. 
Give  me  but  proof  he  has  enjoy'd  thy  person, 
Though  all  his  captains,  echoes  to  his  will, 
Stood  arm'd  hy  his  side  to  justify  the  wrong, 
And  he  himself  in  the  head  of  his  bold  troop, 
Spite  of  his  lordship,  and  his  colonelship, 
Or  the  judge's  favour,  I  will  make  him  render 
A  bloody  and  a  strict  accompt,  and  force  him, 
By  marrying  thee,  to  cure  thy  wounded  honour  ! 
1  have  said  it. 

Enter  MARRALL. 

Mar.  Sir,  the  man  of  honour's  come, 
Newly  alighted. 

Over.  In,  without  reply  ; 
And  do  as  I  command,  or  thou  art  lost. 

[Exit  Margaret. 

Is  the  loud  music  I  gave  order  for 
Ready  to  receive  him? 

Mar.  'Tis,  sir. 

Over.  Let  them  sound 

A  princely  welcome.    Roughness  awhile  leave  me  ; 
For  fawning  now,  a  stranger  to  my  nature, 
Must  make  way  for  me. 

Loud  music.      Enter  Lord  LOVELL,  GREEDY,  ALL- 
WORIU,  and  MARRALL. 

Lov.  Sir,  you  meet  your  trouble. 

Over.  What   you   are  pleased  to   style  so,  is  an 

honour 

Above  my  worth  and  fortunes. 
Ail.  Strange  !  so  humble. 
Oier.  A  justice  of  peace,  my  lord. 

[Presents  Greedy  to  him. 
Lot.  Your  hand,  good  sir. 
Greedy.  This    is   a  lord,  and  some  think  this  a 

favour  ; 

But  I  had  rather  have  my  hand  in  my  dumpling. 
Over.  Room  for  my  lord. 
Lov.  I  miss,  sir,  your  fair  daughter 
To  crown  my  welcome. 

Over.  May  it  please  my  lord 
To  taste  a  glass  of  Greek  wine  first,  and  suddenly 
She  shall  attend  my  lord. 
Lov.  You'll  be  obey'd,  sir. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Overreach. 
Over.  'Tis  to  my  wish  :  as  soon  as  come,  ask  for 

her! 
Why,  Meg!  Meg  Overreach  ! — 

Re-enttr  MARGARET. 

How  !  tears  in  your  eyes ! 
Hah  !  dry  them  quickly,  or  I'll  dig  them  out. 
Is  this  a  time  to  whimper?  meet  that  greatness 
That  flies  into  thy  bosom  ;  think  what  'tis 
For  me  to  say,  My  honourable  daughter  ; 
And  thou,  when  I  stand  bare,  to  say,  Put  on*  ; 
Or,  Father,  you  forget  yourself.     No  more, 
But  be  instructed,  or  expect he  comes  ! 

Re-enter  Lord  LOVELL,  GREEDY,  ALLWORTII,  and 
MARRALL. 

A  black-brow'd  girl,  my  lord. 

[Lord  Lowell  salutes  Margaret. 


•  Put  on  ;  i.  e.  be  covered. 


Lov.   As  I  live,  a  rare  one. 

All.  He's  ta 'en  already  :  I  am  lost. 

Oier.  That  kiss 
Came  twanging  off,  I  like  it ;  quit  the  room. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Over.  Lov.  and  Marg 
A  little  bashful,  my  good  lord,  but  you, 
I  hope,  will  teach  her  boldness. 

Lov.  I  am  happy  in  such  a  scholar  :  but 

Over.  I  am  past  learning, 

And  therefore  leave  you  to  yourselves  :  remember. 

[Exit. 

Lov.  You  see,  fair  lady,  your  father  is  solicitous 
To  have  you  change  the  barren  name  of  virgin 
Into  a  hopeful  wife. 

Marg.  His  haste,  my  lord, 
Holds  no  power  o'er  my  will. 

Lav.  But  o'er  your  duty. 

Marg.  Which,  forced  too  much,  may  break. 

Lon.  Bend  rather,  sweetest : 
Think  of  your  years. 

Marg.  Too  few  to  match  with  yours ; 
And  choicest    fruits  too   soon   plucked,   rot    and 
wither. 

Lov.  Do  you  think  I  am  old  ? 

Marg.  I  am  sure  I  am  too  young. 

Lov.  I  tan  advance  you. 

Marg.  To  a  hill  of  sorrow  ; 
Where  every  hour  I  may  expect  to  fall, 
But  never  hope  firm  footing.     You  are  noble, 
I  of  a  low  descent,  however  rich  ; 
And  tissues  match'd  with  scarlet  suit  but  ill. 
O,  my  good  lord,  I  could  say  more,  but  that 
I  dare  not  trust  these  walls. 

Lov.  Pray  you,  trust  my  ear  then. 

He-enter  OVERREACH  behind,  listening. 

Over.  Close  at  it!  whispering  !  this  is  excellent 
And  by  their  postures,  a  consent  on  both  parts. 

Rt-tnter  GREEDY  behind. 

Greedy.  Sir  Giles,  sir  Giles  ! 

Over.  The  great  fiend  stop  that  clapper ! 

Greedy.  It  must  ring  out,  sir,  when  my  belly  rings 

noon. 
The   baked   meats   are   run   out,    the   roast  turn'd 

powder. 

Over.  1  shall  powder  you. 
Greedy.  Beat  me  to  dust,  I  care  not ; 
In  such  a  cause  as  this  I'll  die  a  inartvr. 

0>er.  Marry,  and  shall,  you    barathrum   of    the 

shambles*!  [Strifo*  him, 

Greedy.  How  !  strike  a  justice  of  peace  !  'tis  petty 

treason 

Edwordi  quinto  :  but  that  you  are  my  friend, 
I  could  commit  you  without  bail  or  mainprize. 
Over.  Leave  your  bawling,  sir,  or  1  shall  commit 

you 

Where  you  shall  not  dine  to-day  ;  disturb  my  lord 
When  he  is  in  discourse  ! 


•  Over.  Marry,  and  shall,  you  barathrum  of  the  sham- 
bles !]  Literally  fiom  Horace  : 

Pernicit-t  et  tempestas,  barathrnmqtie  macelli  ! 
Barathrum  is  frequently  used  by  oar  old  poets  in  the  cla> 
sical  sense  of  an  abyss,  or  devouring  uulf :  Thus  Shirley, 
"  Yon  come  to  sconr  your  maw  with  the  good  cheer 
Which  will  be  damnM  in  your  lean  barathrum, 
You  kitchen-stuff  devourer!"  The  H'eddinf. 

Massinsitr   has  taken   a  few  traits  of  the  character  of  hi* 
justice  from  Pasilipbo,  in  the  old  comedy  of  The  Suppose* 


S64 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[Acr  III 


Greedy,  Is't  a  time  to  talk, 
When  we  should  be  munching? 
Lov.  Hah  !  I  heard  some  noise. 
Over.  Murn,  villain ;  vanish  !    shall  we  break   a 

bargain 
Almost  made  up?  [Thrutti  Greedy  off. 

Lov.  Lady,  1  understand  you, 
And  rest  most  happy  in  your  choice,  believe  it ; 
I'll  be  a  careful  pilot  to  direct 
Your  yet  uncertain  bark  to  a  port  of  safety. 

Marg.  So  shall  your  honour  save   two  lives,  and 

bind  us 
Your  slaves  for  ever. 

Lou.  I  am  in  the  act  rewarded, 
Since  it  is  good  ;  howe'er,  you  must  put  on 
An  amorous  carriage  towards  me,  to  delude 
Your  subtle  father. 

Marg.  1  am  prone  to  that. 

Lov.  Now    break   we   off  our  conference. — Sir 

Giles ! 
Where  is  Sir  Giles?  [Overreach  corner  forward. 

Re-enter  ALI.WOUTH,  MARRALL,  and  GREEDY. 

Over.  My  noble  lord  ;  and  how 
Does  your  lordship  find  her? 

Lov.  Apt,  sir  Giles,  and  coming; 
And  1  like  her  the  better. 

Over.  So  do  I  too. 

Lov.  Yet  should  we  take  forts  at  the  first  assault. 
'Twere  poor  in  the  defendant;  I  must  confirm  her 
With  a  love  letter  or  two,  which  I  must  have 
Delivered  by  my  page,  and  you  give  way  to't. 

Over.  With  all  my  soul : — a  towardly  gentleman  ! 
Your  hand,  good  master  Allworth  ;  know  my  house 
Is  ever  open  to  you. 

All.  'Twas  shut  till  now.  [Aside. 

Over.   Well  done,    well    done,   my   Honourable 

daughter  ! 

Thou'rt  so  already  :  know  this  gentle  youth, 
And  cherish  him,  my  honourable  daughter. 

Marg.  I  shall,  with  my  best  care. 

[Noise  within,  as  of  a  coach. 

Over.  A  coach  ! 

Greedy.  More  stops 
Before  we  go  to  dinner  !     O  my  guts  ! 

Enter  Lady  ALLWORTII  and  WELLBORN. 

L.  All.  If  I  find  welcome, 
You  share  in  it ;  if  not,  I'll  back  again, 
Now  I  know  your  ends  j  for  I  come  arm'd  for  all 
Can  be  objected. 

Lov.  How  !  the  lady  Allworth  ! 

Over.  And  thus  attended  ! 

[Lot-ell  salutes  Lady  Allworth,  Lady  Allworth 
salutes  Margaret. 

Mar.  No,  I  am  a  dolt, 
The  spirit  of  lies  hath  enter'd  me. 

Over.  Peace,  Patch* ; 
'Tis  more  than  wonder  !  an  astonishment 
That  does  possess  me  wholly  ! 

Lov.  Noble  lady, 

This  is  a  favour,  to  preventf  my  visit, 
The  service  of  my  life  can  never  equal. 


*  Over.  Peace,  Patch ;]  Patch  was  the  name  of  a  fool 
kept  by  Cardinal  Wolsey,  and  who  has  deservedly  had  the 
honour  of  transmitting  bis  appellation  to  a  very  numerous 
body  of  descendants ;  he  being,  as  Wilson  observes,  in  his 
Art  of  Rhetorique,  1553,  "  a  notable  fool  in  his  time." 

t  'o  prevent  my  vitit,]  i.  e.  to  anticipate  it. 


L.  All.  My  lord,  I  laid  wait  for  you,  and  nrich 

hoped 

You  would  have  made  my  poor  house  your  first  ina  . 
And  therefore  doubting:  that  you  might  forget  me, 
Or  too  long  dwell  here,  having  such  ample  cause, 
In  this  unequall'd  beauty,  for  vour  stay  ; 
And  fearing  to  trust  any  but  myself 
Wiih  th«  relation  of  my  service  to  you, 
I  borrow'd  so  much  from  my  long  restraint, 
And  took  the  air  in  person  to  invite  you. 

Lou.  Your  bounties   are  so  great,  they  rob  m 

madam, 
Of  words  to  give  you  thanks. 

L.  All.  Good  sir  Giles  Overreach.     [Salutet  him, 
— How    dost   thou    Marrall  ?  liked   you  my    meat 

so  ill, 
You'll  dine  no  more  with  me  ? 

Greedy.  I  will,  when  you  please, 
An  it  like  your  ladyship. 

L.  All.  When  you  please,  master  Greedy; 
If  meat  can  do  it  you  shall  be  satisfied. 
And  now,  my  lord,  pray  take  into  your  knowledge 
This  gentleman  ;  howe'er  his  outside's  coarse, 

[Presents  Wellborf 

His  inward  linings  areas  fine  and  fair 
As  any  man's ;  wonder  not  I  speak  at  large : 
And  howsoe'er  his  humour  carries  him 
To  be  thus  accoutred,  or  what  taint  soever 
For  his  wild  life  hath  stuck  upon  his  fame, 
He  may,  ere  long,  with  boldness,  rank  himself 
With  some   that   have  contemn'd  him.       Sir  Giles 

Overreach, 
If  T  am  welcome,  bid  him  so. 

Over.  My  nephew  ! 

He  has  been  too  long  a  stranger :  faith  you  have, 
Pray  let  it  be  mended. 

[Lovell  conferring  aside  with  Wellborn. 
Mar.  Why,  sir,  what  do  you  mean  ? 
This  is  rogue  Wellborn,  monster,  prodigy, 
That  should   hang  or  drown  himself  j  no  man  o> 

worship, 
Much  less  your  nephew. 

Over.  Well,  sirrah,  we  shall  reckon 
For  this  hereafter. 

Mar.  I'll  not  lose  my  jeer, 
Though  I  be  beaten  dead  for't. 
Well.  Let  my  silence  plead 
In  my  excuse,  my  lord,  till  better  leisure 
Offer  itself  to  hear  a  full  relation 
Of  my  poor  fortunes. 

Lov.  I  would  hear,  and  help  them. 
Over.  Your  dinner  waits  you. 
Lov.  Pray  you  lead,  we  follow. 
L.All.  Nay,  you  are  my  guest;    come,  dear  mas 
ter  Wellborn.  [Exeunt  all  but  Greedy 

Greedy.     Dear  master   Wellborn!    So    she  said; 

heaven !  heaven ! 

If  my  belly  would  give  me  leave,  I  could  ruminate 
All  day  on  this  :   I  have  granted  twenty  warrants 
To  have  him   committed,    from   all  prisons  in  the 

shire, 
To  Nottingham  gaol ;     and   now,    Dear   master 

Wellborn  ! 

And,  My  good  nephew  ! — but  I  play  the  fool 
To  stand  here  prating,  and  forget  my  dinner. 

Re-enter  MARRALL. 
Are  they  set,  Marrall  ? 

Mar.  Long  since ;  pray  you  a  word,  sir. 
Greedy.  No  wording  now. 


SCENE  III.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


$65 


Mar.  In  troth,  I  must ;  my  master 
Knowing  you  are  his  good  friend,  makes  bold  with 

you, 

And  does  entreat  you,  more  guests  being  come  in 
Than  he  expected,  especially  his  nephew, 
The  table  be'/ig  full  too,  you  would  excuse  him, 
And  sup  with  him  on  the  cold  meat. 

Greedy.  How  !  no  dinner, 
After  all  my  care? 

Mar.  'Tis  but  a  penance  for 
A  meal ;  besides,  you  broke  your  fast. 

Greedy.   That  was 

But  a  bit  to  stay  my  stomach  :  a  man  in  commission 
Give  place  to  a  tatterdemalion  ! 

y.ar.   No  bug*  words,  sir  ; 
SI  juld  his  worship  hear  you 

Greedy.  Lost  my  dumpling  too, 
And  butter'd  toasts,  and  woodcocks  ! 

Mcr.  Come,  have  patience. 
If  you  will  dispense  a  little  with  your  worship, 
And    sit   with   the  waiting   women,  you'll  have 

dumpling, 
Woodcock,  and  butter'd  toasts  too. 

Greedy.  This  revives  me: 
I  will  gorge  there  sufficiently. 

Mar.  This  is  the  way,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  Overreach's  House. 
Enter  OVERREACH,  as  from  dinner. 

Over.  She's  caught !  0  women  ! — she  neglects  my 

lord, 

And  all  her  compliments  applied  to  Wellborn  ! 
The  garments  of  her  widowhood  laid  by, 
She  now  appears  as  glorious  as  the  spring. 
Her  eyes  fix'd  on  him,  in  the  wine  she  drinks, 
He    being    her    pledge,    she    sends   him  burning 

kisses, 

And  sits  on  thorns,  till  she  be  private  with  him. 
She  leaves  my  meat  to  feed  upon  his  looks ; 
And  if  in  our  discourse  he  be  but  named, 
From  her  a  deep  sigh  follows.     But  why  grieve  I 
At  this  ?  it  makes  for  me  ;  if  she  prove  his, 
111  that  is  her's  is  mine,  as  I  will  work  him. 

Enter  MARRALL. 

Mar.  Sir,   the  whole    board  is  troubled  at  your 
rising. 

Oier.  No  matter,  I'll  excuse  it :  prithee  Marrall, 
Watch  an  occasion  to  invite  my  nephew 
To  speak  with  me  in  private. 

Mar.   \Vho  !  the  rogue 
The  lady  scoin'd  to  look  on  1 

Oier.  You  are  a  wag. 

Enter  Lady  ALLWORTH  and  WELLBORN. 

Mar.  See,  sir,   she's   come,   and  cannot  be  with- 
out him. 
L.  All.  With  your  favour,  sir,  after  a  plenteous 

dinner, 

I  shall  make  bold  to  walk  a  turn  or  two 
In  your  rare  garden. 

Over.  There's  an  arbour  too, 
If  your  ladyship  please  to  use  it. 
L.  AH.  Come,  master  Wellborn. 

[Exeunt  Lady  Alltcorlh  and  Wellborn. 

•  Mar.    Ao  bug  words,  sir;]  i.  e.   no  frightful,  terrific 
words :  the  word  occurs  in  this  sense  in  all  our  old  poets. 


Over.  Grosser  and  grosser!  now  I  believe  the  poet 
Feign'd  not,  but  was  historical,  when  he  wrote 
Pasiphae  was  enamour'd  of  a  bull : 
This  lady's  lust's  more  monstrous.      My  good  lord, 

Enter  Lord  LOVELL,  MARGARET,  and  the  rest. 
Excuse  my  manners. 

Lov.  There  needs  none,  sir  Giles, 
I  may  ere  long  say  Father,  when  it  pleases 
My  dearest  mistress  to  give  warrant  to  it. 

Over.  She  shall  seal  to  it,   my  lord,   and  make 
me  happy. 
Re-enter  WELLBORN  and  Lady  ALLWORTH. 

Marg.  My  lady  is  return'd. 

L.  All.  Provide  my  coach, 
I'll  instantly  away  ;  my  thanks,  sir  Giles, 
For  my  entertainment. 

Over.  'Tis  your  nobleness 
To  think  it  such. 

L.  All.  I  must  do  you  a  further  wrong, 
In  taking  away  your  honourable  guest. 

Lov.  I  wait  on  vou,  madam ;  farewell,   good  sir 
Giles. 

L.  All.  Good    mistress   Margaret;    nay    come, 

master  Wellborn, 

I  must   not   leave   you   behind ;  in   sooth,  I  must 
not. 

Over.  Rob  me  not,  madam,  of  all  joys  at  once  ; 
Let  my   nephew    stay   behind  :    he  shall  have  my 

coach, 

And,  after  some  small  conference  between  us, 
Soon  overtake  your  ladyship. 

L.  All.  Stay  not  long,  sir. 

Lov.  This  parting  kiss  :    [A'isses  Margaret.]  you 

shall  every  dny  hear  from  me 
By  my  faithful  page. 

All.  'Tis  a  service  I  am  proud  of. 

[Exeunt  Lord  Lovell,  Lady  Allworth,  Allworth, 
and  Marralt. 

Ocer.  Daughter,    to   your   chamber. —  [Eiit  Mar- 
garet.]—  Vou  may  wonder,  nephew, 
After  so  long  an  enmity  between  us, 
I  should  desire  your  friendship. 

Well.  So  I  do,  sir ; 
'Tis  strange  to  me. 

Over.  But  I'll  make  it  no  wonder  ; 
And  what  is  more,  unfold  my  nature  to  you. 
We  worldly  men,  when  we  see  friends,  and  kinsmen, 
Past  hope  sunk  in  their  fortunes,  lend  no  hand 
To  lift  them  up,  but  rather  set  our  feet 
Upon  their  heads,  to  press  them  to  the  bottom; 
As,  I  must  yield,  with  you  I  practised  it: 
But,  now  I  see  vou  in  a  way  to  rise, 
I  can  and  will  assist  you ;  this  rich  lady 
(And  I  am  glad  oft)  is  enamour'd  of  you  ; 
'Tis  too  apparent,  nephew. 

Well.  No  such  thing  : 
Compassion  rather,  sir. 

Ocer.  Well,  in  a  word, 

Because  your  stay  is  short,  I'll  have  you  seen 
No  more  in  this  bas-e  shape  ;  nor  shall  she  say, 
She  married  you  like  a  beggar,  or  in  debt. 

Well.  He'll  run  into   the  noose,   and  save  my 
labour.  [Aside. 

Over.  You  have  a  trunk  of  rich  clothes,  not  far 

hence, 

In  pawn  ;  I  will  redeem  them  ;  and  that  no  clamour 
May  taint  your  credit  for  your  petty  debts, 
You  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  to  cut  them  off. 
And  go  a  free  man  to  the  wealthy  lady. 


366 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[AcriV 


Well.  This  done,  sir,  out  of  love,  and   no  ends 

else 

Orer.  As  it  is,  nephew. 
Well.  Binds  me  still  your  servant. 
Orer.  No   compliments,  you    are   staid    for:  ere 
you  have  supp'd  [my  nephew  ! 

You  shall  hear  trom  m>?.     My  coach,   knaves,   for 
To  morrow  I  will  visit  you. 


Well.  Here  s  an  uncle 
In   a   man's   extremes !    how   much    they  do  belie 

you, 
That  say  you  are  hard  hearted  ! 

Oter,  My  deeds,  nuphew, 

Shall  speak  my  love  ;  what  men   report    I  weigi 
not. 

[Exeunt 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  Lady  Allworth's  House. 
Enter  Lord  LOVELL  and  AULWORTH. 

LOT.  'Tis   well ;  give  me  my  cloak ;  I  now  dis- 
charge you 

From  further  service  :  mind  your  own  affairs, 
I  hope  they  will  prove  successful. 

All.  What  is  blest 

"With  your  good  wish,  my  lord,  cannot  but  prosper. 
Let  aftertimes  report,  and  to  your  honour, 
How  much  I  stand  engaged,  for  I  want  language 
To  speak  my  debt ;  yet  if  a  tear  or  two 
Of  joy,  for  your  much  goodness,  can  supply 
My  tongue's  defects,  I  could 

Loo.  Nay,  do  not  melt : 
This  ceremonial  thanks  to  me's  superfluous. 

Over,  [within.]  Is  my  lord  stirring  1 

Lov.  'Tis  he  !  oh,  here's  your  letter:  let  him  in. 

Enter  OVFRRKACH,  GKEEDY,  and  MAUPALL. 

Over.  A  good  day  to  my  lord  ! 

Lou.  You  are  an  early  riser, 
Sir  Giles. 

Oier.  And  reason,  to  attend  your  lordship. 

Lov.  And  you,  too,  master  Greedy,  up  so  soon ! 

Greedy.  In  troth,  my  lord,  after  the  suii  is  up 
I  cannot  sleep,  for  I  have  a  foolish  stomach 
That  croaks  for   breakfast.     With  your  lordship's 

favour, 

I  have  a  serious  question  to  demand 
Of  my  worthy  friend  sir  Giles. 

Lov.  Pray  you  use  your  pleasure. 

Greedy.  How  far,  sir  Giles, -.md  pray  you  answer  me 
Upon  your  credit,  hold  you  it  to  be 
From   your   manor-house,  to  this  of  my  lady  All- 
worth's'! 

Over.  Why,  some  four  mile. 

Greedy.  How  !   four  mile,  good  sir  Giles 

Upon  your  reputation,  think  better: 
For  if  you  do  abate  but  one  half  quarter 
Of  five,  you  do  yourself  the  greatest  wrong 
That  can  be  in  the  world  ;  for  four  miles  riding 
Could  not  have  raised  so  huge  an  appetite 
As  I  feel  gnawing  on  me. 

Mar.  Whether  you  ride, 
Or  go  afoot,  you  are  that  way  still  provided, 
An  it  please  your  worship. 

Over.  How  now,  sirrah  !   prating      \ 
Before  my  lord  !  no  difference  !  Go  to  my  nephew  ; 
See  all  his  debts  d^charged,  and  help  his  worship 
To  nt  on  his  rich  suit. 

Mar.  I  m;iy  fit  you  too. 
Toss'a  IIKC  a  dog  still.  [Exit. 


Lov.  I  have  writ  this  morning 
A  few  lines  to  my  mistress,  your  fair  daughter. 

Over.    'Twill   fire  her,    for    she's    wholly    yours 

already : 

Sweet  master  All  worth,  take  my  ring  ;    'twill  carry 

you 
To  her  presence,  I  dare    warrant  you ;  and   there 

plead 

For  my  good  lord,  if  you  shall  find  occasion. 
That  done,  pray  ride  to  Nottingham,  get  a  licea 
Still  by  this  token.     I'll  have  it  dispatch'd, 
And  suddenly,  my  lord,  that  I  may  say, 
My  honourable,  nay,  right  honourable  daughter. 

Greedy.    Take  my  advice,  young  gentleman,  get 

your  breakfast ; 

Tis  unwholesome  to  ride  fasting :  I'll  eat  with  you, 
And  eat  to  purpose. 

Orer.  Some  fury's  in  that  gut : 
Hungry  again  !  did  you  not  devour  this  morning 
A    shield    of  brawn,  and   a  barrel    of    Colchester 
oysters  ? 

Grtedy.  Why,   that  was,   sir,   only  to  scour  my 

stomach, 

A  kind  of  a  preparative.     Come,  gentleman, 
I  will   not  have    you  feed   like  the  hangman  of 

Flushing, 
Alone,  while  I  am  here. 

Lov.  Haste  your  return. 

AH.  I  will  not  fail,  my  lord. 

Greedy.  Nor  I  to  line 
My  Christmas  coffer. 

[Exeunt  Greedy  and  Allianth. 

Ovtr.  To  my  wish  ;  we  are  private. 
I  come  not  to  make  offer  with  my  daughter 
A  certain  portion;  that  were  poor  and  trivial , 
In  one  word,  I  pronounce  all  that  is  mine, 
In  lands  or  leases,  ready  coin  or  goods, 
With  her  my  lord  comes  to  you  ;  nor  shall  you  have 
One  motive  to  induce  you  to  believe 
I  live  too  long,  since  every  year  I'll  add 
Something  unto  the  heap,  which  shall  be  yours  too. 

Li>v.  You  are  a  right  kind  father. 

Orer.  You  shall  have  reason 
To  think  me  such.     How  do  you  like  this  seat? 
It  is  well  wooded,  and  well  water'd,  the  acres 
Fertile  and  rich  ;  would  it  not  serve  for  change 
To  entertain  your  friends  in  a  summer  progress  ? 
What  thinks  my  noble  loid? 

Lov.  'Tis  a  wholesome  air, 

And  well  built  pile;  and  she  that's  mistress  of  it 
Worthy  the  large  revenue. 

Oter.  She  the  mistress  ! 
It  may  be  so  for  a  time  :  but  let  my  lord 


SCENE  I.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


Say  only  that  he  likes  it,  and  would  have  it, 
I  say,  ere  long  'tis  his. 
Lov.  Impossible. 

Over.  You  do  conclude  too  fast,  not  knowing  me, 
Nor  the  engines  that  I  work  bv.     'Tis  not  alone 
The  lady  Allworth's  lands,   for  those  once  Well- 

born's 

(As  by  her  dotage  on  him  I  know  they  will  be), 
Shall  soon  be  mine ;  but  point  out  any  man's 
In  all  the  shire,  and  say  they  lie  convenient 
And  useful  for  your  lordship,  and  once  more 
I  say  aloud,  they  are  your's. 

Lov.  t  dare  not  own 

What's  bv  unjust  and  cruel  means  extorted ; 
My  fame  and  credit  are  more  dear  to  me, 
Than  so  to  expose  them  to  be  censured  by 
The  public  voice. 

Over.  You  run,  my  lord,  no  hazard. 
Your  reputation  shall  stand  as  fair 
Jn  all  good  men's  opinions  as  now  ; 
Nor  can  my  actions,  though  condemn'd  for  ill, 
Cast  any  foul  aspersion  upon  yours. 
For,  though  1  do  contemn  report  myself, 
As  a  mere  sound,  I  still  will  be  so  tender 
Of  what  concerns  you,  in  all  points  of  honour, 
That  the  immaculate  whiteness  of  your  fame, 
Nor  your  unquestioned  integrity, 
Shall  e'er  be  sullied  with  o:ie  taint  or  spot 
That  may  take  from  your  innocence  and  candour. 
All  my  ambition  is  to  have  my  daughter 
Right  honourable,  which  my  lord  can  make  her: 
And  might  I  live  to  dance  upon  my  knee 
A  young  lord  Lovell,  born  by  her  unto  you, 

write  nil  ultra  to  my  proudest  hopes. 
As  for  possessions,  and  annual  rents, 
Equivalent  to  maintain  you  in  the  port 
Your  noble  birth  and  present  state  requires, 
I  do  remove  that  burthen  from  your  shoulders, 
And  take  it  on  mine  own  :  for  though  I  ruin 
The  country  to  supply  your  riotous  waste, 
The  scourge  of  prod'igals,   want,   shall  never  find 

you. 

Lov.  Are  you  not  frighted  with  the  imprecations 
And  curses  of  whole  families,  made  wretched 
By  your  sinister  practices  1 
Over.  Yes,  as  rocks  are, 
AY  hen  foamy  billows  split  themselves  against 
Their  flinty  ribs;  or  as  the  moon  is  moved, 
When    wolves,   with  hunger  pined,  howl  at    her 

brightness. 

I  am  of  a  solid  temper,  and,  like  these, 
Steer  on  a  constant  course :  with  mine  own  sword. 
If  call'd  into  the  field,  I  can  make  that  right 
Which  fearful  enemies  murmur'd  at  as  wrong. 
Now  for  these  other  piddling  complaints 
Breath 'd  out  in  bitterness  ;  as  when  they  call  me 
Extortioner,  tyrant,  cormorant,  or  intruder 
On  my  poor  neighbours'  right,  or  grand  incloser 
Of  what  was  common,  to  my  private  use  : 
Nay,  when   my  ears  are  pierc'd  with  widow's  cries, 
And  undone  orphans  wash  with  tears  my  threshold, 
I  only  think  what  'tis  to  have  my  daughter 
Right  honourable  ;  and  'tis  a  powerful  charm. 
Makes  me  insensible  of  remorse,  or  pity, 
Or  the  least  sting  of  conscience. 

Lot.  I  admire 
The  toughness  of  your  nature. 

Over.  'Tis  for  you, 

My  lord,  and  for  my  daughter,  I  am  marble ; 
Nay  more,  if  you  will  have  my  character 


In  little,  I  enjoy  more  true  delight 

In  my  arrival  to  my  wealth  these  dnrk 

And    crooked    ways,    than    you    shall    e'er    taka 

pleasure 

In  spending  what  my  industry  hath  compass'd. 
My   haste    commands    me    hence :  in   one   word, 

therefore, 
Is  it  a  match? 

Lov.  1  hope,  that  is  past  doubt  now. 

Oter.  Then   rest    secure ;  not    the    hate    of  all 

mankind  here*, 

Nor  fear  of  what  can  fall  on  me  hereafter, 
Shall  make  me  study  aught  but  your  advancement     . 
One  story  higher:  an  earl  !  if  gold  can  do  it. 
Dispute  not  my  religion,  nor  my  faith  ; 
Though  I  am  borne  thus  headlong  by  my  will, 
You  may  make  choice  of  what  belief  you  please, 
To  me  they  are  equal  j  so,  my  lord,  good  morrow. 

[  Hxit. 
Lov.  He's  gone — I   wonder  how  the   earth  can 

bear 

Such  a  portent !   I,  that  have  lived  a  soldier, 
And  stood  the  enemy's  violent  charge  undaunted, 
To  hear  this  blasphemous  beast  am  bath'd  all  over 
In  a  cold  sweat:  yet,  like  a  mountain,  he 
(Confirm'd  in  atheistical  assertions) 
Is  no  more  shaken  than  Olympus  is 
When  angry  Boreas  loads  his  double  headf 
With  suddttn  drifts  of  snow. 

Enter  Lady  ALLWOR.TH,  Waiting  Woman,  and 
AMBLE. 

L.  All.  Save  you,  my  lord  ! 
Disturb  I  not  your  privacy  ? 

Lov.  No,  good  madam  ; 

For  your  own  sake  I  am  glad  you  came  no  sooner. 
Since  this  bold  bad  man,  sir  Giles  Overreach, 
Made  such  a  plain  discovery  of  himself, 
And  read  this  morning  such  a  devilish  matins, 
That  I  should  think  it  a  sin  next  to  his 
But  to  repeat  it. 

L.  Alt.  1  ne'er  press'd,  my  lord, 
On  others'  privacies  ;  yet,  against  my  will, 
Walking,  for  health  sake,  in  the  gallery 
Adjoining  to  your  lodgings,  I  was  made 
(So  vehement  and  loud  he  was)  partaker 
Of  his  tempting  offers. 

Lov.  Please  you  to  command 
Your  servants  hence,  and  I  shall  gladly  hear 
Your  wiser  counsel. 

L.  All.  Tis,  my  lord,  a  woman's, 
But  true  and  hearty  ; — wait  in  the  next  room, 
But  be  within  call ;  yet  not  so  near  to  force  me 
To  whisper  my  intents. 

Amb.  We  are  taught  better 
By  you,  good  madam. 

Woman.     And  well  know  our  distance. 

L.  All.  Do  so,  and  talk  not ;  'twill  become  your 
breeding.                    [Exeunt  Amble  and  Wrnan, 
Now,  my  good  lord  :  if  1  may  use  my  freedom, 
As  to  an  bonour'd  friend 


• not  the  hate  of  all  mankind  here,., 

I  know  not  why  the  modern  editors  omit  here;  not  only 
he  rhythm  but  the  sense  is  improved  by  its  restoration. 

f      ' than  Olympus  if 

When  angry  Boreas  loads  his  double  head 
With  sudden  drifts  of  snow.]  Either  Massinger,  or  im 
transcriber,  has  mistaken  Olympus  for  Parnassus:  it  may 
be  the  former,  for,  in  trusting  to  their  memory,  MK9  slipt 
are  not  unusual  in  our  old  writers,  who  were  indeed  !H!il) 
solicitous  of  accuracy  in  these  trivial  matters. 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[AcrlV 


Lov.  You  lessen  else 
Your  favour  to  me. 

L.  All.  I  dare  then  say  thus  '. 
As  you  are  noble  (howe'er  common  men 
Make  sordid  wealth  the  ohject  and  sole  end 
Of  their  industrious  aims)  'twill  not  agree 
With  those  of  eminent  blood,  who  are  engaged 
More  to  prefer  their  honours,  than  to  increase 
The  state  left  to  them  by  their  ancestors, 
To  study  large  additions  to  their  fortunes, 
And   quite    neglect  their  births : — though  I  must 

grant, 

Riches,  well  got,  to  be  a  useful  servant, 
But  a  bad  master. 

Lov    Madam,  'tis  confess'd  ; 
But  what  infer  you  from  it? 

L.  AIL  This,  my  lord  ; 

That  as  all  wrongs,  though  thrust  into  one  scale, 
Slide  of  themselves  off,  when  right  fills  the  other, 
And  cannot  bide  the  trial  ;  so  all  wealth, 
I  mean  if  ill  acquired,  cemented  to  honour 
By  virtuous  ways  achieved,  and  bravely  purchased, 
Is  but  ;is  rubbisli  pour'd  into  a  river 
(Howe'er  intended  to  make  good  the  bank), 
Rendering  the  water,  that  was  pure  before, 
Polluted  and  unwholesome.     I  allow 
The  heir  of  sir  Giles  Overreach,  Margaret, 
A  maid  well  qualified,  and  the  richest  match 
Our  north  purt  can   make  boast  of;  yet  she  cannot, 
With  all  that  she  brings  with  her,  fill  their  mouths, 
That  never  will  forget  who  was  her  father ; 
Or  that  my  husband  Allworth's  lands,  and  Wellborn 's 
(How  wrung  from  both  needs  now  no  repetition), 
Were  real  mo;ives  that  more  work'd  your  lordship 
To  join  your  families,  than  her  form  and  virtues  : 
You  may  conceive  the  rest. 

Lov.  I  do,  sweet  madam, 
And  long  since  have  considered  it.     I  know 
The  sum  of  all  that  makes  a  just  man  happy 
Consists  in  the  well  choosing  of  his  wife  : 
And  there,  well  to  discharge  it,  does  require 
Equality  of  years,  of  birth,  of  fortune  ; 
For  beauty  being  poor,  and  not  cried  up 
By  birth  or  wealth,  can  truly  mix  with  neither. 
And  wealth,  where  there's  such  difference  in  years, 
And  fair  descent,  must  make  the  yoke  uneasy_:— 
But  I  come  nearer. 

L.  All.  Pray  \ou  do,  my  lord. 

Lov.  Were   Overreach'  states  thrice  centupled, 

his  daughter 

Millions  of  degrees  much  fairer  than  she  is, 
Howe'er  I  might  urge  precedents  to  excuse  me, 
I  would  not  so  adulterate  my  blood 
By  marrying  Margaret,  and  so  leave  my  issue 
Made  up  of  several  pieces,  one  part  scarlet 
And  the  other  London  blue.     In  my  own  tomb 
I  will  infer  my  name  first. 

L.  All.  I  am  glad  to  hear  this. [Aside. 

Why  then,  my  lord,  pretend  your  marriage  to  her  1 
Dissimulation  but  ties  false  knots 
On  that  straight  line  bv  which  you  hitherto 
Have  measured  all  your  actions. 

Lo».  I  make  answer, 

And  aptly,  with  a  question.     Wherefore  have  you, 
That,   since  your  husband's  death,  have  lived  a 

strict 

And  chaste  nun's  life,  on  the  sudden  given  your- 
self 

To  visits  and  entertainments?  think  you,  madam, 
Tis  not  grown  publ.c  conference?  or  the  favours 


Which  you  too  prodigally  have  thrown  on  Wellborn, 
Being  too*  reserved  before,  incur  not  censure? 

L.  All.  I  am  innocent  here,  and,   on  my  life  I 

swear 
My  ends  are  good. 

Lov.  On  my  soul,  so  are  mine 
To  Margaret ;  but  leave  both  to  the  event: 
And  since  this  friendly  privacy  does  serve 
But  as  an  offer'd  means  unto  ourselves 
To  search  each  other  further,  you  having  shown 
Your  care  of  me,  I,  my  respect  to  you  ; 
Deny  me  not,  but  still  in  chaste  words,  madam 
An  afternoon's  discourse. 

L.  All.  So  I  shall  hear  you.  [Exeunt, 


SCENE  II.— Before  Tapwell's  House 

Enter  TAPWELL  and  FROTH. 

Tap.  Undone,  undone!    this  was  your  counsel, 
Froth. 

Froth.     Mine !     I   defy  thee :    did   not    master 

Man-all 

(He  has  marr'd  all,  I  am  sure)  strictly  command  us, 
On  pain  of  sir  Giles  Overreach'  displeasure, 
To  turn  the  gentleman  out  of  doors? 

Tap.  'Tis  true ; 

But  now  he's  his  uncle's  darling,  and  has  got 
Master  justice  Greedy,  since  he  fill'd  his  belly, 
At  his  commandment,  to  do  any  thing  ; 
Woe,  woe  to  us ! 

Froth.  He  may  prove  merciful. 

Tap.  Troth,  we  do  not  deserve  it  at  his  hands. 
Though  he  knew  all  the  passages  of  our  house, 
As  the  receiving  of  stolen  goods,  and  bawdry, 
When   he  was  rogue  Wellborn  110   man  would  be- 
lieve him, 

And  then  bis  information  could  not  hurt  us; 
But  now  he  is  right  worshipful  again, 
Who  dares  but  doubt  his  testimony  ?  metbinks 
I  see  thee,  Froth,  already  in  a  cart 
For  a  close  bawd,  thine  eyes  even  pelted  out 
With  dirt  and  rotten  eggs  ;  and  my  hand  hissing, 
If  I  scape  the  halter,  with  the  letter  R 
Printed  upon  it. 

Froth.  Would  that  were  the  worst ! 
That  were  but  nine  days'  wonder :   as  for  credit 
We  have  none  to  lose,  but  we  shall  lose  the  money 
He  owes  us,  and  his  custom:  there's  the  hell  on't. 

Tap.  He  has  summon'd  all  his  creditors  by  the 

drum, 

And  they  swarm  about  him  like  so  many  soldiers 
On  the  pay  day  ;  and  has  found  out  such  a  NEW 

WAY 

To  PAY  HIS  OLD  DEBTS,  as  'tis  very  likely 
He  shall  be  chronicled  for  it ! 

Froth.  He  deserves  it 
More  than   ten  pageantsf     But  are  you    sure  his 

worship 
Comes  this  way  to  my  lady's  ? 

[A  cry  within  :  Brave  master  Wellborn ! 

•  Being  too  reserved  before,]  This  is  the  reading  of  the 
quarto,  and  evidently  genuine:  it  does  not  however  satisfy 
Mr.  M.  Mason  ;  who  gives  us,  on  his  own  authority,  Being 
so  reserved  before! 

t 'tit  very  likely 

He  shall  be  chronicled  for  it  t 

Froth.  He  deserves  it 

More  than  ten  pageants.]  This  is  a  pleasant  allusion  to 
the  minute  industry  with  which  Holingshed,  Stowe,  Baker, 
and  the  other  chroniclers  of  tUose  times,  collected  every  un 


SCKVE  IT.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


369 


Tap.  Yes  : — I  hear  him. 

Froth.  Be  ready  with  your  petition,  and  present  it 
To  his  good  grace. 

Enter  WELLBORN  in  a  rir.h  ha  hit,  followed  by  MARK- 
ALL,  GREEDY,  ORDER,  FITKNACE,  and  Creditors  ; 
TAPWELL  kneeling,  delivers  his  petition. 

Well.  How's  this  !  petition'd  too  ? 

But  note  what  miracles  the  payment  of 
A  little  trash,  and  a  rich  suit  of  clothes, 
Can  work  upon  these  rascals  !  1  shall  be, 
I  think,  prince  Wellborn. 

Mar.  When  your  worship's  married 
You  may  be  : — I  know  what  I  hope  to  see  you. 

Well.  Then  look  thou  for  advancement. 

Mar.  To  be  known 

Your  worship's  bailiff  is  the  mark  I  shoot  at. 
Well.  And  thou  shalt  hit  it. 

Mar.  Pray  you,  sir,  dispatch 
These  needy  followers,  and  for  my  admittance, 
Provided  you'll  defend  me  from  sir  Giles, 
Whose  service  I  am  weary  of,  I'll  say  something 
You  shall  give  thanks  for. 

Well.  Fear  me  not  sir  Giles*. 

Greedy.  Who,   Tapwell  ?    I   remember    thy  wife 

brought  me, 
Last  new-year's  tide,  a  couple  of  fat  turkies. 

Tap.  And    shall   do  every    Christmas,   let  your 

worship 
But  stand  my  friend  now. 

Greedy.  How!  with  master  Wellborn? 

I  can  do  any  thing  with  him  on  such  terms. • 

See  you  this  honest  couple,  they  are  good  souls 
As  ever  drew  out  fosset ;  have  they  not 
A  pair  of  honest  faces? 

Well.  I  o'erheard  you. 
And   the  bribe  he  promised.      You  are  cozen 'd  in 

them; 

For,  of  all  the  scum  that  grew  rich  by  my  riots, 
This,  for  a  most  unthankful  knave,  and  this, 
For  a  base  bawd  and  whore,  have  worst  deserv'd 

mef, 

And  therefore  speak  not  for  them  :  by  your  place 
You  are  rather  to  do  me  justice  ;  lend  me  your  ear  : 
— Forget  his  turkies,  and  call  in  his  license, 
And,  at  the  next  fair,  I'll  give  you  a  yoke  of  oxen 
Worth  all  his  poultry. 

Greedy.  1  am  changed  on  the  sudden 
In  my  opinion!  come  near;  nearer,  rascal. 
And,  now  I  view  him  better,  did  you  e'er  see 


important  event  and  individual  history,  to  swell  their  useful 
but  desultory  pages : 

"  I  more  voluminous  should  grow 

Chiefly  if  I,  like  them,  should  tell 
All  kind  of  weather  that  befel, 
Than  Holingshed  or  Stowe."  Cowley. 

The  reply  of  Froth  is  sarcastically  aimed  at  the  perverse 
pains  bestowed  by  the  former  of  these  writers  on  the  ridi- 
culous mummery,  under  the  name  of  pageants,  which  the 
city  was  in  the  habit  of  exhibiting  on  every  public  occasion. 
*  ifou  shall  give  thanks  for 

Well,  fear  me  not  sir  Giles.]  So  the  quarto.     The 
modern  editors  read : 

You  shall  gite  me  thanks  for. 
Well,  fear  not,  sir  Giles. 

Which  is  not  metre  :  but  they  probably  did  not  understand 
the  phraseology  of  the  last  hemistich,  which  is  a  Gallicism  to 
be  found  in  every  writer  of  Massinger's  time.  For  their 
insertion  of  me  in  the  former  I  cannot  pretend  to  account. 

— hare  worst  deserved  me,i  Here  again, 

from  ignorance  of  the  language,  the  last  word  is  thrown  out. 
Such  editors  1 


One   look  so  like  an  archknave  ?  his  very  counte- 
nance, 

Should  an  understanding  judge  but  look  upon  him, 
Would  hang  him  though  he  were  innocent. 

Tap.  Froth.  Worshipful  sir. 

Greedy.  No,  though  the  great  Turk  came,  instead 

of  turkies, 

To  beg  my  favour,  I  am  inexorable. 
Thou  hast  an  ill  name  :  besides  thy  musty  ale, 
That  hath  destroy'd  many  of  the  king's  liege  people, 
Thou   never    hadst  in    thy   house,   to   stay  men's 

stomachs, 

A  piece  of  Suffolk  cheese,  or  gammon  of  bacon, 
Or  any  esculent,  as  the  learned  call  it, 
For  their  emolument,  but  sheer  drink  only. 
For  which  gross  fault  I  here  do  damn  thy  licence, 
Forbidding  thee  ever  to  tap  or  draw  : 
For,  instantly,  I  will  in  mine  own  person 
Command  the  constables  to  pull  down  thy  sign, 
And  do  it  before  I  eat. 

Froth.  No  mercy ! 

Greedy.  Vanish. 
If  I  show  any,  may  my  promised  oxen  gore  me ! 

Tap.  Unthankful  knaves  are  ever  so  rewarded. 
[Exeunt  Greedy,  Tapwell,  and  Froth 

Well.  Speak  ;  what  are  you  ? 

1  Cred.  A  decay 'd  vintner,  sir, 
That  might  have  thrived,   but  that  your  worshij. 

broke  me 

With  trusting  you  with  muskadine  and  eggs. 
And  five-pound  suppers,  with  your  after  drinkings. 
When  you  lodged  upon  the  Bankside. 

IVell.  I  remember. 

1  Cred.  1  have  not  been  hasty,  nor  e'er  laid  to 
arrest  you ; 

And  therefore,  sir 

Well.  Thou  art  an  honest  fellow, 
I'll  set  tbee  up  again  ;  see  his  bill  paid. 
What  are  you  ? 

2  Cred.  A  tailor  once,  but  now  mere  botcher. 
I  gave  you  credit  for  a  suit  of  clothes, 

\\  hich  was  all  my  stock,  but  you  failing  in  payment, 
1  was  removed  from  the  shop-board,  and  confined 
Under  a  stall. 

Well.  See  him  paid  ;  and  botch  no  more. 

2  Cred.  I  ask  no  interest,  sir. 
Well.  Such  tailors  need  not ; 

If  their  bills  are  paid  in  one  and  twenty  year 
They  are  seldom  losers.     O,  I  know  thy  face, 
Thou  wert  my  surgeon  :  you  must  tell  no  tales ; 
Those  days  are  done.     I  will  pay  you  in  private. 

Ord.  A  royal  gentleman  ! 

Fum.  Royal  as  an  emperor ! 
He'll  prove  a  brave  master ;  my  good  lady  knew 
To  choose  a  man. 

Well.  See  all  men  else  discharg'd  ; 
And  since  old  debts  are  clear 'd  by  a  new  way, 
A  little  bounty  will  not  misbecome  me  : 
There's  something,  honest  cook,  for  thy  good  break- 
fasts, 

And  this  for  your  respect ;  take't,  'tis  good  gold, 
And  I  able  to  spare  it. 

Ord.  You  are  too  munificent. 

Furn.  He  was  ever  so. 

Well.  Pray  you,  on  before. 

3  Cred.  Heaven  bless  you  ! 

Mar.  At  four  o'clock  the  rest  know  where  to 
meet  me. 

[Exeunt  Order,  Furnace,  and 


370 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[Acr 


Well.  Now,  master  Marrall   what's  the  weighty 

secret 
You  promised  to  impart  ? 

JVIar.  Sir,  time  nor  place 
Allow  me  to  relate  each  circumstance, 
This  only  in  a  word  ;  I  know  Sir  Giles 
Will  come  upon  you  for  security 
For  his  thousand  pounds,  which  you  must  not  con- 
sent to. 

As  he  grows  in  heat,  as  I  am  sure  be  will, 
Be  you  but  rough,  and  say  he's  in  your  debt 
Ten  times  the  sum,  upon  sale  of  your  land  ; 
I  had  a  hand  in't  (I  speak  it  to  my  shame), 
When  you  were  defeated  of  it. 

Well.  That's  forgiven. 

Mar.   1  shall  deserve  it :  then  urge  him  to  pro- 
duce 

The  deed  in  which  you  pass'd  it  over  to  him, 
Which  I  know  he'll  have  about  him  to  deliver 
To  the  lord  Lovell,  with  many  other  writings, 
And  present  monies :  I'll  instruct  you  further, 
As  1  wait  on  your  worship :  if  I  play  not  my  prize* 
To  your  full  content,  and  your  uncle's  much  vexa- 
tion, 
Hang  up  Jack  Marrall. 

Well.  I  rely  upon  thee.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  Overreach's  House. 
Enter  ALLWOUTH  and  MARGARET. 

All.  Whether  to  yield  the  first  praise  to  my  lord's 
Unequall'd  temperance,  or  your  constant  sweetness, 
That  1  yet  live,  my  weak  hands  fasten'd  on 
Hope's  anchor,  spite  of  all  storms  of  despair, 
I  yet  rest  doubtful. 

Marg.  Give  it  to  lord  Lovell ; 
For  what  in  him  was  bounty,  in  me's  duty. 
1  make  but  payment  of  a  debt  to  which 
My  vows,  in  that  high  office  register'd, 
Are  faithful  witnesses. 

Alt.  'Tis  true,  my  dearest ; 
Yet,  when  1  call  to  mind  how  many  fair  ones 
Make  wilful  shipwreck  of  their  faiths,  and  oaths 
To  God  and  man,  to  fill  the  arms  of  greatness ; 
And  you  rise  up  no  less  than  a  glorious  starf 
To  the  amazement  of  the  world,  that  hold  out 
Against  the  stern  authority  of  a  father, 
And  spurn  at  honour,  when  it  comes  to  court  you ; 
I  am  so  tender  of  your  good,  that  faintly, 
With  your  wrong,  I  can  wish  myself  that  right 
You  yet  are  pleased  to  do  me. 

Marg.  Yet,  and  ever. 

To  me  what's  title,  when  content  is  wanting  ? 
Or  wealth,  raked  up  together  with  much  care, 
And  to  be  kept  with  more,  when  the  heart  pines, 
In  being  dispossess'd  of  what  it  longs  for 
Beyond  the  Indian  mines  ?  or  the  smooth  brow 
Of  a  pleased  sire,  that  slaves  me  to  his  will, 
And  so  his  ravenous  humour  may  be  feasted 
By  my  obedience,  and  he  see  me  great, 
Leaves  to  my  soul  nor  faculties  nor  power 
To  make  her  own  election  ? 

* if  J  flay  not  my  p-ize)  This  expression 

i»  frequently  found  in  our  old  writers,  yet  the  modern 
editors  wantonly  corrupt  it  here  and  elsewhere  into—  \f  / 
ylay  not  my  part. 

.  ~  hd  you  rue  tip  no  lest  than  a  yloriou*  »tar.]  A'o, 
\vliich  is  not  found  in  the  quarto,  was  judiciously  inserted  by 
Dodste . 


All.  But  the  dangers 
That  follow  the  repulse — 

Marg.  To  me  they  are  nothing: 
Let  Al (worth  love,  I  cannot  be  unhappy. 
Suppose  the  worst,  that,  in  his  rage,  he  kill  me; 
A  tear  or  two,  by  you  dropt  on  my  hearse 
In  sorrow  for  my  fate,  will  call  back  life 
So  far  as  but  to  say,  that  I  die  yours  ; 
I  then  shall  rest  in  peace  :  or  should  he  prove 
So  cruel,  as  one  death  would  not  suffice 
His  thirst  of  vengeance,  but  with  lingering  torments, 
In  mind  and  body,  I  must  waste  to  air, 
In  poverty  join'd  with  banishment  ;  so  you  share 
In  my  afflictions,  which  I  dare  not  wish  you, 
So  high  i  prize  you,  I  could  undergo  them 
With  such  a  patience  as  should  look  down 
With  scorn  on  his  worst  malice. 

All.  Heaven  avert 

Such  trials  of  your  true  affection  to  me  ! 
Nor  will  it  unto  you  that  are  all  mercy, 
Show  so  much  rigour:  but  since  we  must  run 
Such  desperate  hazards,  let  us  do  our  best 
To  steer  between  them. 

Marg.  Your  lord's  ours,  and  sure ; 
And  though  but  a  young  actor,  second  me 
In  doing  to  the  life  what  he  has  plotted, 

Enter  OVERREACH  behind. 

The  end  may  yet  prove  happy  :  now,  my  Allworth. 

All.  To  your  letter,  and  put  on  a  seeming  anger 

Marg.  I'll  pny  my  lord  all  debts  due  to  his  title  ; 
And  when  with  terms,  not  taking  from  his  honour. 
He  does  solicit  me,  I  shall  gladly  hear  him. 
But  in  this  peremptory,  nay,  commanding  way, 
T'  appoint  a  meeting,  and,  without  my  knowledge, 
A  priest  to  tie  the  knot  can  ne'er  be  undone 
Till  death  unloose  it,  is  a  confidence 
In  his  lordship  will  deceive  him. 

All.  1  hope  better, 
Good  lady. 

Marg.  Hope,  sir,  what  you  please  :  for  me 
I  must  take  a  safe  and  secure  course  ;  1  have 
A  father,  and  without  his  full  consent, 
Though  all  lords  of  the  land  kntel'd  for  my  favour, 
I  can  grant  nothing. 

Over.  I  like  this  obedience  :  [Comes  forward* 

But  whatsoe'er  my  lord  writes,  must  and  shall  be 
Accepted  and  embraced.     Sweet  master  Allworth, 
You  show  yourself  a  true  and  faithful  servant 
To  your  good  lord  ;  he  has  a  jewel  of  you. 
How  !  frowning,  Meg  ?  are  these  looks  to  receive 
A  messenger  from  my  lord  ?  what's  this'?  gi  re  me  it. 

Marg.  A   piece   of  arrogant  paper,  like  the  in- 
scriptions. 

Over.    [Reads.~\    Fair  mistress,  frum  your  servant 

learn,  all  joys 

That  we  can  hope  jar,  ij'deftrr'd,  prove  toys  ; 
Therefore  this  instant,  and  in  private,  meet 
A  husband,  that  will  gladly  at  yourjeet 
Lay  down  his  honours,  tendering  them  to  you 
With  all  content,  the  church  being  paid  her  due. 
— Is  this  the  arrogant  piece  of  paper  ?  fool ! 
Will  you  still  be  one  !  in   the   name  of  madness 

what 

Could  his  good  honour  write  more  to  content  you? 
Is  there  aught  else  to  be  wish'd  after  these  two, 
That  are  already  offer'd  ;  marriage  first, 
And  lawful  pleasure  after  :  what  would  you  morel 

Marg.  \\  liy,  sir,  I  would  be   married  like  your 
daughter  ; 


SCENE  I.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


37) 


Not  hurried  away  i'  the  night  I  know  not  whither, 
Without,  all  ceremony  ;  no  friends  invited 
To  honour  the  solemnity. 

AIL  A  n't  please  your  honour, 
For  so  before  to-morrow  I  must  style  you, 
My  lord  desires  this  privacy  in  respect 
His  honounible  kinsmen  -are  far  off, 
And  his  desires  to  have  it  done  brook  not 
So  long  delay  as  to  expect  their  coming ; 
And  yet  hr  stands  resolved,  with  all  due  pomp, 
As  running  at  the  ring,  plays,  masks,  and  tilting, 
To  have  his  marriage  at  court  celebrated 
When  he  has  brought  your  honour  up  to  London. 

Over.  He  tells  you  true ;  'tis  the  fashion,  on  my 

knowledge  : 

Yet  the  good  lord,  to  please  your  peevishness*, 
Must  put  it  off,  forsooth  !  and  lose  a  night, 
In  which  perhaps  he  might  get  two  boys  on  thee. 
Tempt  me  no  further,  if  you  do,  this  goad 
Shall  prick  you  to  him. 

Murg.  I  could  be  contented, 
Were  you  but  by,  to  do  a  father's  part, 
And  give  me  in  the  church. 

Over.  So  my  lord  have  you, 
What  do  I  care  who  gives  you  ?  since  my  lord 
Does  purpose  to  be  private,  I'll  not  cross  him. 
I  know  ix>t,  master  Allworth.  how  my  lord 
May  be  provided,  and  therefore  there's  a  purse 
Of  gold,  'twill  serve  this  night's  expense  ;  to-mor- 
row 

I'll  furnish  him  with  any  sums :  in  the  mean  time, 
Use  my  ring  to  my  chaplain  :  he  is  beneficed 
At  my  manor  of  Got'em,  and  call'd  parson  Willdo  : 
'Tis  no  matter  for  a  license,  I'll  bear  him  out  in't. 

Marg.  With  your  favour,  sir,   what  warrant  is 
your  ring  I 


He  may  suppose  I  got  that  twenty  ways, 
Without  your  knowledge  ;  ar.d  then  to  be  refused, 
Were  such  a  stain  upon  me  !— if  you  pleased,  sir, 
Your  presence  would  do  better. 

Over.  Still  perverse! 
I  say  again,  1  w  ill  not  cross  my  lord  ; 
Yet  I'll  prevent  you  too*.— Paper  and  ink,  there  ! 

All.  I  can  furnish  you. 

Over.  I  thank  you,  I  can  write  then.          [  Writes. 

AH.  You  may,  if  you  please,  put  out  the  name  of 

my  lord, 

In  respect  he  comes  disguised,  and  only  write, 
Marry  her  to  this  gentleman. 

Over.  Well  advised. 
'Tis  done;  away  ! — [Margaret  kneels].  My  blessing, 

girl  ?  thou  hast  it. 

Nay,  no  reply,  begone  : — good  master  Allworth, 
This  shall  be  the  best  night's  work  you  ever  made. 

All.  I  hope  so,  sirf. 

[Exeunt  Allworth  and  Margaret. 

Over.  Farewell! — Now  all's  cocksure: 
Methinks  I  hear  already  knights  and  ladies 
Say,  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  how  is  it  with 
Your  honourable  daughter  ?  has  her  honour 
Slept  well  to-night?  or,  Will  her  honour  please 
To  accept  this  monkey,  dog,  or  paroqueto 
(This  is  state  in  ladies),  or  my  eldest  son 
To  be  her  page,  and  wait  upon  her  trencher? 
My  ends,  my  ends  are  compassed ! — then  for  Well- 
born 

And  the  lands;   were  be  once  married  to  the  wi- 
dow  

I  have  him  here — I  can  scarce  contain  myself, 
I  am  so  full  of  joy,  nay  joy  all  over. 

[Exit. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Roomin  Lady  Allworth's  House. 

Enter  Lord  LOVELL,  Lady  ALLWORTH,  and  AMBLE. 

L.  All.  By  this  you  know  how  strong  the  motives 

were 

That  did,  my  lord,  induce  me  to  dispense 
A  little  with  my  gravity,  to  advance, 
In  personating  some  few  favours  to  him, 
The  plots  and  projects  of  the  down-trod  Wellborn. 
Nor  shall  I  e'er  repent,  although  I  suffer 
Jn  some  few  men's  opinions  for't,  the  action; 
For  lie  that  ventured  all  for  my  dear  husband, 
Mk'ht  justly  cliiim  an  obligation  from  me, 
Topny  him  such  a  courtesy,  which  had  I 
Coyly,  or  over-curiously  denied. 
It  might  have  argued  me  of  little  love 
To  the  deceased. 

Lov.  Wli  it  you  intended,  madam, 
For  the  poor  gentleman,  hath  found  good  success  ; 


*  Yet  the  good  lord,  to  pleate  your  peevishness,]  i.  e.  you, 
his  daughter, tu  whom  he  gives  the  title.  1  have  sometimes 
thought  that  (his  mode  of  expression,  which  is  more  com- 
mon than  cursory  readers,  perhaps,  imagine,  is  not  suffi- 
ciently attended  to  by  the  commentators.  Many  difficulties 
Mould  vanish  it'  these  appellations  were  duly  noticed  and 
applied. 


For,  as  I  understand,  his  debts  are  paid, 

And  he  once  more  furnish'd  for  fair  employment : 

But  all  the  arts  that  I  have  used  to  raise 

The  fortunes  of  your  joy  and  mine,  young  Allworth, 

Stand  yet  in  supposition,  though  I  hope  well. 

For  the  young  lovers  are  in  wit  more  pregnant 

Than  their  years  can  promise:  and  for  their  desires, 

On  my  knowledge,  they  are  equal. 

L.  All.  AsJ  my  wishes 

Are  with  yours,  my  lord  ;  yet  give  me  leave  to  fear 
The  building,  though  well  grounded  :  to  deceive 
Sir  Giles,  that's  both  a  lion  and  a  fox 
In  his  proceedings,  were  a  work  beyond 
The  strongest  undertakers ;  not  the  trial 
Of  two  weak  innocents. 

Lov.  Despair  not,  madam : 

•  Yet  I'll  pt event  you  too.)  From  the  Latin,  as  1  have 
already  observed.  1  II  anticipate  all  yuur  objections. 

t  All.  1  hope  to,  air.  I  1  cannot  much  approve  of  the 
conduct  of  this  young  couple  ;  it  is  'too  full  ot'  artifice  and 
deceit.  Undoubtedly,  tin-  insupportable  pride  and  tyranny 
of  Overreach,  make  him  a  proper  subject  to  be  practised 
on ;  but  not  by  hi*  daughter,  whose  character  has  bven  hi- 
therto so  conducted  as  to  gain  the  estei m  of  every  reader. 

J  As  my  wishft,  $c  ]  A >  is  changed  in  both  the  modern 
editi  ins  into  Though,  for  no  better  reason,  I  believe,  than 
that  the  editors  did  not  discover  the  sense  of  a  plain  pas- 
wge. 


372 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[Aci  V. 


Hard  things  are  compass'd  oft  by  easy  means  ; 
And  judgment,  being  a  gift  derived  from  heaven, 
Though  sometimes  lodged  in  the  hearts  of  worldly 

men, 

That  ne'er  consider  from  whom  thev  receive  it, 
Forsakes  such  as  abuse  the  giver  of  it, 
Which  is  the  reason,  that  the  politic 
And  cunning  statesman,  that  believes  he  fathoms 
The  counsels  of  all  kingdoms  on  the  earth, 
Is  by  simplicity  oft  over-reach'd*. 

L.  Alt.  May  he  be  so !  yet,  in  his  name  to  ex- 
press it 
Is  a  good  omen. 

Lov.  May  it  to  myself 
Prove  so,  good  lady,  in  my  suit  to  you  ! 
What  think  you  of  the  motion  ? 

L.  All.  Troth,  my  lord, 
My  own  unworthiness  may  answer  for  me ; 
For  had  you,  when  that  I  was  in  my  prime, 
My  virgin  flower  uncropp'd,  presented  me 
With  this  great  favour  ;  looking  on  my  lowness 
Not  in  a  glass  of  self-love,  but  of  truth, 
I  could  not  but  have  thought  it,  as  a  blessing 
Far,  far  beyond  my  merit. 

Lov.  You  are  too  modest, 
And  undervalue  that  which  is  above 
My  title,  or  whatever  I  call  mine. 
I  grant,  were  I  a  Spaniard,  to  marry 
A  widow  might  disparage  me  ;  but  being 
A  true-born  Englishman,  I  cannot  find 
How  it  can  taint  my  honour :  nay,  what's  more, 
That  which  you  think  a  blemish,  is  to  me 
The  fairest  lustre.     You  already,  madam, 
Have  given  sure  proofs  how  dearly  you  can  cherish 
A  husband  that  deserves  you  ;  which  confirms  me, 
That,  if  I  am  not  wanting  in  my  care 
To  do  you  service,  you'll  be  still  the  same 
That  you  were  to  your  Allworth  :  in  a  word, 
Our  years,  our  states,  our  births  are  not  unequal, 
You  being  descended  nobly,  and  allied  so  ; 
If  then  you  may  be  won  to  make  me  happy, 
But  join  your  lips  to  mine,  and  that  shall  be 
A  solemn  contract. 

L.  All.  I  were  blind  to  my  own  good, 
Should  I  refuse  it ;  yet,  my  lord,  receive  me 
As  such  a  one,  the  study  of  whose  whole  life 
Shall  know  no  other  object  but  to  please  you. 

Lov.  If  I  return  not,  with  all  tenderness, 
Equal  respect  to  you,  may  I  die  wretched ! 

L.  All.  There  needs  no  protestation,  my  lord, 
To  her  that  cannot  doubt. 

Enter  WELLBORN. 

You  are  welcome,  sir. 
Now  you  look  like  yourself. 
Well.  And  will  continue 
Such  in  my  free  acknowledgment,  that  I  am 
Your  creature,  madam,  and  will  never  hold 
My  life  mine  own,  when  you  please  to  command  it. 
Lov.  It  is   a    thankfulness   that    well    becomes 

you ; 

You  could  not  make  choice  of  a  better  shape 
To  dress  your  mind  in. 

L.  All.  For  me,  I  am  happy 

That  my  endeavours  prosper'd.       Saw  you  of  late 
ir  Giles,  your  uncle  1 

It  by  timplicty  oft  over-reached.  I  The  quarto  reads, 
and  perhaps  by  design,  overreach.  For  the  rest,  the  obser- 
vation is  a  most  admirable  one,  and  worthy  of  all  praise. 
It  may  serve  to  explain  many  fancied  incunsisti'iicics  in  the 
conduct  of  the  Overreaches  in  all  ages. 


Well.  I  heard  of  him,  madam, 
By  his  minister,  Marrall ;  he's  grown  into  strange 

passions 

About  his  daughter  :  this  last  night  he  look'd  for 
Your  lordship  at  his  house,  but  missing  you, 
And  she  not  yet  appeariug,  his  wise  bead 
Is  much  perplex'd  and  troubled. 

Lov.  It  may  be, 
Sweetheart,  my  project  took. 

L.  All.  I  strongly  hope. 

Over,  [within.]  Ha !  find  her,  booby,  thou  huge 

lump  of  nothing, 
I'll  bore  thine  eyes  out  else. 

Well.  May  it  please  your  lordship, 
For  some  ends  of  mine  own,  but  to  withdraw 
A  little  out  of  sight,  though  not  of  hearing, 
You  may,  perhaps,  have  sport. 

Lov.  You  shall  direct  me.  [Steps  aside. 

Enter  OVERREACH,  with  distracted  looks,  driving  in 
MARRALL  before  him,  with  a  box, 

Over.  I  shall  sol  fa  you,  rogue  ! 

Mar.  Sir,  for  what  cause 
Do  you  use  me  thus? 

Over.  Cause,  slave  !  why,  I  am  angry, 
And  thou  a  subject  only  fit  for  beating, 
And  so  to  cool  my  choler.     Look  to  the  writing ; 
Let  but  the  seal  be  broke  upon  the  box, 
That  has  slept  in  my  cabinet  these  three  years, 
I'll  rack  thy  soul  for't. 

Mar.  I  may  yet  cry  quittance, 
Though  now  I  suffer,  and  dare  not  resist.       [Aside. 

Over.    Lady,  by    your  leave,   did  you  see  my 

daughter,  lady? 

And  the  lord  her  husband?  are  they  in  your  house? 
If  they  are,  discover,  that  I  may  bid  them  joy ; 
And,  as  an  entrance  to  her  plnce  of  honour, 
See  your  ladyship   on   her   left  hand,  and   make 

courtsies* 

When  she  nods  on  you  ;  which  you  must  receive 
As  a  special  favour. 

L.  All.  When  I  know,  sir  Giles, 
Her  state  requires  such  ceremony,  I  shall  pay  it! 
But,  in  the  mean  time,  as  I  am  myself, 
I  give  you  to  understand,  1  neither  know 
Nor  care  where  her  honour  is. 

Over.  When  you  once  see  her 
Supported,  and  led  by  the  lord  her  husband. 
You'll  be  taught  better. Nephew. 

Well.  Sir. 

Over.  No  more ! 

Well.  'Tis  all  I  owe  you. 

Over.  Have  your  redeem'd  rags 
Made  you  thus  insolent? 

Welt.  Insolent  to  you ! 

Why,  what  are  you,  sir,  unless  in  your  years, 
At  the  best,  more  than  myself? 

Over.  His  fortune  swells  him : 
'Tis  rank,  he's  married. 

L.  All.  This  is  excellent ! 

Over.  Sir,  in  calm  language,  though  I   seldom 

use  it, 

I  am  familiar  with  the  cause  that  makes  you 
Bear  up  thus  bravely;  there's  a  certain  buz 
Of  a  stolen  marriage,  do  you  hear  ?  of  a  stolen  mar- 
riage, 


and  make  courtsies 


"When  the  nodt  on  you  ;}  So  the  old  copy.     Coxeter   and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  strangely  read-  -and  make  court ! 


SCENE  l.J 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


373 


In   which   'tis  said    there's  somebody    hath  heen 

cozen'd ; 
I  name  no  parties. 

Well.  Well,  sir,  and  wbat  follows? 

Over.  Marry,   this ;    since   you  are  peremptory : 

remember, 

Upon  mere  hope  of  your  great  match,  I  lent  you 
A  thousand  pounds  :   put  me  in  good  security, 
And  suddenly,  by  mortgage  or  by  statute, 
Of  some  of  your  new  possessions,  or  I'll  have  you 
Dragg'd  in  your  lavender  robes*  to  the  gaol :  you 

know  me, 
And  therefore  do  not  trifle. 

Well.  Can  you  be 

So  cruel  to  your  nephew,  now  he's  in 
The  way  to  rise  ?  was  this  the  courtesy 
You  did  me  in  pure  hive,  and  no  ends  else  ? 

Over.  End  me  no  ends  !    engage  the  whole  estate, 
And  force  your  spouse  to  sign  it,  you  shall  have 
Three  or  tour  thousand  more,  to  roar  and  swagger 
And  revel  in  bawdy  taverns. 

Well.  And  beg  after ; 
?Jean  you  not  so  ? 

Oier.  My  thoughts  are  mine,  and  free. 
Shall  I  have  security  ? 

Well.  Xo,  indeed  you  shall  not, 
Nor  bond,  nor  bill,  nor  bare  acknowledgment; 
Your  great  looks  fright  not  me. 

Over.  But  my  deeds  shall. 
Outbraved!  [Bo/ft  draw. 

L.Alt.  Help,  murder  !  murder! 

Enter  Servants. 

Well.  Let  him  come  on, 
A'ith  all  his  wrongs  and  injuries  about  Lira, 
Arm'd  with  his  cut-throat  practices  to  guard  him  ; 
The  right  that  I  bring  with  me  will  defend  me, 
And  punish  his  extortion. 

Over.  That  I  had  thee 
But  single  in  the  field  ! 

L.  All.  You  may  ;  but  make  not 
My  house  your  quarrelling  scene. 

Over.  Were't  in  a  church, 
By  heaven  and  hell,  I'll  do't. 

Mar.  Now  put  him  to 
The  showing  of  the  deed. 

WelL  This  rage  is  vain,  sir  ; 

For  fighting,  fear  not,  you  shall  have  your  hands  full 
Upon  the  least  incitement  ;  and  whereas 
You  charge  me  with  a  debt  of  a  thousand  pounds, 
If  there  be  law  (howe'er  you  have  no  conscience), 
Either  restore  my  land,  or  I'll  recover 
A  debt,  that's  truly  due  to  me  from  you, 
In  value  ten  times  more  than  what  you  challenge. 

Oier.  1  in  thy  debt !  O   impudence !  did   I   not 

purchase 

The  land  left  by  thy  father,  that  rich  land, 
That  had  continued  in  Wellborn's  name 
Twenty  descents  ;  which,  like  a  riotous  fool, 
Thou  didst  make  sale  of?  Is  not  here  inclosed 
The  deed  that  does  confirm  it  mine  ? 


M<ir.  Now,  now  ! 

]\'ell.  I  do  acknowledge  none  ;  I  ne'er  pass'd  over 
Any  such  land  ;  I  grant,  for  a  year  or  two 
You  Lad  it  in  trust ;  which  if  you  do  discharge, 
Surrendering  the  possession,  you  shall  ease 
Yourself  and  me  of  chargeable  suits  in  law, 
Which,  if  you  prove  not  honest,  as  I  doubt  it, 
Must  of  necessity  follow. 

L.  All.  In  my  judgment 
He  does  advise  you  well. 

Over.  Good  !  good  !  conspire 
With  your  new  husband,  lady ;  second  him 
In  his  dishonest  practices  ;  but  when 
This  manor  is  extended  to  my  use*, 
Y'ou'll  speak  in  an  humbler  kev,  and  sue  for  favour. 

L.  All.    Never:  do  not  hope  it. 

Well.  Let  despair  first  seize  me. 

Over.  Yet,  to  shut  up  thy  mouth,  and  make  thee 

give 

Thyself  the  lie,  and  loud  lie,  I  draw  out 
The  precious  evidence  ;  if  ihou  canst  forswear 
Thy  hand  and  seal,  and  make  a  forfeit  of 

[Opens  the  box,  and  displays  the  bond. 
Thy  ears  to  the  pillory,  see  !  here's  that  will  make 
My  interest  clear- — ha  ! 

L.  Alt.  A  fair  skin  of  parchment. 

Well.  Indented,  I  confess,  and  labels  too  ; 
But  neither  wax  nor  words.    How  !  thunderstruck  1 
Not  a  syllable  to  insult  with?   My  wise  uncle. 
Is  this  your  precious  evidence,  this  that  makes 
Y'our  interest  clear? 

Over.  1  am  o'erwhelm'd  with  wonder  ! 
What  prodigy  is  this?  what  subtile  devil 
Hath  mzed  out  the  inscription?  the  wax 
Turn'd  into  dust! — the  rest  of  my  deeds  whole, 
As  when  they  were  deliver'd.  and  this  only 
Made  nothing-!   do  you  deal  with  witches,  rascal? 
There  is  a  statute  for  you,  which  will  bringf 
Y'our  neck  in  an  hempen  circle  ;  yes,  there  is ; 
And  now  'tis  better  thought  forj,  cheater,  know 
This  juggling  shall  not  save  you. 

Well.  To  save  tbee 
Would  beggar  the  stock  of  mercy. 

Oier.  Marrall  ! 

Mar.  Sir. 

Over.  Though  the   witnesses  are  dead,  your  te» 

timony 

Help  with  an  oath  or  two :  and  for  thy  master, 
Thy  liberal  master,  my  good  honest  servant, 
I  know  thou  wilt  swear  any  thing  to  dash 
This  cunning  sleight:  besides,  1  know  thou  art 
A  public  notary,  and  such  stand  in  law 
For  a  dozen  witnesses  :   the  deed  being  drawn  too 
By  thee,  my  careful  Mairall   and  deliver'd 
\\  hen  thou  wert  present,  will  make  good  my  title. 
Wilt  thou  not  swear  this  ? 

Mar.  I  !  no,  1  assure  you  : 


but  when 


This  manor  t*  extended  to  my  use.]  i.  e.  leized.  It  is  ; 
legal  phrase ,  and  occurs  continually  . 

t  There  is  a  statute  for  yon,  <\.c.  This  statute,  which  nn 
fortunately  brought  man)  a  neck  into  a  hrmpen  circle,  wai 
made  in  the  first  year  of  James  It  decreed  the  punishment 
of  death  for  a  variety  of  impo-sible  crimes;  which  jet  were 
fully  proved  upon  a  number  »f  poor  ignorant  superannuated 
wretches,  who  were  c.ijoled  or  terrified  into  a  full  confes- 
sion of  them.  This  diabolical  law  was  repealed  about  the 
middle  of  the  last  centurj. 

;  And  now  'tis  better  thought  for.1  This  is  right,  and 
perfect!)  agieeable  to  the  practice  of  MassiiiRer's  times,  in- 
deed, of  all  times:  >et  Mr.  M.  Mason  is  not  content,  but  ar 
bitrarily  reads,  And  now  'tis  better  thought  of  I 


574 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


[  ACT  V. 


I  have  a  conscience  not  sear'd  up  like  yours  ; 
I  know  no  deeds. 

Over.  Wilt  ihou  betray  me? 

Mar.  Keep  bim 

From  using  of  bis  bands,  I'll  use  my  tongue 
To  his  no  lutle  torment. 

Oiw.  Mine  own  varlet 
Rebel  against  me ! 

Mar    Yes,  and  uncase  you  too. 
The  idiot,  the  Patch,  the  slave,  the  booby*, 
The  property  fit  only  to  be  beaten 
For  your  morning  exercise,  your  football,  or 
The  unprofitable  lump  of  flesh,  your  drudge; 
Can  now  anatomize  you,  and  lay  open 
All  your  black  plots,  and  level  with  the  earth 
Your    hill    of    pride  :    and,    with    these    gabions 

guarded, 

Unload  my  great  artillery,  and  shake, 
Nay,  pulverize,  the  walls  you  think  defend  you. 

L.  Ail.  How  he  foams  at  the  mouth  with  rage  ! 

Well.  To  him  again. 

Over.  O    that  I   had  thee  in  my  gripe,  I  would 

tear  thee 
Joint,  after  joint ! 

Mar.  I  know  you  are  a  tearer. 
But  I'll  have  first  your  fangs  pared  off,  and  then 
Come  nearer  to  you  ;  when  I  have  discover'd, 
And  made  it  good  before  the  judge,  what  ways, 
And  devilish  practices,  you  used  to  cozen  with 
An  army  of  whole  families,  who  yet  alive, 
And  but  enroll'd  for  soldiers,  were  able 
To  take  in  Dunkirkf. 

Well.  All  will  come  out. 

L.  All.  The  better. 

Over.  But    that  I   will   live,    rogue,  to  torture 

thee, 

And  make  thee  wish,  and  kneel,  in  vain,  to  die, 
These  swords    that  keep  thee  from    me,  should  fir 

here, 

Although  they  made  my  body  but  one  wound, 
But  I  would  reach  thee. 

Lov.  Heaven's  hand  is  in  this  ; 
One  bandog  worry  the  other  !  [Aside. 

Over.  I  play  the  fool, 
And  make  my  anger  but  ridiculous  : 
There  will  be    a  time  and    place,   there   will  be, 

cowards, 
When  you  shall  feel  what  I  dare  do. 

Well.  I  think  so  : 

You  dare  do  any  ill,  yet  want  true  valour 
To  be  honest,  and  repent. 


The  idiot,  the  Patch,  the  slave,  $e.]  The  vengeance 
of  a  lutle  mind,  confident  of  its  cunning,  is  happily  por- 
trayed in  the  recapitulation  of  those  abusive  terms  which 
had  been,  at  various  times, lavished  upon  Marrall.and  which, 
thontjh  lie  submitted  to  them  in  silence,  he  had  carefully 
treasured  up  till  the  occasion  should  offer  of  retorting  them 
with  sarcastic  triumph  and  exultation. 

t  An  arm;/  of  whole  families  who  yet  live 
And  but  fnroll'dfor  soldiers,  were  able 
To  take  in  Dunkirk.]  This  speech  is  very  erroneously 
given  by  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason.     For  live  I  have  ven- 
tured to  substitute  alive;  as  I  believe  that  the  author  had  in 
view  a  passage  in  the  Virgin  Martyr : 
"  Were  the  Christians. 

Wiiose  names  stand  here,  alive  and  arm'd,  not  Rome 
Could  move  upon  her  hinges." 

To  take  in,  means  to  tubdne,  to  sei/e.  The  modern  edi- 
tors, ignorant  of  this  (and,  I  may  venture  to  add,  after  the 
numerous  instances  which  we  have  already  had  of  this  fa- 
miliar expression,  inexcusably  ignorant),  strike  out  in,  and 
reduce  the  line  to  mere  prose! 


Over.  They  are  words  I  know  not, 
Nor  e'er  will  learn.     Patience,  the  beggar's  virtue, 

Enter  GREEDY  and  Parson  WILLDO*. 
Shall  find  no  harbour  here  : — after  these  storms 
At  length    a    calm  appears.       Welcome,  most  wel- 
come ! 

There's  comfort  in  thy  looks  ;  is  the  deed  done? 
Is  my  daughter  married  ?  say  but  so,  my  chaplain, 
And  I  am  tame. 

Willdo.  Married  !  yes,  I  assure  you. 

Over.  Then  vanish  all  sad  thoughts  !  there's  more 

gold  for  thee. 

My  doubts  and  fears  are  in  the  titles  drown'd 
Of  my  honourable,  my  right  honourable  daughter. 
Greedy.  Here   will    be   feasting ;  at   least    for   a 

month 

I  am  provided  :  empty  guts,  croak  no  more, 
You  shall  be  stuffed  like  bagpipes,  not  with  wind, 
But  bearing  dishesf. 
Over.  Instantly  be  here  ? 

[Whispering  to  Willdo. 
To  my   wish !  to   my   wish !    Now  you   that    plot 

against  met, 

And  hoped  to  trip  my  heels  up,  that  contemn'd  me, 
Think  on't  and  tremble: — [Loud  music], — they  come  ! 

I  hear  the  music. 
A  lane  there  for  my  lord  ! 
Well.  This  sudden  heat 
May  yet  be  cool'd,  sir. 

Over.  Make  way  there  for  my  lord  ! 

Enter  ALLWORTH  and  MARGARET. 

Marg.  Sir,  first  your  pardon,  then  your  blessing, 

with 

Your  full  allowance  of  the  choice  I  have  made. 
As  ever  you  could  make  use  of  your  reason, 

[Kneeling 

Grow  not  in  passion  ;  since  you  may  as  well 
Call  back  the  day  that's  past,  as  untie  the  knot 
Which  is  too  strongly  fasten'd  :  not  to  dwell 
Too  long  on  words,  this  is  my  husband. 

Over.  How  ! 

All.  So  I  assure  you  ;  all  the  rites  of  marriage 
With  every  circumstance,  are  past.     Alas  !  sir, 
Although  I  am  no  lord,  but  a  lord's  page, 
Your  daughter  and  my  loved  wife  mourns  not  for  it , 
And  for  right  honourable  son-in-law,  you  may  say 
Your  dutiful  daughter. 

Over.  Devil !  are  they  married  ? 

Willdo.  Do  a  father's  part,  and  say,  Heaven  give 
them  joy ! 


*  Enter  GREEDY  and  Parson  WILLDO.]  So  the  parson 
is  called  in  the  list  of  dramatic  persona;,  and  in  every  part 
of  the  play :  Yet  I  know  not  for  what  ifa.-.on  the  nioderr 
editors  continually  call  him  H'ell-do'.  They  must  lia\e  a 
little  notion  of  humour,  asof  the  true  character  of  Overreach 
ifthey  imagine  ihis  to  be  the  better  name. 

+  But  bearing  dishes.]  i.  e.  solid,  substantial  dishes;  01 
what  the  steward  in  The  Unnatural  Combat,  calls  portly 
viands.  I  mention  this  because  the  word  is  frequently  mis- 
taken  : 

"  Cloudesle  with  a  bcaryng  arrowc 

Clave  the  wande  in  two."  Old  Ballad 

"  A  bearing  arrow,"  says  Slrutt,  "  is  an  arrow  shot  com- 
pass, i.  e.  so  as  the  arrow  in  its  flight  formed  a  segment  of 
a  circle."  And  so  we  get  the  praise  of  accuracy !  A  bearing 
arrow  is,  in  three  words,  a  strong  and  weighty  arrow. 

J  To  my  wish  Ho  my  wi?h  !  Now  you  that  plot  ayainst 
me,  &c.  How  much  better  does  this  express  the  easier  tri- 
umph of  Overreach,  than  the  tame  and  unmeirical  reading  ol 
Coxeter  and  Mr.  M.  .Mason!  they  omit,  to  my  wish!  which, 
as  they  prob  .bly  counted  the  syllables  upun  their  finger* 
appeared  to  them  a  grievous  redundancy. 


ScENF  I.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


Over.  Confusion    and    ruin  !    speak,    and   speak 

quickly, 

Or  tliou  art  dead. 
Willdo.    They  are  married. 
Over.  Thou  hadst  better 

Have  made  a  contract  with  the  king  of  fiends, 
Than  these: — my  brain  turns! 

Willdo.  Why  this  rage  tome? 
Is  not  this  your  letter,  sir,  and  these  the  words? 
Marry  her  to  this  gentleman? 
Orer.   It  cannot  : 

N>T  will  1  e'er  believe  it,  'sdeath !  I  will  not; 
That  I,  that,  in  all  passages  I  touch'd 
At  worldly  profit,  have  not  left  a  print 
Where  1  have  trod  for  the  most  curious  search 
To  trace  my  footsteps,  should  be  gull'd  by  children, 
Baffled  and  fool'd,  and  all  my  hopes  and  labours 
Defeated  and  made  void. 

Well.  As  it  appears, 
You  are  so,  my  ^rave  uncle. 

Orer.  Village  nurses 

Revenge  their  wrongs  with  curses  ;  I'll  not  waste 
A  syllable,  but  thus  1  take  the  life 
Which,  wretched,  I  gave  to  thee. 

[  Attempts  to  kill  Margaret. 

Lov    [coming forward.]   Hold,  for  your  own  sake  ! 
Though    charity  to    your  daughter  hath  quite  left 

you, 

Will  you  do  an  act,  though  in  your  hopes  lost  here, 
Can  leave  no  hope  for  peace  or  rest  hereafter  ? 
Consider  ;  at  the  best  you  are  but  a  man, 
And  cannot  so  create  your  aims,  but  that 
They  may  be  cross'd. 

Oier.  Lord  !  thus  I  spit  at.  thee, 
And  at  thy  counsel;  and  again  desire  thee*, 
And  as  thou  art  a  soldier,  if  thy  valour 
Dares  show  itself,  where  multitude  and  example 
Lead  not  the  way,  let's  quit  the  house,  and  change 
Six  words  in  private. 
Lov.  1  am  ready. 
L.  All.  Stay,  sir, 
Contest  with  one  distracted  ! 

Well.  You'll  grow  like  him, 
Should  you  answer  his  vain  challenge. 

Over.  Are  you  pale  ? 

Borrow  his  help   though  Hercules  call  it  odds, 
I'll  stand  against  both  as  I  am,  heram'd  in  thus. — 
Since,  like  a  Lybian  lion  in  the  toil, 
My  fury  cannot  reach  the  coward  hunters, 
And  only  spends  itself,  I'll  quit  the  place  : 
Alone  I  can  do  nothing,  but  I  have  servants 
And  friends  to  second  me  ;  and  if  1  make  not 
This  house  a  heap  of  ashes  (by  my  wrongs, 
What  I  have  spoke  I  will  make  good  !)  or  leave 
One  throat  uncut, — if  it  be  possible, 
Hell,  add  to  my  afflictions  !  [Exit. 

Mar.  Is't  not  brave  sport  ? 
Greedy.  Brave  sport!  I  am  sure  it  has ta'en away 

my  stomach  ; 
I  do  not  like  the  sauce. 

All.  Nay,  weep  not,  dearest, 
Though  it  express  your  pity  ;  what's  decreed 
Above  we  cannot  alter. 


-and  again  desire  thee, 

And,  as  thou  art  a  soldier, let's  quit  the  house,  &c.] 

I  fho»M  not  have  thought  this  culled  tor  an  explanation, 
liarl  not  Mr.  M.  Mason  chosen  to  misunderstand  it,  and 
alter  the  text  :  he  rants 

and  ayain  defy  thee. 


L.  All.  His  threats  move  me 
No  scruple,  madam. 

Mar.   Was  it  not  a  rare  trick, 

An   it   please  your  worship,  to  make  the  deed  no- 
thing ? 

I  can  do  twenty  neater,  if  you  please 
To  purchase  and  grow  rich  ;   for  I  will  be 
Such  a  solicitor  and  steward  for  you, 
As  never  worshipful  had. 

Welt.  I  do  believe  thee  ; 

But  first  discover  the  quaint  means  you  used 
'I  o  raze  out  the  conveyance? 

Mar.  They  are  mysteries 
Not  to  be  spoke  in  public:   certain  minerals 
Incorporated  in  the,  ink  and  wax. 
Besides,  he  gave  me  nothing,  but  still  fed  me 
With  hopes  and  blows  ;  and  that  was  the  inducement 
To  tins  conundrum.     If  it  please  your  worship 
To  call  to  memory,  this  mad  beast  once  caused  me 
To  urge  you  or  to  drown  or  hang  yourself; 
I'll  do  the  like  to  him,  if  you  command  me. 

Well.   You  are  a  ra-cal !  he  that  dares  be  false 
To  a  master  though  unjust,  will  ne'er  be  true 
To  any  other.      Look  not  for  reward 
Or  favour  from  me  ;  I  will  shun  thy  sight 
As  I  would  do  a  basilisk's  :   thank  my  pity, 
If  thou  keep  thy  ears  ;  howe'er,  1  will  take  order 
Your  practice  shall  be  silenced. 

Greedu.    I'll  commit  him, 
If  you  will  have  me,  sir. 

Well.  That  were  to  little  purpose; 
His  conscience  be  his  prison.     Not  a  word, 
But  instantly  be  gone. 

Ord.  Take  this  kick  with  you. 
Amb.  And  this. 

Fnrn.  If  that  I  had  my  cleaver  here, 
I  would  divide  your  knave's  head. 

Mur.  This  is  the  haven 
False  servants  stiil  arrive  at.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  OVERREACH. 

L.  All.  Come  again  ! 

Lov.  Fear  not,  I  am  your  guard. 

Well.  His  looks  are  ghastly. 

Willdo.  Some  little  time  1  have  spent,  under  your 

favours, 

In  physical  studies,  and  if  my  judgment  err  not, 
He's  mad  beyond  recovery  :  but  observe  him, 
And  look  to  yourselves. 

Orer.  Why,  is  not  the  whole  world 
Included  in  myself!  to  what  use  then 
Are  friends  and  servants  ?  Say  there  were  a  squadron 
Of   pikes,  lined    through  with  shot,    when  I   am 

mounted 

Upon  my  injuries,  shall  I  fear  to  charge  them? 
No  :  III  through  the  battalia,  arid  that  routed, 

[Flourishing  his  sword  sheathed. 
I'll  fall  to  execution. — Ha  !  1  am  feeble: 
Some  undone  widow  sits  upon  my  arm, 
And  takes  away  the  use  oft;  and  my  sword, 
Glued  to  my  scabbard  with  wrong'd  orphans' tears, 
Will   not   be  drawn.     Ha!    what  are  these?  sure. 

hangmen, 

That  come  to  bind  my  hands,  and  then  to  drag  me 
Before  the  judgment-seat :  now  they  are  new  shapes 
And  do  appear  like  furies,  with  steel  whips 
To  scourge  my  ulcerous  soul.     Shall  I  then  fail 
Ingloriously,  and  yieid?   no;  spite  of  fa'.e 
I  will  be  forced  to  hell  like  to  myself. 


376 


A  NEW   WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS. 


(Arr  V. 


Though  you  were  legions  of  accursed  spirits, 
Thus  would  I  fly  among  you.  [Rushes forward. 

Welt,  '('here's  no  help  ; 
Disarm  him  first,  then  hind  him. 

Greedy.  Take  a  mittimus, 
And  carry  him  to  Bedlam. 

Lou.  How  he  foams  ! 

Well.  And  bites  the  earth  ! 

Willdo.  Carry  him  to  some  dark  room, 
There  try  what  art  can  do  for  his  recovery. 

Marg.  O  my  dear  father  ! 

[They  force  Overreach  <]fl*. 

All.  You  must  be  patient,  mistress. 

Lov.  Here  is  a  precedent  to  teach  wicked  men, 
That  when  they  leave  religion,  and  turn  atheists. 
Their  own  abilities  leave  them.  Pray  you  take 

comfort, 

I  will  endeavour  you  shall  be  his  guardians 
In    his    distractions :     and     for  your  land,    master 

Wellborn. 

Be  it  good  or  ill  in  law,  I'll  be  an  umpire 
Between  you,  and  this,  the  undoubted  heir 
Of  sir  Giles  Overreach  ;  for  me,  here's  the  anchor 
That  I  must  fix  on. 

All.  What  you  shall  determine, 
Mv  lord,  I  will  allow  of. 

Well.  'Tis  the  language 

That  I  speak  too  ;  but  there  is  something  else 
Beside  the  repossession  of  my  land, 
And  payment  of  my  debts,  that  I  must  practise. 
1  had  a  reputation,  but  'twas  lost 
In  my  loose  course ;  and  until  I  redeem  it 
Some  noble  way,  I  am  but  half  made  up. 
It  is  a  time  of  action  ;  if  your  lordship 
Will  please  to  confer  a  company  upon  me 
In  your  command,  I  doubt  not,  in  my  service 
To  my  king,  and  country,  but  I  shall  do  something' 
That  may  make  me  right  again. 

Lov.  Your  suit  is  granted, 
And  you  loved  for  die  motion. 

Well.  Nothing  wants  then 
But  your  allowance [To  the  Spectator!. 

EPILOGUE. 

BUT  your  allowance — and  in  that  our  all 
Is  comprehended  ;  it  being  known,  nor  we, 
Nor  he  that  wrote  the  comedy,  can  be  free 
Without  your  manumission  ;  which  if  you 
Grant  willingly,  as  a  fair  favour  due 

*  A»  this  is  ihe  last  appearance  of  Sir  Giles,  it  may  not  be 
amiss  to  advert  to  Ihe  catastrophe  of  his  real  history.  "  Sir 
Giles  Mompesson  was  summoned  to  appear  before  the  House 
of  Commons  to  the  charges  made  against  him  ;  by  the  House 
he  was  committed  to  the  custody  of  the  serjeant  at  arms, 
from  whose  charge,  by  stratagem,  or  connivance,  he  escaped. 
On  the  3d  of  March,  1020,  a  proclamation  was  issutd  forhis 
apprehension  (Rymer's  Faedera,  Tom.  xvii.,  Vbt).  He  ef- 
fected his  flight  over  sea,  and  this  proclamation  was  followed 
by  another  on  the  30th  of  the  same  month,  expelling  and 
banishing  him  the  king's  dominions,  he  being  degraded  of 
the  order  of  knighthood  (f'wdera,  Tom.  xvii.,  289 1." 

GILCHRIST. 

With  respept  lo  his  associate  and  abettor,  Sir  Francis 
Michel  (Justice  Greedy),  he  also  was  degraded,  then  fined  a 
thousand  pound,  carried  on  horseback  through  the  principal 
itreets,  with  his  face  to  the  tail,  and  imprisoned  for  life. 


To  the  poet's,  and  our  labours,  (as  you  may), 
For  we  despair  not,  gentlemen,  of  the  play: 
We  jointly  shall  proi'rss  your  grace  hath  might 
To  teach  us  action,  and  him  how  to.write*. 


•  We  find  that  the  players  in  Massinger's  age  did  "  not 
despair"  of  the  ? uci  ess  of  this  Comedy:  and  the  continu- 
ance of  the  public  favour  has  justified  their  confidence  in 
its  meiit.  Indeed  it  possesses  many  qualifications  for  the 
stage.  The  principal  event,  though  subject  to  an  objection 
which  will  be  presently  noticed,  is  conceived  with  much 
novelty  and  humour.  During  its  progress  many  entertaining 
incidents  arise,  and  a  strong  and  lively  picture  is  presented 
of  domes'ic  manners.  Its  useful  tendency  is  also  as  promi- 
nent as  the  amusement  which  it  confessedly  brings.  No 
Play  of  Massinger  is  marked  with  more  varieiy  of  seriofls- 
ness  of  moral;  from  VVejIborn  we  learn,  that  he  who 
squanders  his  substance  on  the  unworthy,  shall  be  rewarded 
with  ingratitude  and  insult;  and  that  the  return  of  wealth 
brings  lint  lilile  satisfaction  unless  it  be  accompanied  with 
a  returning  s-eii?e  if  honour: — from  the  associates  of  Over- 
reach, that  vicious  friend-hips  are  but  treacheries,  false  in 
their  principle,  even  while  they  last,  and  spurned  alike  by 
virtue,  both  while  they  last,  and  when  they  fail: — and  from 
Overreach  himself,  that  there  is  a  secret  hand  which  coun- 
teracts injustice,  infatuates  subtlety,  and  turns  the  arts  of 
selfishness  into  folly  and  ruin.  His  madness  is  judicial:  and 
Ma>singer  holds  him  out  to  the  world, 

" a  precedent  to  teach  wicked  men 

That  when  they  leave  religion,  and  turn  atheists, 

Their  own  abilities  leave  them. " 

This  character  is  drawn  with  gi eat  force ;  and  as  the  story 
proceeds,  Overreach  takes  place  of  Wellborn  in  the  attention 
of  the  reader.  He  is  divided  between  avarice  and  vanity  ; 
avarice  which  grows  from  his  nature  as  its  proper  fruit; 
and  vanity  which  is  grafted  upon  the  success  of  his  avarice. 
In  this  part  we  meet  with  strong  marks  of  a  disposition 
basely  aspiring.  He  betrays  his  vulgar  joy  on  account  of 
the  expected  alliance,  to  those  from  whom  prudence  and 
delicacy  would  equally  conceal  it:  and  he  glories  in  the 
prospect  even  of  his  own  humiliation  in  the  presence  of  his 
daughter,  and  looks  with  satisfaction  to  the  moment  when 
his  very  prerogatives  as  a  father  shall  be  kept  in  awe  by 
her  superior  rank. 

The  other  characters  extend  their  influence  beyond  them- 
selves. The  mild  dignity  of  lord  Lovell  and  lady  All- 
worth  agreeably  relieves  the  harshness  of  Overreach  ;  and  a 
similar  ertect  is  produced  by  the  attractive  innocence  and 
simplicity  of  Margaret  and  her  lover.  But  here  an  observa 
tion  must  be  m:ide,  of  a  less  favourable  nature  ;  by  a  prac- 
tice too  common  with  Massinger,  the  better  characters 
forget  their  delicacy,  and  are  degraded.  Lovell  might 
secretly  promote  the  views  of  Allworth  :  but  while  he  does 
this,  he  ought  not  to  treat  with  Overreach  on  his  own  account. 
Lady  Allworth  is  equally  faulty,  and  her  unexpected  and 
whimsical  adoption  of  Wellborn  ill  agrees  either  with  her 
retirement,  her  principles,  or  her  express  reprobation  of  his 
character.  The  two  lovers  also  lose  their  simplicity;  and 
when  the  father  is  to  be  deceived,  they  suddenly  become 
crafty  beyond  their  years,  their  nature,  and  knowledge  of  he 
world.  But  all  this  was  well  known  to  Massinger;  and  he 
has  provided  certain  acknowledgments  for  it.  Lovell  and 
the  lady  call  each  other  to  account  for  the  apparent  strange- 
ness of  their  proceedings,  and  are  mutually  excused  by  the 
motives  on  which  they  act;  and  the  spleen  of  Massinger 
seems  to  have  been  so  strong  against  Overreach,  that  he 
thought  a  departure  from  character  not  unpardonable,  pro- 
vided he  could  have  the  satisfaction  of  showing  him  out- 
witted by  "  two  weak  innocents,"  and  "  gulled  by  children." 
The  editor  has  produced  sufficient  proof  that  a  real  person 
was  aimed  at  in  Overreach.  The  circumstance  jnrt  men- 
tioned is  one  of  the  many  internal  marks  of  such  a  design. 
The  reprehension  is  vehement  and  incessant  ;  and  consis- 
tency is  disregarded,  while  ignominy  or  ridicule  is  heaped 
upon  the  obnoxious  person.  This  secret  purpose  seems  to 
have  been  the  real  occasion  of  the  severity  which  marks  some 
of  the  scene* :  they  are  more  passionate  than  playful ;  and 
have  rather  toe  properties  of  direct  and  urgent  satire,  than  the 
spoi tivrnc.-s  an'!  versatility  of  comic  wit.  DR.  IRELAND. 


THE    CITY    MADAM. 


THE  CITT  MADAM.]  This  "  Comedy,"  of  which  it  is  not  easy  to  speak  in  appropriate  terms  of  praise 
was  licensed  by  Sir  Hijnry  Herbert,  May  25th,  1632,  and  acted  by  the  king's  company. 

"  The  plot,  the  business,  the  conduct,  and  the  language  of  the  piece,"  as  the  Companion  to  the  PLyhouss 
justly  observes,  "are  all  admirable;"  yet  I  do  not  know  that  it  was  ever  revived  till  the  year  1771,  when 
the  late  Mr.  Love  made  some  changes  in  it,  and  procured  it  to  be  acted  at  Richmond. 

Mr.  Waldron,  of  the  Theatre  Rojal  Drury  Lane,  is  in  possession  of  a  very  old  alteiation  of  this  Play, 
in  which,  as  usual,  not  only  the  titles,  but  the  names  of  the  dramatis  persona  are  changed.  1  have  looked 
through  it,  but  can  find  nothing  to  commend  :  it  is  called  The  Cure  of  Pride.  This  gentleman  informs  me 
that  Mr.  Love,  who  was  the  manager  of  the  Richmond  Theatre,  played  the  part  of  Luke  with  great  success, 
and  that  he  afterwards  prevailed  on  Mr.  Garrick  to  bring  the  play  forward  at  Drury  Lane. 

i  short  time  since  it  was  reproduced  with  considerable  alterations  by  Sir  J.  li.  Burges,  under  the  name  of 
The  Wife  and  Brother,  and  acted  for  a  few  nights  at  the  Lyceum.  But  the  drift  of  the  original  was  totally 
mis  aken,  and  the  failure  was,  of  course,  complete. 

Tlie  City  Madam  was  received,  as  the  quarto  says,  with  great  applause  ;  it  was,  however,  kept  in  the 
players'  hands  till  1659*,  when  it  was  given  to  the  press  by  Andrew  Pennycuicke,  one  of  the  actors. 


TO  THE  TRULY  NOBLE  AND  VIRTUOUS 

LADY  ANN  COUNTESS  OF  OXFORDt, 

HONOURED    LADY, 

IN  that  age  when  wit  and  learning  were  not  conquered  by  injury  and  violence,  this  poem  was  the  object 
of  love  and  commendations,  it  being  composed  by  an  infallible  pen,  and  censured  by  an  unerring  auditory. 
In  this  epistle  1  shall  not  need  to  make  un  apology  for  plays  in  general,  by  exhibiting  their  antiquity  and 
utility:  in  a  word,  they  are  mirrors  or  glasses  which  none  but  defoimed  faces  and  fouler  consciences  fear 
to  look  into.  The  encouragement  1  had  to  prefer  this  dedication  to  your  powerful  protection  proceeds  from 
the  universal  fame  of  the  deceased  author,  who  (although  he  composed  many)  wrote  none  amiss,  and  this 
may  justly  be  ranked  amon^  his  best.  1  have  redeemed  it  from  the  teeth  of  Time,  by  committing  of  it  to 
the  press,  but  more  in  imploring  v our  patronage.  I  will  not  slander  it  with  my  praises  ;  it  is  commendation 
enough  to  call  it  _M ASSIMJEU'S  ;  if  it  may  gain  your  allowance  and  pardon,  1  am  highly  gratified,  and  desire 
only  to  wear  the  happy  title  of, 

Madam, 

Your  most  humble  servant, 

ANDREW  PENNYCUICKE. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


LORD  LACY. 

SIR  JOHN   FRUGAL^  a  merchant. 

SIR  MAURICE  LACY$,  son  to  lord  Lacy. 

MR.  PLENTY,  a  country  gentleman. 

LUKE  FRUGAL,  brother  to  sir  John. 

GOLDWIRE    senior, )  . 

!  two  gentlemen. 
1  RADEWELI,  senior, ) 

GOLDWIRE  junior,  j  their     sons,    apprentices    to    sir 
TRADFAVELL  junior,  $          John  Frugal. 
STARGAZE,  an  astrologer. 
HOYST,  a  decayed  gentleman. 

FORTUNE,  \  , 

„  (  decayed  merchants. 

PENURY,  j        9 

HOLDFAST,  steward  to  sir  John  Frugal. 

SCENE, 


RAMBLE,  > 

c  ( tiro  hectors. 

SCUFFLE,  $ 

DING'IM,  a  pimp. 

GETTALL}.  a  lio.i-keeper. 

Page,  SheriJ}',  Marshal,  Serjeaitti. 


her  daughters. 


LADY   FRUGAL. 

ANNE, 

MARV, 

MILLISCENT,  her  woman. 

SHAVE'EM,  a  courtezan* 

SECRET,  a  bawd. 

Orpheus,  Charon,  Cerberut,   Chorus,  Musicians,  Par 

tern,  Servants. 
London. 


•  This  is  the  date  of  all  the  copies  which  I  have  seen,  with  the  exception  of  one,  that  lately  fell  into  my  hands:  this  has  the 
year  1«58  on  the  title-p.ige.  It  was  probably  thrown  ott  in  1058- ... 

t  Daughter  of  1'aul  Viscount  Dinning,  and  wife  of  Aubrey  de  Vere  Earl  of  Oxford. 

|  In  tin-  old  li?t  of  dramatis  per.-ome  these  two  characters  are  named  Sir  John  Rich  and  Sir  John  Lacy,  notwithstanding 
the  former  is  called  Sir  Juan  fr'rutjal  in  every  part  of  the  pla> ,  and  the  latter  Sir  Maurice  Lacy,  in  the  only  two  place.-  in 
which  his  Christian  name  is  mentioned. 

5  Gettall,  a  box  keeper.}  Or,  a>  \ve  fay  now,  ymoni-porier  to  a  gambling  house.  This  important  character  I  am  told  never 
plats,  but  is  seated  in  a  box  or  elevated  chair.  "  whence  he  declares  the  state  of  the  game,  the  odds,  and  the  success  of  the 
parties." 


S78 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[Acr  I 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  Sir  John  Frugal's  House. 

Enter  GOLDWIRE  junior,  and  TRADEWELLjunior. 

Gold.   The  ship  is  safe  in  the  Pool  then  ? 

Trade.  And  ninkes  good, 

In  her  rich  fraught,  the  name  she  bears,  The  Speed- 
well : 

My  master  will   find  it ;  for,   on  my  certain  know- 
ledge, 

For  every  hundred  that  he  ventured  in  her 
She  hath  returned  him  five. 

Gold.  And  it  comes  timely  ; 
For,  besides  a  payment  on  'lie  nail  for  a  manor 
Late  purchased  by  my  master,  his  young  daughters 
Are  ripe  for  marriage. 

Trade.  Who?  Nan  and  Mall? 

Gold.  Mistress  Anne  and  Mary,  and  with   some 

addition, 

Or  'tis  more  punishable  in  our  house 
Than  scandalum  magnatum. 

Trade,  'Tis  great  pity 

Such  a  gentleman  as  my  master  (for  that  title 
His  being  a  citizen  cannot  take  from  him) 
Hath  no  male  heir  to  inherit  his  estate, 
And  keep  his  name  alive. 

Gold.  The  want  of  one, 

Swells   my    young  mistresses,    and    their   madam- 
mother, 
With    hopes   above   their   birth,    and    scale:    their 

dreams  are 

Of  being  made  countesses,  and  they  take  state 
As  they  were  such  already.     When  you  went 
To  the  Indies,  there  was  some  shape  and  proportion 
Of  a  merchant's  house  in  our  family  :  but  since 
My  master,  to  gain  precedency  for  my  mistress 
Above  seme  elder  merchants'  wives,  was  knighted, 
'Tis  grown  a  little  court  in  bravery, 
Variety  of  fashions,  and  thoso  rich  ones  : 
There  are  few  great  ladies  going  to  a  mask 
Thai  do  outshine  ours  in  their  every-day  habits. 

Trade.  'Tis  strange,  my  master  in  his  wisdom  can 
Give  the  reins  to  such  exorbitance. 

G.-ld.  He  must, 

Or  there's  no  peace  nor  rest  for  him  at  home  : 
I  fjmnt  his  stale  will  be;ir  it ;  yet  lie's  censured 
For  his  indulgence,  and,  for  Sir  John  Frugal 
By  some  styled  Sir  John  Prodigal. 

Trade.  Is  his  brother, 
Master  Luke  Frugal,  living? 

Gold.  Yes;  the  more 
His  misery,  poor  man  ! 

Trade.  Still  in  the  Counter? 

Gold.  In  a  worse  place.     He  was  redeem'd  from 

the  hole, 
To  live,  in  our  house,  in  hell*;  since  his  base  usage 

*        He  tea*  redeem'd  from  the  hole, 

To  live,  in  our  house,  in  hell ;]  This  passage  alludes  to  a 
pastime  called  Barji-y-brake.  M.  MASON. 

Never  did  so  strange  a  conceit  enter  mortal  head.  What 
5s  there  in  the  miserable  situation  of  Luke  that  could  pos- 
iibly  put  Goldwire,  or  ralher  Mr.  M.  Mason,  in  mind  of  a 
pastime  ?  The  hole  was  one  of  the  wretched  departments 
of  a  gaol,  in  which  prisoners,  who  coult  not  afford  to  pay 
for  better  accommodations,  were  obliged  to  take  up  their 
residence.  It  is  frequently  mentioned  by  our  old  writers. 
Thus  Wilkins:  Can  it  "  accord  with  the  state  of  gentry  to 
submit  myself  from  the  feather-bed  in  the  master's  side,  or 


Consider'd,  'tis  no  better.     My  proud  lady 
Admits  him  to  her  table,  marry,  ever 
Beneath  the  salt*,  and   there  he  sits  the  subject 
Of  her  contempt  and  scorn  ;  and,  dinner  ended, 
His  courteous  nieces  find  employment  for  him 
Fitting  an  under-prentice,  or  a  footman, 
And  not  an  uncle. 

Trade.  I  wonder,  being  a  scholar 
Well  read  and  travell'd,  the  world  yielding  means 
For  men  of  such  desert,  he  should  endure  it. 

Gold.  He  does,  with  a  strange  patience  j  andtous. 
The  servants,  so  familiar  nay  humble ! 

Enter  STARGAZE,   Larfi/   FRUGAL,  ANNE,  MARY,  and 

MII.LISCENT,  in  several  postures  with  looking  glasses 

at  their  girdles. 

I'll  tell  you — but  I  am  cut  off.     Look  these 
Like  a  citizen's  wife  and  daughters? 

Trade.  In  their  habits 

They  appear  other  things  :  but  what  are  the  motives 
Of  this  strange  preparation  ? 

Gold.  The  young  wagtails 

Expect  their  suitors  :   the  first,  the  son  and  heir 
Of  the  Lord  Lacy,  who  needs  my  master's  money, 
As  his  daughter  does  his   honour  ;  the  second,  Mr 

Plenty, 

A  rough-hewn  gentleman,  and  newly  come 
To  a  great  estate  ;  and  so  all  aids  of  art 
In  them's  excusable. 

L.  Frug.  You  have  done  your  parts  here  . 
To  your  study,  and  be  curious  in  the  search 
Of  the  nativities.  [Exit  Stargaze. 

Trade.  Methiuks  the  mother, 


the  flock-bed  in  the  knight's  ward,  to  the  straw-bed  in  the 
hole  ?"  Miseries  of  Inforced  Alarriaye. 

Hell  was  a  spot  jet  moie  \vi  etched  than  the  hole : 
"  For  in  the  lowest  deep,  a  lower  deep 
Still  Ihreaten'd  to  devour." 

It  was  a  cant  name  for  the  darkest  part  of  the  hole,  or  for 
an  obscure  dungeon  in  some  of  our  prisons,  for  which  the 
former  appellation  appeared  too  favourable  a  term.  Thus  in 
'J'he  Covntrr-rat,  Ki08: 

"  In  Wood-street's  hole,  or  Poultry's  hell." 
And   to  this    si-use   of   the    word    Goldwire    alludes.     The 
Counter,  from  ihe  hole  ol  which  LuV e  was  redeemed,  stood  in 
Wood-street. 

—  marry,  ever 

Ueneath  the  s..ll,]   Thus  Cariwright : 

" Where  you  are  bt-.-t  estcem'd, 

You  only  pasi  under  the  favourable  name 
Of  humble  cousins  that  sit  beneath  the  salt." 

Love's  Concert. 

Mmliiger  generally  opens  his  plots  with  great  ingenuity; 
but  here  he  is  particularly  happy.  We  are  at  once  admitted 
into  tlip  interior  of  the  merchant's  family  ,  and  prepared  for 
the  conduct  of  the  different  branches  of  it,  before  they 
appear,  by  a  dialogue  as  na'ural  as  it  is  easy  and  unforced. 

i u-ith  looking-glasses  at  their  girdles.]  It  ap- 
pears from  innumerable  passages  in  our  old  writeis,  lli  t  it 
was  customary,  not  onl>  for  ladies,  but  for  gentlemen,  to 
carry  mirrors  about  them.  The  former,  we  see,  wore  them 
at  their  girdles.  Thus  Ji.nson  : 

"  I  confess  all,  1  replied. 
And  the  glass  hanys  by  her  side, 
And  the  girdle  'bout  her  waist, 
All  is  Venus,  save  unchaste."          Underwoods. 
The   latter,   I   hope,  like  the  tine   gentlemen  of  the  present 
day,  kept  them  in  their  pockets  : — and    yet  there    arc    in- 
stances  of  their  displaying  them   as  ostentatiously   as   the 
vainest  of  the  fair  sex.    Tl.us  Jon?on  again  : 

"Where  is  your  page?  call  for  your  casting  botile  and 
place  your  mirror  in  yuur  hat,  as  1  told  you."  Cynthia.' » 
Jievels. 


SCENE  I.I 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


179 


As  if  she  could  renew  her  youth,  in  care, 
Nay  curiosity*,  to  appear  lovely, 
Comes  not  behind  her  daughters. 

Gold.  Keeps  the  first  place  ; 

And  though  the  church-book  speak  her  fifty,  they 
That  say  she  can  write  thirty,  more  offend  her 
Than  if  they  tax'd  her  honesty  :  t'other  day 
A  tenant  of  hers,  instructed  in  her  humour, 
But  one  she  never  saw,  being  brought  before  her, 
For  savin?  only,  Good  young  mistress,  help  me 
To  the  speech  of  your  lady-mother,  so  far  pleased  her, 
That  he  got  his  lease  renew'd  for't. 

Trade.   1 1  ow  she  bristles  ! 
Prithee,  observe  her. 

Mill.  As  I  hope  to  see 

A  country  knight's  son  and  beir  walk  bare  before  you 
When  you  are  a  countess,  as  you  may  be  one 
When    my  master   dies,  or  leaves  trading;  and  I, 

continuing 

Your  principal  woman,  take  the  upper  hand 
Of  ;>  squire's  wife,  though  a  justice,  as  I  must 
By  the  place  you  give  me  ;  you  look  now  as  young 
As  when  you  were  married. 

L.  Fmg.  I  think  I  bear  my  years  well. 

Mill.  Why  should  you  talk  of  years  ?    Time  hath 

not  plough'd 

One  furrow  in  your  face  ;  and  were  you  not  known 
The  mother  of  my  youngf  ladies,  you  might  pass 
Fora  virgin  of  fifteen. 

Trade.  Here's  no  gross  flattery  ! 
Will  she  swallow  this? 

Gi>ld.  You  see  she  does,  and  glibly. 

Mill.  You  never  can  be  old  ;  wear  but  a  mask 
Forty  years  hence,  and  you  will  still  seem  young 
In  your  other  parts.  What  a  waist  is  here  ?  0 

Venus ! 

That  1  had  been  born  a  king !  and  here  a  hand 
To  be  kiss'd  ever  ; — pardon  my  boldness,  madam. 
Then,  for  a  leg  and  foot  you  will  be  courted 
When  a  great  grandmother. 

L.  Frug.  These,  indeed,  wench,  are  not 
So  subject  to  decayings  as  the  face  ; 
Their  comeliness  lasts  longer. 

M ill.  Ever,  ever ! 

Such  a  rare-featured  and  proportion'd  madam 
London  could  never  boast  of. 

L.  Fmg.  Where  are  my  shoes  ? 

Mill.  Those  that  your  ladyship  gave  order 
Should  be  made  of  the  Spanish  perfumed  skins  ? 

L.  Frug.  The  same. 

Milt.  I  sent  the  prison-bird  this  morning  for  them, 
But  he  neglects  his  duty. 

Anne.  He  is  grown 
Exceeding  careless. 

Mary.  And  begins  to  murmur 
At  our  commands,  and  sometimes  grumbles  to  us, 
He  is,  forsooth,  our  uncle  ! 

*  Aay  curiosity,  to  appear  lovely.}  Curiosity  here,  as  in 
many  other  passages  of  these  plays,  signifies  scrupulous 
•mention,  anxiety,  <Stc. 

t  The  mother  of  my  young  ladies.]  So  tlie  old  copy;  the 
modern  editors,  in  compassion  to  the  anthor's  irreyularities, 
have  reformed  his  text,  and  printed,  The  mother  of  these 
ladles:  in  the  preceding  line  too,  they  have  interposed  their 
aid,  and  removed  the  copulative !  Seriously,  these  imperti- 
nent deviations  cannot  be  too  strongly  reprobated.  Mas- 
singer's  ear  was  so  exquisitely  touched,  that  I  could  almost 
venture  to  affirm  he  never  made  use  of  his  ten  fingers  in  the 
construction  of  a  single  verse  ;  and  his  bungling  editor?, 
therefore,  uho  try  his  poetry  by  such  coarse  mechanism, 
will  more  frequently  injure  bis  sense,  than  improve  hi* 
metre. 


L.  Frug.  He  is  your  slave, 
And  as  such  use  him. 

Anne.   Willingly  ;  but  he  is  grown 
Rebellious,  madam. 

Gold.  Nay,  like  hen,  like  chicken. 

L.  Frug.  I'll  humble  him. 

Enter  LUKE,  with  does,  garters,  fans,  and  roses. 

Gold.  Here  he  comes,  sweating  all  over : 
He  shows  like  a  walking  frippery*. 

L.  Frug.  Very  good,  sir  : 
\Vere  you  drunk  last  night,  that  you  could  rise  no 

sooner 

With  humble  diligence,  to  do  what  my  daughter? 
And  woman  did  command  you  ? 

Lnk*.   Drunk  !  an't  plsase  you  ? 

L,  Frug.  Drunk,  I  said.sirrah  !  dar'stthou  inalook 
Repine  or  grumble  ?  thou  unthankful  wretch, 
Did  our  charity  redeem  thee  out  of  prison 
(Thy  patrimony  spent),  ragged  and  lousy, 
When  the  sheriff's  basket,  and  his  broken  rr.eatf 
Were  your  festival-exceedings  !  and  is  this 
So  soon  forgotten  ? 

Luke.  I  confess  I  am 
Your  creature,  madam. 

L.  Frug.  And  good  reason  why 
You  should  continue  so. 

Anne.  Who  did  new  clothe  you  ? 

Mary.  Admitted  you  to  the  dining-room  1 

Mill.  Allow'd  you 
A  fresh  bed  in  the  garret  ? 

L.  Frug.   Or  from  whom 
Received  you  spending  money  ? 

Luke.  1  owe  all  this 

To  your  goodness,  ma  !am  ;  for  it  you  have  my  prayers, 
The  beggar's  satisfaction  :   nil  my  studies 
(Forgetting  what  I  was,  hut  with  all  duty 
Remembering  what  }  am)  are  how  to  please  you. 
And  if  in  my  long  stay  1  have  offended, 
I  ask  your  pardon  ;  though  you  may  consider, 
Being  forced  to  fetch  these  from  the  Old  Exchange, 
These  from  the  Tower,  and  these  from  Westminster, 
I  could  not  come  much  sooner. 

Gold.  Here  was  a  walk 
To  breathe  a  footman  ! 

Anne.  Tis  a  curious  fan. 

Mary.  These  roses  will  show  rare  :  would  'twere 

in  fashion 
That  the  garters  might  be  seen  too ! 

Mill.  Many  ladies  [>'ou  > 

That  know  they  have  good  legs,  wish  the  same  with 
Men  that  way  have  the  advantage. 

•  He  shows,  like  a  walking  frippery.]  A  frippery  is  an  old 
clothes  shop ;  Hie  word  is  pure  French,  but  occurs  in  most 
of  our  ancient  dramatists: 

"  If  1  carry any  lady  of  the  laundry, 

Chambering:  or  wantonness  behind  my  gelding, 
\Viih  all  her  streamers,  knapsacks,  glasses,  gewgaws, 
As  if  I  were  a  running  frippery, 

I'll  give  them  leave,"  &c.  Wit  u-i'huut  Money. 

The  roses  mentioned  among  the  articles  brought  by  Luke, 
were    not  the  flowers  of  that  name,  t'ut  knots  of  rib.mds  to 
be  fixed  on  the  shoes  :   it  appears  from  <>ld  paintings,  and, 
indeed,  from  the  description   of  them  in   various  authors, 
that  they  were  of  a  preposterous  size.     ThusJonsoiw 
"  Service  !  'fore  hell,  my  heart  was  at  my  moulh, 
Till  I  had  view'd  his  shoes  well,  for  these  roses 
Were  bitf  enough  to  hide  a  cloven  foot."  Devil's  an  Ass. 
f  ll'hen  the  sheriff's  basket,  &o.]   "  The  poorer  sort  of 
prisoners,"  says  Stowe,  "  as  well  in  this  Counter,  as  in  that 
in  Wood-street,  receive  daily  relief  from  the  sheriff's  tablt 
of  all  the  /irnl.'fn  bread  and  meat."    B.  III.  p.  51. 

Vurfestiral-excecdinys.sce  The  Picture.    Act.  V.  Sc.  1. 


380 


THE    CITY  MADAM. 


fAcr.  t 


I. nke.  I  was  with 

The  lady,  and  delivered  her  the  satin 
For  her  gown,  and  velvet  for  her  petticoat; 
This  night  she  vows  she'll  pay  you. 

[Aside  to  Goldwire. 

Gold.   How  I  am  bound 
To  your  favour,  master  Luke  ! 

Mill.  As  I  live,  you  will 
Perfume  all  rooms  you  walk  in. 

/,.  Frng.  Get  your  fur*, 
You  shall  pull  them  on  within.  [Exit  Luke. 

Gold.  That  servile  office 
Her  pride  imposes  on  him. 

Sir  John  [within].  Goldwire!  Tradewell ! 

Trade.  My  master  calls.      We  come,  sir. 

[Exeunt  Goldwire  and  Tradewell. 

Enter  HOLDFAST,  with  Porters. 

L.  Frng.  What  have  you  brought  there  7 

Hold.  The  cream  o'  the  market ; 
Provision  enough  to  serve  a  garrison. 
I  weep  to  think  on't :  when  my  master  got 
His  wealth,  his  family  fed  on  roots  and  livers, 

And  necks  of  beef  on  Sundays. 

But  now  I  fear  it  will  be  spent  in  poultry ; 
Butcher's-meat  will  not  go  down. 

L.  Frng.   Why,  you  rascal,  is  it 
At  your  expense?   what  cooks  have  you  provided? 

Hold.  The  best  of  the  city:    they've  wrought  at 
my  lord  mayor's. 

Anne.  Fie  on  them!  they  smell  of  Fleet-lane,  and 
Pie-corner, 

Mary.    And   think   the   happiness  of  man's   life 

consists 
In  a  mighty  shoulder  of  mutton. 

L.  Frug.  I'll  have  none 

Shall  touch  what  I  shall  eat,  you  grumbling  cur, 
But  Frenchmen  and  Italians  ;  they  wear  satin, 
And  dish  no  meat  but  in  silver. 

Hold.  You  may  want,  though, 
A  dish  or  two  when  the  service  ends. 

L.  Frug.  Leave  prating; 
I'll  have  my  will :  do  you  as  I  command  you. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— The  Street  before  Frugal's  H<,use. 
Enter  Sir  MAURICE  LACY  and  Page. 

Sir  Maur.  You  were  with  Plenty  ? 

Page.  Yes,  sir. 

Sir  Maiir.  And  what  answer 
Return'd  the  clown  ? 

Page.  Clown,  sir!  he  is transformed, 
And  grown  a  gallant  of  the  last  editionf  ; 
More  rich  than  gaudy  in  his  habit  ;  yet 
The  freedom  and  the  bluntness  of  his  language 
Continues  with  him.     When  I  told  him  that 
You  gave  him  caution,  as  he  loved  the  peace 
And  safety  of  his  life,  he  should  forbear 
To  psss  the  merchant's  threshold,  until  you 
Of  his  two  daughters  had  made  choice  of  her 
Whom  you  design'd  to  honour  as  your  wife, 
He  smiled  in  scorn. 

Sir  Maur.  In  scorn ! 

*  L.  Fmg.  Get  your  fur.]  To  put  under  her  feet  while  he 
tried  on  her  shoes.  M.  MASON. 

t  And  yrown  a  gallant  of  the  last  edition  ;]  i.  e.  of  the 
newest  fashion.  It  was  the  application  of  this  common 
phrase  to  Kdwards  (who  miMnderstood  it)  which  provoked 
that  gentleman  so  highly  against  \V'arb:irton. 


Pagi>.   His  words  confirm'd  it ; 
They  were  few,  but  to  this  purpose  :    Tell  your  mas 

ter. 

Though  his  lordship  in  reversion  werrnowhu, 
It  cannot  ave  me.      1  w«<  born  <i  freemur., 
And  u'llL  not  yield,  in  the  uvit/  of  affection, 
Precedence  to  him  :   I  trill  risit  them, 
Tliough  lie  sute  porter  to  deny  my  entrance: 
When  I  meet  him  ne.it,  I'll  say  more  to  his  face. 
Deliver  thou  this  :  then  gave  me  a  piece, 
To  help  my  memory,  and  so  we  parted. 

Sir  Maur.   Where  got  he  this  spirit  ? 

Page.  At  the  academy  of  valour, 
Newly  erected  for  the  institution 
Of  elder  brothers:  where  they  are  taught  the  w.ws, 
Though  they  refuse  to  seal  for  a  duellist, 
How  to  decline  a  challenge.     He  himself 
Can  best  resolve  you. 

Enter  PLENTY  and  three  Servants. 

Sir  Maur.  You,  sir  ! 

Plenty.  What  with  me,  sir? 
How  big  you  look  !   I  will  not  loose  a  hat 
To  a  hair's  breadth  :  move  your   beaver,    I'll  movo 

mine  ; 

Or  if  you  desire  to  prove  your  sword,  mine  hangs 
As  near  my  right  hand,  and  will  as  soon  out,  though 

1  keep  not 

A  fencer  to  breathe  me.     Walk  into  Moorfields — 
I  dare  look  on  your  Toledo.     Do  not  show 
A  foolish  valour  in  the  streets,  to  make 
Work  for  shopkeepers  and  their  clubs,*  'tis  scurry, 
And  the  women  will  laugh  at  us. 

Sir  Maw.  You  presume 
On  the  protection  of  your  hinds. 

Plenty.  I  scorn  it : 

Though  I  keep  men,  I  fight  not  with  their  fingers, 
Nor  make  it  mv  religion  to  follow 
The  gallant's  fashion,  to  have  my  family 
Consisting  in  a  footman  and  a  page. 
And  those  two  sometimes  hungry.  I  can  feed  these, 
And  clothe  them  too,  my  gay  sir. 

SirMuur.   What  a  fine  man 
Hath  your  tailor  made  you  ! 

Plenty.  'Tis  quite  contrary, 

I  have  made  ray  tailor,  for  my  clothes  are  paid  for 
As  soon  as  put  on  ;  a  sin  your  man  of  title 
Is  seldom  guilty  of;  but  Heaven  forgive  it! 
I  have  other  faults,  too,  very  incident 
To  a  plain  gentleman  :  I  eat  my  venison 
With  my  neighbours  in  the  country,  and  present  not 
Mv  pheasants,  partridges,  and  grouse  to  the  usurer; 
Nor  ever  yet  paid  brokage  to  his  scrivener. 
I  flatter  not  my  mercer's  wife  nor  feast  her 
With  the  first  cherries,  or  peascods,  to  prepare  me 
Credit  with  her  husband,  when  I  come  to  London. 
The  wool  of  my  sheep,  or  a  score  or  two  of  fat  oxen 
In  Smithfield,  give  me  money  for  my  expenses. 
I  can  make  my  wife  a  jointure  of  such  1.1,1.1-,  too 
As  are  not  encumber 'd  ;  no  annuity 
Or  statute  lying  on  them.     This  I  can  do, 
An  it  please  your  future   honour,  and   why,  there- 
fore, 

You  should  forbid  my  being  suitor  with  you, 
Mv  dullness  apprehends  not. 

Pa£e.  This  is  bitter. 


*  Work   for   shopkeepers  and  their   elubs.]      See   T\% 
Reneyado,  Act  1.  Sc.  111. 


BCFSK   U.J 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


Sir  Maitr.  I  have  beard  you,  sir,  and  in  my  pa- 
tience shown 

Too  much  of  the  stoic.     But  to  parley  further, 
Or  answer  your  gross  jeers,  would  write  me  coward. 
This  only.— thy  great  grandfather  was  a  butcher*, 
And  his 'son  a  grazier;  thy  sire,  constable 
Of  the  hundred,  and  thou  the  first  of  your  dunghill 
Created  gentleman.      Now  you  may  come  on,  sir, 
You  and  your  thrashers. 

Plenty.  Stir  not,  on  your  lives. 
This  for  the  grazier, — this  for  the  butcher.  \Theyfight. 

Sir  Maiir.  So,  sir! 

Page.  I'll  not  stand  idle.   Draw!   My  little  rapier 
Agpiinst   your    bumb   blades !    I'll   one  by  one  dis- 
patch you, 
Then  house  this  instrument  of  death  and  horror. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN    FRUGAL,   LUKF,   GOLDWIRE  junior, 
and  TR A DEWELL  junior. 

Sir  J'lhn.    Beat  down   their   weapons.     My   gate 
ruffians'  hall ! 

What  insolence  is  this  ? 

Luke.  Noble  Sir  Maurice, 
\Yorshiptul  master  Plenty — 

Sir  Ji)/m.   I  blush  for  you. 
Men  of  your  quality  expose  your  fame 
To  every  vulgar  censure  ;  this  at  midnight, 
After   a  drunken  supper  in  a  tavern 
(No  civil  man  abroad  to  censure  it)", 
Had  shown  poor  in  you  ;  but  in  the  day,  and  view 
Of  all  that  pass  by,  monstrous  ! 

Plenty.   Very  well,  sir  ; 
You  look'd  for  this  defence. 

Sir  Maur.  Tis  thy  protection  ; 
But  it  will  deceive  thee. 

Sir  John.   Hold,  if  you  proceed  thus, 
I  must  make  use  of  the  next  justice'  power, 
And  leave  persuasion  :  and  in  plain  terms  tell  you, 

Enter   Lady    FRUGAL,   ANNE,  MARY,  and  MIL- 

LISCEST. 

Neither  your  birth,  Sir  Maurice,  nor  your  wealth, 
Shall  privilege  this  riot.  See  whom  you  have  drawn 
To  be  spectators  of  it !  can  you  imagine 
It  ran  stand  with  the  credit  of  my  daughters. 
To  be   the  argument  of  your  swords?  i'  the  street 

too? 

Nay,  ere  you  do  salute,  or  I  give  way 
To  any  private  conference,  shake  hands 
In  sign  of  peace  :  he  that  draws  back,  parts  with 
Mv  good  opinion.    [TVifi/  shake  hands.]    This  is  as  it 

should  be. 

Make  your  approaches,  and  if  their  affection 
Can  sympathize  with  vours,  they  shall  not  come, 
On  my  credit,  beggars  to  you.     I  will  hear 
\Vhat  you  reply  within. 

Sir  Mnur.   May  I  have  the  honour 
To  support  you,  lady  ?  [To  Anne. 

Plenty.   I  know  not  what's  supporting, 
But  by  this  fair  hand,  glove  and  all,  I  love  vou. 

[7V>  Mary. 
[Exeunt  all  but  Luke. 

*  This  only, —  thy  great  grandfather  was  a  butcher,  &c.j 
Massing  r  did  ii"t  intend  Lacy  for  a  fool,  and  yet  his  reply 
to  the  i^h-spiiited  and  characteristic  speech  of  hi>  com- 
petitor savour.-  *tion«ly  of  family.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  the  young  gentleman  is  warm,  jet  he  should  not,  tor 
that,  have  adopted  the  language  and  sentiments  of  a  fish- 
\voinan. 

t  Vo  c  ivil  man  abroad.}  No  citizen,  or  perhaps,  no  man 
invested  with  civil  authority. 


Enter  HOYST,  PENURY,  and  FORTUNE. 

Luke.   You  are  come  with  all  advantage.     1  will 

help  you 
To  the  speech  of  my  brother. 

For.  Have  you  moved  him  for  us  1 

Luke.  With  the   best  of  my  endeavours,  ana 

hope 
You'll  find  him  tractable. 

Pen.  Heaven  grant  he  prove  so  ! 
Hoyst.  Howe'er,  I'll  speak  my  mind 

Enter  Lord  LACY. 

Luke.  Do  so,  master  Hoyst. 
Go  in  :   I'll  pay  my  dutv  to  this  lord, 
And  then  1  am  wholly  yours. 

[Exeunt  Hoyst,  Penury,  and  Fortune. 

Heaven  bless  your  honour ! 

L.  Lacy.  Your  hand,  master  Luke :  the  world's 

much  changed  with  you 
Within   these   few  months ;    then    you    were    the 

gallant : 

No  meeting  at  the  horse-race,  cocking,  hunting, 
Shooting,  or  bowling,  at  which  master  Luke 
Was  not  a  principal  gamester,  and  companion 
For  the  nobility. 

Luke.  I  have  paid  dear 

For  those  follies,  my  good  lord  :  and  'tis  but  justice 
That  such  as  soar  above  their  pitch,  and  will  not 
Be  warn'd  by  my  example,  should,  like  me, 
Share  in  the  miseries  that  wait  upon  it. 
Your  honour,  in  your  charity,  may  do  well 
Not  to  upbraid  me  with  those  weaknesses 
Too  late  repented. 

L.  Lacy.   I  nor  do,  nor  will  ; 
And  you  shall  find  I'll  lend  a  helping  hand 
To   raise  your    fortunes ;    how   deals  your  brother 

with  you  ? 
Luf.e    Beyond  my  merit,  I   thank   his  goodness 

for't. 

I  am  a  freeman,  all  my  debts  discharged, 
Nor  does  one  creditor, undone  by  me, 
Curse  my  loose  riots.     I  have  meav  and  clothes, 
Time  to  ask  Heaven  remission  for  what's  past  ; 
Can-s  of  the  world  by  me  are  laid  aside, 
My  present  poverty's  a  blessing  to  me  ; 
And  though  I  have  been  long,  I  dare  not  say 
I  ever  lived  till  now. 

L.  Lucy.  You  bear  it  well ; 
Yet  as  you  wish  1  should  receive  for  truth 
What  you  deliver,  with  that  truth  acquaint  me 
With  your  brother's  inclination.     I  have  heard, 
In  the  acquisition  of  his  wealth,  he  weighs  not 
Whose  ruins  he  huilds  upon. 

Luke.  In  that,  report 
Wrongs  him,  my  lord.     He  is  a  citizen, 
And  would  increase  his  heap,  and  will  not  lose 
What  the  law  gives  him  :  such  as   are  worldly  wise 
Pursue  that  track,  or  they  will  ne'er  wear  scarlet*. 
But  if  your  honour  please  to  know  his  temper, 
You  are  come  opportunely.      I  can  bring  you 
Where  you,  unseen,  shall  see  and  hear  his  carriage 
Towards    some  poor  men,  whose  making,  or  un- 
doing, 
Depends  upon  his  pleasuref. 


* or  thry  will  ne'er  wear  scarlet.  1  i.  e. 

never  rise  to  city  honours.  Our  old  writers  have  innumer- 
able allusions  to  the  scarlet  gowns  oi  the  mayors  and  alder- 
men of  London, 

t  The  old  ci.py  has  a  marginal  direction  here,  to  set  out  a 
tabli',  count  book,  xlnndisli,  chair  and  stool.  Nothing  can 
more  fully  demonstrate  the  poverty  of  our  ancient  theatres. 


38* 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[Acr  I 


L.  Lacy.  To  my  wish  : 
I  know  no  object  that  could  more  content  me. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Counting-room  in  Frugal's   House. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN  FRUGAL.  HOYST,   FORTUNE,  PENURY, 
and  (joLuv/iRE  junior. 


Sir  John.  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  reach  me 

a  chair. 

When  1  lent  my  monies  I  appear'd  an  angel  ; 
But  now  I  would  call  in  mine  own,  a  devil. 

Hny.   Were  you  the  devil's  dam,  you  must  stay 

till  1  have  it, 
For  as  I  am  a  gentleman  - 

Re-enter  LUKE,  behind,  with  Lord  LACY. 

Luke.  There  you  may  hear  all. 

Hoy.  I  pawn'd  you  my  land  for  the  tenth  part  of 

the  value  : 

Now,  'cause  I  am  a  gamester,  and  keep  ordinaries, 
And  a  livery  punk  or  so,  and  trade  not  with 
The  money-mongers'  wives,  not  one  will  be  bound 

for  me  : 

'Tis  a  hard  case  ;  you  must  give  me  longer  day, 
Or  I  shall  grow  very  angry. 

Sir  John.  Fret,  and  spare  not. 
I  know  no  obligation  lies  upon  me 
With  my  honey  to  feed  drones.  But  to  the  purpose, 
How  much  owes  Penury? 

Gold.  Two  hundred  pounds  : 
His  bond  three  times  since  forfeited. 

Sir  John.  Is  it  sued? 

Gold.   Yes,  sir,  and  execution  out  against  him. 

Sir  John.  For  body  and  goods  ? 

Gold.  For  both,  sir. 

Sir  John.  See  it  served. 

Pen.  1  am  undone  ;  my  wife  and  family 
Must  starve  for  want  of  bread. 

Sir  John.  More  infidel  thou, 
In  not  providing  better  to  support  them. 
What's  Fortune's  debt  ? 

Gold.  A  thousand,  sir. 

Sir  John.  An  estate 

For  a  good  man  !    You  were  the  glorious  trader, 
Embraced  all  bargains  ;  the  main  venturer 
In  every  ship  that  launch'd  forth  ;  kept  your  wife 
As  a  lady  ;  she  had  her  caroch,  her  choice 
Of  summer-houses,  built  with  other  men's  monies 
Ta'en  up  at  interest  ;  the  certain  road 
To  Ludgate  in  a  citizen*.  Pray  you  acquaint  me, 
How  were  my  thousand  pounds  employ'd  ? 

For.  Insult  not 

On  my  calamity  ;  though,  being  a  debtor, 
And  a  slave  to  him  that  lends,  I  must  endure  it. 
Yet  hear  me  speak  thus  much  in  my  defence  ; 
Losses  at  sea,  and  those,  sir,  great  and  many, 
By  storms  and  tempests,  not  domestical  riots' 

than  these  hints  to  (lie  property-man.  Of  what  we  now 
call  scenery,  there  is  not  the  slightest  indication  in  any  of 
these  dramas;  what  was  the  street  before  the  merchant's 
house,  u  converted,  by  simply  thrusting  forward  a  table 
into  a  comiting-room  :  Luke  and  lord  Lacy  go  out  the 
others  take  their  places,  and  then  the  former  two  re-enter 
behind  them. 

--  tlte  certain  road 

To  Lndnte  in  a  citizen.}  This  prison  was  ancicntlv 
appropriated  to  the  freemen  of  the  city,  and  to  clergymen- 
it  is,  says  1  he  Companion  for  Debtor*  (a  book  of  Massin- 
ger's  age),  the  be«t  piison  about  London,  both  in  regard  to 
its  endowment  and  government. 


In  soothing  ray  wife's  humour,  or  mine  own, 
Have  brought  me  to  this  low  ebb. 

Sir  John-  Suppose  this  true, 

VVhat  is't  to  me  ?  I  must  and  will  have  my  money, 
Or  I'll  protest  you  first,  and,  that  done,  have 
The  statute  made  for  bankrupts  served  upon  you. 

For.    Tis  in   your  power,   but   not  in  mine  to 
shun  it. 

Luke,  [conies  forward.]  Not  as  a  brother,  sir,   but 

with  such  duty, 

As  I  should  use  unto  my  father,  since 
Your  charity  is  my  parent,  give  me  leave 
To  speak  my  thoughts. 

Sir  John  What  would  you  say? 

Luke.  No  word,  sir, 

I  hope,  shall  give  offence  ;  nor  let  it  relish 
Of  flattery,  though  I  proclaim  aloud, 
I  glory  in  the  bravery  of  your  mind, 
To  which  your  wealth's  a  servant.     Not  that  riches 
Is  or  should  be  contemn'd,  it  being  a  blessing 
Derived  from  heaven,  and  by  your  industry 
Pull'd  down  upon  you  ;  but  in  this,  dear  sir, 
You  have  many  equals  :  such  a  man's  possessions 
Extend  as  far  as  yours  :  a  second  hath 
His  bags  as  full ;  a  third  in  credit  flies 
As  high  in  the  popular  voice  :  but  the  distinction 
And  noble  difference  by  which  you  are 
Divided  from  them,  is,  that  vou  are  styk'd 
Gentle  in  your  abundance,  good  in  plenty  ; 
And  that  you  feel  compassion  in  your  bowels 
Of  others'  miseries,  (I  have  found  it,  sir, 
Heaven   keep  me  thankful  for't !)  while   they  arc 

curs'd 
As  rigid  and  inexorable. 

Sir  John.  I  delight  not 
To  hear  this  spoke  to  my  face. 

Luke.  That  shall  not  grieve  you. 
Your  affability,  and  mildness,  clothed 
In    the    garments    of  your     [thankful]    debtors' 

breath*, 

Shall  everywhere,  though  you  strive  to  conceal  it, 
Be  seen  and  wonder'd  at,  and  in  the  act 
With  a  prodigal  hand  rewarded.     Whereas,  such 
As  are  born  only  for  themselves,  and  live  so, 
Though  prosperous  in  worldly  understandings, 
Are  but  like  beasts  of  rapine,  that,  by  odds 
Of  strength,  usurp,  and  tyrannize  o'er  others 
Brought  under  their  subjection. 

L.  Lacy.  A  rare  fellow  ! 
I  am  strangely  taken  with  him. 

Luke.  Can  you  think,  sir, 
In  your  unquestion'd  wisdom,  I  beseech  you, 
The  goods  of  this  poor  man  sold  at  an  outcryf, 
His  wife  turn'd  out  of  doors,  his  children  forced 
To  beg  their  bread,  this  gentleman's  estate, 
By  wrong  extorted,  can  advantage  you  ? 


*  In  the  garments  of  your  [thankful,]  debtor'*  breath]  A 
foot  is  wauling  in  the  former  editions.  I  do  not  Hatter  my- 
self that  the  genuine  word  was  that  whicli  is  here  enclosed 
between  brackets,  though  it  was  not  improbably  some"  hat 
similar  to  it. 

t  The  goods  of  thix  poor  man  sold  at  an  outcry.]  i.  e.  at  a 
public  auction.  So  Jonson  : 

"  Their  houses  and  tine  gardens  given  away, 
And  all  their  goods,  under  the  spear,  at  outcry." 

Cataline 
Again, 

"  Ay,  that  was  when  the  nursery's  self  was  noble. 

And  only  virtue  made  it,  not  the  market, 

That  titles  were  not  vented  at  the  drum, 

Or  common  outcry."  The  Kam  Iw\ 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


383 


Hoy.  If  it  thrive  with   him,  hang  me,  as  it  will 

damn  him, 
If  he  he  not  converted. 

Luke.  You  are  too  violent. — 
Or  that  the  ruin  of  this  once  brave  merchant, 
For  such  he  was  esteem'd,  though  now  decay'd, 
Will  raise  your  reputation  with  good  men  ? 
But  you  may  urge  (pray  you  pardon  me,  my  zeal 
Wakes  me  thus  bold  and  vehement),  in  this 
You  satisfy  your  anger,  and  revenge 
For  being  defeated.     Suppose  this,  it  will  not 
Repair  your  loss,  and  there  was  never  yet 
But  shame  and  scandal  in  a  victory 
When  the  rebels  unto  reason,  passions,  fought  it. 
Then  for  revenge,  by  great  souls  it  was  ever 
Contemn'd,  though  offered  ;  entertain'd  by  none 
But  cowards,  base  and  abject  spirits,  strangers 
To  moral  honesty,  and  never  yet 
Acquainted  wiih  religion. 

L.  Laci/.  Our  divines 
Cannot  speak  more  effectually. 

Sir  John.  Shall  I  be 
Talk'd  out  of  my  money? 

Luke.  No,  sir,  but  entreated 
To  do  yourself  a  benefit,  and  preserve 
What  YOU  possess  entire. 

Sir  John.  How,  my  good  brother? 

Luke.  By  making  these  }our  beadsmen*. 

When  they  eat, 
Their  thanks,  next  heaven,  will   be  paid  to   your 

mercy ; 

When  your  ships  are  at  sea,  their  prayers  will  swell 
The  sails  with  prosperous  winds,  and  guard    them 

from 

Tempests  and  pirates  ;  keep  your  warehouses 
F»om  fire,  or  quench  them  with  their  tears — 

Sir  John.  No  more. 

Luke.  Write  you  a  good  man  in  the  people's  hearts; 
Follow  you  everywhere. 

Sir  John    if  this  could  he — 

Luke.  It  must,  or  our  devotions  are  but  words. 
I  see  a  gentle  promise  in  your  eye, 
Make  it  a  blessed  act,  and  pooi  me  rich, 
In  being  the  instrument. 

Sir  Juhii.   You  shall  prevail  ; 

Give  them  longer  day  :  but  do  you  hear,  no  talk  oft, 
Should  this  arrive  at  twelve  on  the  Exchange, 
I  shall  be  laugh 'd  at  for  my  foolish  pity, 
Which  money -men  hate  deadly.  Take  your  own  time 
But  see  you  break  not.     Carry  them  to  the  cellar  ; 
Drink  a  health,  and  thank  your  orator. 

Pen.  On  our  knees,  sir. 

For.  Honest  master  Luke! 

Hay.  I  bless  the  Counter,  where 
You  learn'd  this  rhetoric. 


Luke.  No  more  of  that,  friends. 

[Exeunt  Luke,  Hoyst,  Fortune,  and  Penury, 
Lord  Lacy  comes  forward. 

Sir  John    My  honourable  lord. 

L.  Lacy.  I  have  seen  and  heard  all. 
Excuse  my  manners,  and  wish  heartily 
You  were  all  of  a  piece.  Your  charity  to  youi 

debtors 

I  do  commend  ;  but  where  you  should  express 
Your  piety  to  the  height,  I  must  boldly  tell  you 
You  show  yourself  an  atheist. 

Sir  Ji>hn.  Make  me  know 
My  error,  and  for  what  I  am  thus  censured, 
And  I  will  purge  myself,  or  else  confess 
A  guilty  cause. 

L.  Lacy.  It  is  your  harsh  demeanour 
To  your  poor  brother. 

Sir  John.  Is  that  all? 

L.  Lucy.  'Tis  more 

Than  can  admit  defence.     You  keep  him  as 
A  parasite  to  your  table,  subject  to 
The  scorn  of  your  proud  wife  ;  an  underling 
To  his  own  nieces :  and  can  1  with  mine  honour 
Mix  my  blnod  with  his,  (hat  is  not  sensible 
Of  his  brother's  miseries? 

Sir  John.  Pray  you,  take  me  with  you  ; 
And  let  me  yield  my  reasons  why  I  am 
No  opener-haniled  to  him.     J  was  born 
His  elder  brother,  yet  my  father's  fondness 
To  him,  the  younger,  robb'd  me  ofrny  birthright : 
He  had  a  fair  estate,  which  his  loose  riots 
Soon   brought  to  nothing ;  wants  grew  heavy  on 

him, 

And  when  laid  up  for  debt,  of  all  forsaken, 
And  in  his  own  hopes  lost,  I  did  redeem  him. 

L.  Lurij.  You  could  not  do  less. 

Sir  John.  Was  1  bound  to  it,  my  lord? 
What  I  possess  I  may  with  justice  call 
The  harvest  of  my  industry.     Would  you  have  me, 
Neglecting  mine  own  family,  to  give  up 
My  estate  to  his  disposure  ? 

L.  Lacy.  I  would  have  you, 
What's  pass'd  forgot,  to  use  him  as  a  brother ; 
A  brother  of  fair  parts,  of  a  clear  soul, 
Religious,  good,  and  honest. 

Air  John.  Outward  gloss 
Often  deceives,  may  it  not  prove  so  in  him ! 
And  yet  my  long  acquaintance  with  his  nature 
Renders  me  doubtful ;  but  that  shall  not  make 
A  breach  between  us  :   let  us  in  to  dinner, 
And  what  trust,  or  employment  you  think  fit, 
Shall  be  conferr'd  upon  him  :  if  he  prove 
True  gold  in  the  touch,  I'll  be  no  mourner  for  it. 

L.   Lacy.    If    counterfeit,    I'll  never    trust   my 
judgment.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  Frugal's  House. 

Enter   LUKE,   HOLDFAST,   GOLDWIRE  junior,  and 

TR  A  DKWEIJ.  junior. 

Hold.  The  like  was  never  seen. 
Luke.  Why  in  this  rage,  man 

*  Luke.  By  making  these  your  beadsmen.  ]  Beadsmen  is 
pure  Saxun,  and  meiiis  prayersmen ;  i.  e.  such  as  are 
engaged,  iu  consequence  of  J'ast  or  present  favours, 


Hold.  Men  may  talk  of  country-christmasses 
and  court-gluttony, 

Their  thirty-pound  butter'd  eggs,  their  pies  of 
carps'-tongues, 

Their  pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris,  the  car- 
cases 


to  pray  for  their  benefactors.  The  name  was  formerly 
given  with  great  propriety  to  the  inhabitants  ol  almt-housei, 
in  general,  to  the  objects  of  our  public  charities. 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[Acr  II. 


Of  tliree  fat  wethers  bruised  for  gravy,  to 

5Sl:ike  sauce  for  a  single  peacock  ;  yet  their  feasts 

Were  fusts,  compared  with  the  city's. 

Trade.   What  dear  dainty 
Was  it  thou  murmur'st  at? 

Hold.  Did  you  not  observe  it? 

There  were  throe  sucking  pigs  served  up  in  a  dish, 
Ta'en  from  the  sow  as  soon  as  farrowed, 
A  fortnight  fed  with  dates,  and  muskadine, 
That  stood  my  master  in  twenty  marks  apiece, 
Besides  the  puddings  in  their  bellies,  made 
Of  I  know  not  what. — I  dare  swear  the  cook  that 

dress 'd  it 
Was  the  devil,  disguised  like  a  Dutchman. 

Gold.  Yet  all  this 
Will  not  make  you  fat,  fellow  Holdfast. 

Hold.  I  am  rather 
Starved   to   look  on't.     But  here's   the   mischief— 

tliough 

The  dishes  were  raised  one  upon  another, 
As  woodmongers  do  billets,  for  the  first, 
The  second,  and  third  course,  aad  most  of  the  shops 
Of  the  best  confectioners  in  London  ransack'd 
To  furnish  out  a  banquet*  ;  yet  my  lady 
Call'd  me  penurious  rascal,  and  cried  out, 
There  was  nothing  worth  the  eating. 

Gold.  You  must  have  patience, 
This  is  not  done  often. 

Hold    Tis  not  fit  it  should  ; 

Three  such  dinners  more  would  break  an  alderman, 
And  make  him  give  up  his  cloak :  I  am  resolved 
To  have  no  hand  in't.     I'll  make  up  my  accompts, 
And  since  my  master  longs  to  be  undone, 
The  great  fiend  be  his  steward  ;  I  will  pray, 
And  bless  myself  from  him  !  [Erit. 

Gold.  The  wretch  shows  in  this 
An  honest  care. 

Luke.  Out  on  him  !  with  the  fortune 
Of  a  slave  he  has  the  mind  of  one.     However 
She  bears  me  hard,  I  like  my  lady's  humour, 
And  my  brother's  suffrage  to  it.     They  are  now 
Busy  on  all  hands  ;  one  side  eager  for 
Larj;e  portions,  the  other  arguing  strictly 
For  jointures  and  security  ;  but  this 
Beinj  above  our  scale,  no  way  concerns  us. 
How  dull  you  look  !  in  the  mean  time,  how  intend 

you 
To  spend  the  hours  1 

Gold.  We  well  know  h»w  we  would, 
But  dare  not  serve  our  wills. 

Trade.   Being  prentices, 
We  are  bound  to  attendance. 


—  most  of  the  shop* 


Of  the,  best  confectioner*  in  London  ransack'd 
'Jo  furnish  out  a  banqiu-t;)  A  banquet  was  what  we  now 
call  a  dessert ;  it  was  composed  of  fruit,  sweetmeats,  &c. : 

—  your  citizen 

Is  a  most  fierce  devourer,  sir,  of  plums ; 
JSix  will  destroy  as  many  as  might  make 
A  banquet  for  an  army."  The  Witt. 

The  banquet  was  usually  placed  in  a  separate  room,  to 
•which  ihe  guests  removed  a*  soon  as  they  had  dined:  thus, 
in  'I  he  Unnatural  Combat,  Beaufort  ny •; 

"  U  K  II  dine  in  the  ({real  room,  but  let  ihc  music 
And  banquet  be  prepared  here." 

The  common  pUce  ol  banqueting,  or  of  eating  the  dessert, 
ami.ii"  «.nr  ance.-tors,  WHS  llie  gaiden  h»ii-e,  or  arbour,  with 
wliirli  almost  every  dwt  lliu«  v\as  one.  furnished  :  to  this 
Shallow  alludes  in  a  simple  pa>sage,  which  has  had  a  great 
deal  of  impertinent  matter  written  to  coniound  it: 

ShiM.  •'  Nay,  yon  shall  see  mi::e  orchard,  where,  in  an 
arbour,  we  wriU  e.u  a  I.IM  \ear'«  pippin  of  my  own  grafting, 
with  a  dish  ol  carraways,"  (a  small  kind  of  i  omfit)  "  and  to 
forth."  Henry  IV.  Part  II. 


Luke.    Have  you  almost  served  out 
The  term  of  your  indentures,  yet  make  conscience 
By  starts  to  use  your  liberty  ?  Hast  thou  traded 

[  To  Tradewell. 

In  the  other  world*,  exposed  unto  all  dangers, 
To  make  thy  master  rich,  yet  dar'st  not  take 
Some  portion  of  the  profit  for  thy  pleasure  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  \ToGnldw  ],  being  keeper  of  the  cash, 
Like  an  ass  that  carries  dainties  feed  on  thistles? 
Are    you   gentlemen    born,    yet    have    no    gallant 

tincture 

Of  gentry  in  you  ?  you  are  no  mechanics, 
Nor  serve  some  needy  shopkeeper   who  surveys 
His  every-day  takings  :  you  have  in  vour  keeping 
A  mass  of  wealth,  f'-om  winch  vou  may  take  boldly, 
And  no  way  be  discover'd      He's  no  rich  man 
That  knows  all  he  possesses,  and  leaves  nothing 
For  his  servants  to  make  prey  of.     I  blush  for  yeu, 
Hlush  at  your  poverty  of  spirit ;  you, 
The  brave  sparks  of  the  city  ! 

Gold.  Master  Luke, 

I  wonder  you  should  urge  this,  having  felt 
What  misery  follows  riot. 

Trade.  And  the  penance 
You  endur'd  for't  in  the  Counter. 

Luke.  You  are  fools, 

The  case  is  not  the  same  ;  I  spent  mine  own  money, 
And  my  stock   being  small,   no  marvel  'twas  soon 

wasted ; 

But  you,  without  the  least  doubt  or  suspicion, 
If  cautelous,  may  make  bold  with  your  master's. 
As,  for  example,  whan  his  ships  come  home. 
And  you  take  your  receipts,  as  'tis  the  fashion, 
For  fifty  bales  of  silk  you  may  write  forty  ; 
Or  for  so  many  pieces  of  cloth  of  bodkin, 
Tissue,  gold,  silver,  velvets,  satins,  taffetas, 
A  piece  of  each  deducted  from  the  gross, 
Will  ne'er  be  miss'd,  a  dash  of  a  pen  will  do  it. 
Trade.    Ay,  but   our   father's  bonds,  that  lie  in 

pawn 
For  our  honesties,  must  pay  for't. 

Luke..  A  mere  bugbear, 
Invented  to  fright  children  !     As  I  live, 
Were  1  the  master  of  my  brother's  fortunes, 
I  should  glory  in  such  servants.      Didst  thou  know 
What  ravishing  lechery  it  is  to  enter 
An  ordinary,  cap-a-pie,  trimm'd  like  a  gallant, 
For  which  in  trunks  conceal'd  be  ever  furnish'd  ; 
The  reverence,  respect,  the  crouches,  cringes, 
The  musical  chime  of  gold  in  your  cramm  d  pockets, 
Commands  from  the  attendants,  and  poor  porters — 
Trade.  O  rare ! 

Luke.  Then  sitting  at  the  table  with 
The  braveries  of  tlie  kingdom,  you  shall  hear 
Occurrents  from  all  corners  of  the  world, 
The  plots,  the  counsels,  the  designs  of  princes, 
And  freely  censure  them  ;  the  city  wits 
Cried  up,  or  decried,  as  their  passions  lead  them  ; 
Judgment  having  nought  to  do  there. 
Trade.  Admirable  ! 
Luke.  My  lord  no  sooner  shall   rise   out   of  hi 

chair, 

The  gaining  lord  I  mean,  but  you  may  boldly, 
By  the  privilege  of  a  gamester,  fill  his  room, 
For  in  play  you  are  all  fellows  ;  have  your  knife 
As  soon  in  the  pheasant  ;  drink  your  health  as  freely, 


*  In  the  other  world.]  i.  e.  the  East  Indies,  from  whence 
as  the  first  scene  informs  us,  Tradewell  was  just  rctu-red. 


II.  | 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


385 


And  striking  in  a  lucky  hand  o*r  two, 
Buy  out  your  time. 

Trade.  This  may  be  ;  but  suppose 
WP  st.ould  be  known? 

Luke.  Hare  money  and  good  clothes, 
And  you  may  puss  invisible.     Or,  if 
You  love  a  madam-punk,  and  your  wide  nostril 
Be  taken  with  the  scent  of  cambric  smocks, 
Wrought  and  perfumed 

Gold,  There,  there,  master  Luke, 
There  lies  my  road  of  bappiuess  ! 

Luke.  Enjov  it. 

And  pleasures  stolen  bein<;  sweetest,  apprehend 
The  raptures  of  being  hurried  in  a  coach 
To  Brentford,  Staines,  or  Barnet. 

Gold.  'Tis  enchanting ; 
I  have  proved  it. 

Luke.  Hast  thou  ? 

Gold.  Yes.  in  all  these  places 
I  have  had  my  several  pagans  billeted 
For  my  own  tooth,  and  after  ten-pound  suppers, 
The  curtains  drawn,  my  fiddlers  playing  all  night 
The  slaking  of  the  sheets,  which  I  have  danced 
Again   and    again    with     my    cockatrice: — master 

Luke. 
You  shall  be  of  my   counsel,   and  we  two  sworn 

brothers  ; 

And  therefore  I'll  be  open.     I  am  out  now 
Six  hundred  in  the  cash     yet,  if  on  a  sudden 
I  should  be  call'd,to  account,  I  have  a  trick 
How  to  evade  it,  and  make  up  the  sum. 

Trade.  Is't  possible  ? 

Luke.  You  can  instruct  your  tutor. 
How,  how,  good  Tom  1 

Gold,  Why,  look  you.     We  cash-keepers 
Hold  correspondence,  supply  one  another 
On  all  occasions  :   I  can  borrow  for  a  week 
Two  hundred  pounds  of  one,  as  much  ot  a  second, 
A  third  lays  down  the  rest;  and,  when  they  want, 
As  my  master's  monies  come  in  I  do  repay  it : 
Ku  me,  ka  thee*  ! 

Luke.  An  excellent  knot !  'tis  pity 
It  e'er  should  be  unloosed  ;  for  me  it  shall  not. 
You  are  shown  the  way,  friend  Tradewell,  you  may 

make  use  on't, 

Or  freeze  in  the  warehouse  and  keep  company 
With  the  cater  t,  Holdfast. 

Trade.  No,  I  am  converted. 
A  Barbican  broker  will  furnish  me  with  outside, 
And  then,  a  crash  at  the  ordinary  ! 


*  Ka  me,  ha  thee.']  This  I  believe,  is  a  Scottish  proverb, 
and  means,  indulge,  or  serve  me,  and  I'll  serve  thee  in  my 
turn.  It  is  not  uncommon  in  our  old  dramas.  Thus  in  Ram 
Alley : 

"  Ka  me,  ka  thee,  one  thing  must  rub  another." 
Again,  in  Eastward  Hoe: 

"Thou  art  pander  to  me,  for  my  wench  :  and  I  to  thee  for 
thy  couzenage.  Ka  me,  ha  thee,  ruus  through  court  aud 
country." 

t  With  the  cater,  Holdfast.}  i.  e.  the  purveyor.  This 
word  was  in  very  general  use  in  Mafsingcr's  time :  though 
the  editors  of  some  of  our  old  dramatists  do  not  seem  to  be 
aware  of  it.  Thus  Jonson  : 

"  He  is  my  wardrobe  man,  my  cater  cook, 

Butler,  and  steward."  Devil's  an  Ass. 

Here  Mr.  Whalley  reads,  .vith  sufficient  harshness, 

"  He  is  my  wardrobe-man,  m'acaler  cook,"  &c. 
And  Fletcher: 

"  See,  sweet,  I'm  cook  myself,  and  mine  own  cater." 

H  omen  pleased. 

Here  the  editors  propose  to  read  caterer,  which  they  say  is 
the  more  probable  word  1  I  suppose — because  it  spoils  the 
metre. 


Gold.  I  am  for 

The  lady  vou  saw  this  morning,  who,  indeed,  is 
My  proper  recreation. 

Luke.  Go  to,  Tom  ; 
What  did  you  make  me  ? 

Gold.  I'll  do  as  much  for  you, 
Employ  me  when  you  please. 

Luke.  If  you  are  enquired  for, 
I  will  excuse  you  both. 

Trade.  Kind  master  Luke  ! 

Gold.   We'll  break  my  master,  to  make  you.     You 
know 

Luke.  I  cannot  love   money.     Go,   boys !  when 

time  serves, 
It  shall  appear  I  have  another  end  in't.         [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 

Another  Eoom  in  the  tame. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN  FRUGAL,  Lord  LACY,  Sir  MAURICE 
LACY,  PLENTY,  Lady  FRUGAL,  ANXE,  MARY,  and 
MILLISCENT. 

Sir  John.  Ten  thousand  pounds  a  piece  I'll  make 

their  portions, 

And  after  my  decease  it  shall  be  double, 
Provided  you  assure  them  for  their  jointures 
Eight  hundred  pounds  per  annum,  and  entail 
A  thousand  more  upon  the  heirs*  male 
Begotten  on  their  bodies. 

It,  Lacy.  Sir,  you  bind  us 
To  very  strict  conditions. 

Plenty.   You,  my  lord, 

May  do  as  you  please  :  but  to  me  it  seems  strange 
We  should  conclude  of  portions,  and  of  jointures, 
Before  our  hearts  are  settled. 

L.  Frug.  You  say  right : 

There  are  counsels  of  more  moment  and  importance 
On  the  making  up  of  marriages,  to  be 
Consider'd  duly,  than  the  portion  or  the  jointures, 
In  which  a  mother's  care  must  be  exacted  ; 
And  I  by  special  privilege  may  challenge 
A  casting  voice. 

L.  Lucy.  How's  this? 

L.  Frug.  Even  so,  my  lord  ; 
In  these  affairs  I  govern. 

L.  Lacv.  Give  you  way  to't  ? 

Sir  John.  1  must,  my  lord. 

L.  Frug.  Tis  fit  he  should,  and  shall : 
You  may  consult  of  something  else,  this  province 
Is  wholly  mine. 

•Sir  Maur.  By  the  city  custom,  madam  ? 

L.   Frug.    Yes,  my  young  sir  ;  and  both   must 

look  my  daughters 
Will  hold  it  by  my  copy. 

Plenty.   Brave,  i'faith  ! 

.Sir  John.  Give  her  leave  to  talk,   we  have  the 

powt- r  to  do ; 

And  now  touching  the  business  we  last  tnlk'd  of, 
In  private,  if  you  please. 

L.  Lacy.  'I  is  well  remember'd: 
You  shall  take  your  own  way,  madam. 

[Exeunt  Lord  Lacy  and  Sir  John  Frugal. 

Sir  Maur.   What  strange  lecture 
Will  she  read  unto  us  ? 


•  A  thousand  more  vpon  the  heirs  male.]  Heir*  mast  be 
pronounced  (as  they  say)  as  a  dissyllable,  though  I  do  not 
profess  to  know  bow  it  can  be  done. 


3B6 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


fAcx  II. 


L.  Frug.  Such  as  wisdom  warrants 
From  the  superior  bodies.     Is  Stargaze  ready 
With  his  several  schemes  ? 

Mill.  Yes,  madam,  and  attends 
Your  pleasure. 

Sir  Maur.  Stargaze  !  lady  :  what  is  he  ? 

L.  Frng.  Call  him  in.— [Ei-it    Milliscent.] — You 

shall  first  know  him,  then  admire  him 
For  a  man  of  many  parts,  and  those  parts  rare  ones. 
He's  every  thing,  indeed  ;  parcel  physician, 
And  as  such  prescribes  my  diet,  and  foretels 
My  dreams  when  I  eat  potatoes  ;  parcel  poet, 
And  sings  encomiums  to  my  virtues  sweetly  j 
My  antecedent,  or  my  gentleman-usher, 
And  as  the  stars  move,  with  thai  due  proportion 
He  walks  before  me  :  but  an  absolute  master 
In  tb,e  calculation  of  nativities  ; 
Guided  by  that  ne'er  erring  science,  call'd 
Judicial  astrology. 

Plenty.  Stargaze !  sure 
I  have  a  penny  almanack  about  me 
Inscribed  to  you,  as  to  his  patroness, 
In  his  name  publish 'd. 

L.  Fmg.  Keep  it  as  a  jewel. 
Some  statesmen  that  I  will  not  name  are  wholly 
Govern'd  by  his  predictions  ;  for  they  serve 
For  any  latitude  in  Christendom, 
As  well  as  our  own  climate. 

Re-enter  MILLISCENT,  followed  by  STARGAZE,  with  two 
schemes. 

Sir  Maur.  I  believe  so. 

Plenty.  Must  we  couple  by  the  almanack  ? 

L.  Frug.  Be  silent ; 
And  ere  we  do  articulate,  much  more 
Grow  to  a  full  conclusion,  instruct  us 
Whether  this  day  and  hour,  by  the  planets,  promise 
Happy  success  in  marriage. 

Star.  In  omni 
Parte,  et  toto. 

Plenty.  Good  learn'd  sir,  in  English  ; 
And  since  it  is  resolved  we  must  be  coxcombs, 
Make  us  so  in  our  own  language. 

Star.   You  are  pleasant : 
Thus  in  our  vulgar  tongue  then  : — 

L.  Fritg.  Pray  you  observe  him. 

Star.  Venus,  in  the  west  angle,  the  bouse  of  mar- 
riage the  seventh  house,  in  trine  of  Mars,  in  con- 
junction of  Luna ;  and  Mars  almuthen,  or  lord  of 
the  horoscope. 

Plenty.  Hey-day  ! 

L.  Frug    The  angels'  language!  I  am  ravish 'd  : 
forward. 

Star.  Mars,  as  I  said,  lord  of  the  horoscope,  or 
geniture,  in  mutual  reception  of  each  other  ;  she  in 
her  exaltation,  and  he  in  his  triplicate  trine,  and 
face,  assure  a  fortunate  combination  to  Hymen,  ex- 
cellent, prosperous,  and  happy. 

L.  Frug.  Kneel,  and  give  thanks 

[The  Women  kneel. 

Sir  Maur.  For  what  we  understand  not  1 

Plenty.  And  have  as  little  faith  in  ? 

L.  Frug.  Be  incredulous* ; 
To  me  'tis  oracle. 

Star.  Now  for  the  sovereignty  of  my  future  la- 
dies, your  daughters,  after  they  are  married. 

*  L.  Frng.  Be  incredulous;]  This  is  the  reading  of  Mr. 
M.  Mason.  The  old  copy  has  Be  credulous,  meaning,  per- 
haps, follow  my  example,  and  believe  ;  and  so  may  be  right  ; 
tuongh  incredulous  is  better  adapted  to  the  measure. 


Plenty.  Wearing  the  breeches,  you  mean? 

L.  Frug.  Touch  that  point  home  : 
It  is  a  principal  one,  and,  with  London  ladies, 
Of  main  consideration. 

Star.  This  is  infallible  :  Saturn  out  of  all  dignities 
in  his  detriment  and  fall,  combust :  and  Venus  in 
the  south  angle  elevated  above  him,  lady  of  both 
their  nativities,  in  her  essential  and  accidental  digni- 
ties ;  occidental  from  the  sun,  oriental  from  the  angle 
of  the  east,  in  c»zini  of  the  sun,  in  her  joy,  and  free 
from  the  malevolent  beams  of  infortunes  ;  in  a  sign 
commanding,  and  Mars  in  a  constellation  obeying  ; 
she  fortunate,  and  he  dejected  :  the  disposers  of 
marriage  in  the  radix  of  the  native  in  feminine 
figures,  argue,  foretel,  and  declare  rule,  pre-emi- 
nence, and  absolute  sovereignty  in  women*. 

L.  Frng.  Is't  possible  ! 

Star.  'Tis  drawn,  I  assure  you,  from  the  apho- 
risms of  the  old  Chaldeans,  Zoroastes  the  first  and 
greatest  magician,  Mercurius,  Trismegistus,  the 
later  Ptolemy,  and  the  everlasting  prognosticator, 
old  Erra  Pater. 

L.  Frug.  Are  you  yet  satisfied  ? 

Plenty.  In  what? 

L.  Frug.  That  you 

Are  bound  to  obey  your  wives  :  it  being  so 
Determined  by  the  stars,  against  whose  influence 
There  is  no  opposition. 

Plenty.  Since  I  must 
Be.  married  by  the  almanack,  as  I  may  be, 
'Twere  requisite  the  services  and  duties 
Which,  as  you  say,  I  must  pay  to  my  wife, 
Were  set  down  in  the  calendar. 

Sir  Maur.  With  the  date 
Of  my  'apprenticeship. 

L.  Fmg.  Make  your  demands  ; 
I'll  sit  as  moderatrix,  if  they  press  you 
With  over-hard  conditions. 

Sir  Maur.  Mine  hath  the  van: 
I  stand  your  charge,  sweet. 

Star.  Silence. 

Anne    I  require,  first, 

And  that  since  'tis  in  fashion  with  kind  husbands, 
In  civil  manners  you  must  grant,  my  will 
In  all  things  whatsoever,  and  that  will 
To  be  obey'd,  not  argued. 

L.  Frug.  And  good  reason. 

Plenty    A  gentle  imprimis! 

Sir  Maur.  This  in  gross  contains  all : 
But  your  special  items,  lady. 

Anne,  \\hen  1  am  one, 

And  you  are  honour'd  to  be  styled  my  husband, 
To  urge  my  having  my  page,  my  gentleman-usher, 
My  woman  sworn  to  my  secrets,  my  caroch 
Drawn    by    six     Flanders   mares,    my    coachman 

grooms, 
Postillion,  and  footmen. 

Sir  Maur.   Is  there  aught  else 
To  be  demanded? 

Anne.  Yes,  sir.  mine  own  doctor, 
French  an  i  Italian  cooks,  musicians,  songsters, 
And  a  chaplain  that  must  preach  to  please  my  fancy  : 
A  friend  at  court  to  place  me  at  a  mnsk  ; 
The  private  box  ta'en  up  at  a  new  play, 


•  I  have  contented   myself  with  correcting  the  errors  of 
the  former  editors   in    piinting   the  obsolete  jargon  of  this 
i^in'Miit  impostor,  without  attempting  to  e>i|>l.iiii  any  part  of 
it.     If  tin-  if.ule,  will  follow   my  eva.uple,  an<{   not  waste 
thought  on  it,  he  will  lose  nothing  by  his  negligence. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


38? 


For  me  and  my  retinue  ;  a  fresh  habit, 

Of  a  fashion  never  seen  before,  to  draw 

The  gallants'  eyes,  that  sit  on  the  stage,  upon  me  ; 

Some  decayed  lady  for  my  parasite. 

To  flatter  me,  and  rail  at  other  madams ; 

And  there  ends  my  ambition. 

Sir  Mattr.   Your  desires 
Are  modest,  I  confess  ! 

Anne.  These  toys  subscrib'd  to, 
And  you  continuing  an  obedient  husband, 
Upon  all  fit  occasions  you  shall  find  me 
A  most  indulgent  wife. 

L.  Frng.  You  have  said  ;  give  place, 
And  hear  your  younger  sister. 

Plenty.  If  she  speak 
Her  language,  may    the   great  fiend*,  booted  and 

spurr'd, 

With  a  scythe  at  his  girdle,  as  the  Scotchman  says, 
Ride  headlong  down  her  throat! 

Sir  Maur.  Curse  not  the  judge 
Before  you  hear  the  sentence. 

Mary.  In  some  part 

My  sister  hath  spoke  well  for  the  city  pleasures, 
But  I  am  for  the  country's  ;  and  must  say, 
Under  correction,  in  her  demands 
She  was  too  modest. 

Sir  Maur.   How  like  you  this  exordium  ? 

Plenty.  Too  modest,  with  a  mischief! 

Mary.   Yes,  too  modest : 
I  know  my  value,  and  prize  it  to  the  wonh, 
My  youth,  my  beauty 

Plenty.   How  your  glass  deceives  you  ! 

Mary,  The  greatness  of  the  portion  I  bring  with 

me, 
And  the  sea  of  happiness  that  from  me  flows  to  you. 

Sir  Maur.  She  bears  up  close. 

Mari/.  And  can  you,  in  your  wisdom, 
Or  rustical  simplicity,  imagine 
You    have   met  some  innocent   country  girl,   that 

never 
Look'd    further  than  her  father's  farm,  nor  knew 

more 
Than  the  price  of  corn  in  the  market ;  or  at  what 

rate 

Beef  went  a  stone  1  that  would  survey  your  dairy, 
And  bring  in  mutton  out  of  cheese  and  butter? 
That  could  give  directions  at  what  time  of  the  moon 
To  cut  her  cocks  for  capons  against  Christmas, 
Or  when  to  raise  up  goslings  1 

Plenty.  These  are  arts 
Would  not  misbecome  you,  though  you  should  put 

in 
Obedience  and  duty. 

Mary.  Yes,  and  patience, 

To  sit  like  a  fool  at  home,  and  eye  your  thrashers  ; 
Then  make  provision  for  your  slavering  hounds, 
\\  hen   you  come  drunk    from   an   alehouse,   after 

hunting 
With    your   clowns   and   comrades,  as  if  all  were 

yours, 

You  the  lord  paramount,  and  I  the  drudge ! 
The  case,  sir,  must  be  otherwise. 

Plenty.   How,  I  beseech  you? 

Mary.  Marry,  thus :    I  will  not,  like  my  sister, 
challenge 


* may  the  great  fiend,  &c.]    Tlii.«  is  one  of 

Ray's  Proverbs.  It  is  found  in  The  Tamer  Tamed :  "  A 
Sedgley  lurse  lisht  on  him!  which  is,  Pedro,  The  liend  ride 
tfirotigh  him  booted  and  spurr'd,  with  a  sithe  at  his  back." 
And  also  in  The  Goblin*,  by  Sir  John  Suckling. 


What's  useful  or  superfluous  from  my  husband, 
That's  base  all  o'er  ;  mine  shall  receive  from   me 
What  1  think  fit;  I'll  have  the  state  convey'd 
Into  my  hands,  and  he  put  to  his  pension. 
Which  the  wise  viragos  of  our  climate  practise  ; — 
I  will  receive  your  rents  ; — 

Plenty.  You  shall  be  hang'd  first. 

Mary.  Make  sale  or  purchase  :  nay  I'll  have  m 

neighbours 

Instructed,  when  a  passenger  shall  ask, 
Whose  house  is  this  ?   (though  you  stand  by)  to 

answer, 

The  lady  Plenty's.     Or  who  owns  this  manor? 
The  lady  Plenty.     Whose  sheep  are  these,  whose 

oxen  ? 
The  lady  Plenty's. 

Plenty.  A  plentiful  pox  upon  you  ! 

Afaru.  And,  when  I  have  children,  if  it  be  en- 
quired 
By  a  stranger,  whose  they   are  ? — they  shall  still 

echo, 
My  lady  Plenty's,  the  husband  never  thought  on 

Plenty.  In  their  begetting  :   I  think  so. 

Murv.  Since  you'll  marry 
In  the  city  for  our  wealth,  in  justice,  we 
Musi  have  the  country's  sovereignty. 

Plenty.  And  we  nothing. 

3/ary.  A  nag  of  forty  shillings,  a  couple  of  spaniels, 
With  a  sparhawk,  is  sufficient,  and  these,  too, 
As  you  shall  behave  yourself,  during  my  pleasure, 
I  will  not  greatly  stanil  on.     I  have  said,  sir, 
Mow  if  you  like  me,  so*. 

* /  have  said,  sir, 

Now  if  you  like  me,  so.]  Before  we  accuse  tlie  poet  of 
abusing  the  license  of  comedy  in  these  preposterous  stipula- 
tions, it  may  not  be  improper  to  look  back  tor  a  moment  on 
the  period  in  which  he  wrote,  and  enquire  it'  no  examples 
of  a  similar  nature  were  then  to  be  found  in  real  life.  It 
was  an  age  of  piofusion  and  vanity  ;  and  the  means  of  en- 
joying them  both,  as  they  persuaded  to  condescension  on 
the  one  side,  so  they  engendered  rapacity  on  the  other:  it 
is  not,  therefore,  a  very  improbable  conjecture,  that  Mas- 
singer  has  but  slightly  taxed  our  credulity,  and  but  little  over- 
ch.irgcd  his  glaring  description  of  female  extravagance  and 
folly !  The  reader  who  is  still  inclined  to  hesitate  may  per- 
use the  extract  here  snbjoiiled.  A  short  time  before  this 
play  was  wiitten,  Elizabeth  Spencer,  daughter  and  heir 
of  Sir  John  Spencer,  Lord  Mayor  of  London  (whom  I  once 
considered  as  the  prototype  ot  Sir  Giles  Overreach),  was 
marri'-d  to  William  Lord  Compton.  With  less  integrity 
and  candour  than  the  daughters  of  Sir  John  Frugal,  she 
made  tew  previous  stipulations,  but  not  long  after  the  con- 
clusion ot  the  nuptial  ceremony,  sent  her  husband  a  modest 
and  consolatory  letter,  which  is  yet  extant;  and  from  which 
the  follow  ing  items,  among  many  others,  are  verbally  taken: 

"Alsoe,  I  will  have  3  horses  form)  ownc  saddle,  that 
none  shall  dare  to  lend  or  borrowe ;  none  lend  but  I,  none 
borrowe  but  yon.  Alsoe,  1  would  have  two  gentlewomen, 
le.ijte  one  should  be  sicke,  or  have  some  other  left.  Alsoe 
beleeve  \t,  it  is  an  itndecent  thinge  fora  gentlewoman  to 
stand  inumpinge  alone,  when  God  hath  blessed  ilieir  lord  and 
lad)  with  a  greate  estate.  Alsoe,  when  I  ride  a  hnn'inge 
or  a  kawkeinge,  or  travayle  from  one  howse  to  anoilier,  I 
will  hive  them  attending*;;  soe  for  either  of  those  said  wo- 
men, I  iiiii-t  ar.d  will  have  for  cither  of  them  a  horse. 
Alsoe,  I  will  have  6  or  8  gentlemen:  and  I  will  have  my 
twoe  coaches,  one  Ijned  with  velvett  to  ni>self,  wth  4  very 
fayre  horses,  and  a  coache  for  my  woemen,  lyned  wth 
sweete  cloth,  oue  laced  wth  gold,  the  other  wtl)  Scarlett,  and 
laced  will  watch,  d  lace  and  silver,  with  4  good  horses. 
Alsxe,  1  will  have  twoe  coachmen,  one  for  my  own  coache, 
the  other  for  my  women.  Alsoe.  alt  any  tyme  when  I 
travnyle,  I  will  be  allowed  not  onl)  canoches,  and  spare- 
horses  for  me  and  my  women,  but  1  will  have  such  car- 
ryadgs,  as  shal  be  tininge  for  all  orderly:  not  peslringe  my 
things  with  my  woeinens,  nor  theirs  wth  either  chambei- 
ma><ls,  or  theirs  with  wase  maids.  Alsoe,  foi  laundresses, 
when  I  travayle  I  will  have  them  sent  away  before  wth  the 
carry adgs  to  see  all  safe,  and  the  chambermaydj  1  will  hav* 


J&S 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


f  ACT  II. 


L.  Frug.  At  my  entreaty, 
The  articles  sh;ill  be  easier. 
Plenty.  Shall  they,  i'faith? 
jLJke  bitch,  like  whelps. 

Sir  Muur.  Use  fair  words. 

Plenty.  I  cannot ; 
I  have  read  of  a  house  of  pride,  and  now  I  have 

found  one : 
A  whirlwind  overturn  it ! 

Sir  Mnur.  On  these  terms, 
Will  your  minxship  be  a  lady  ? 

Plenty.  A  lady  in  a  morris : 
I'll  wed  a  pedlar's  punk  first, — 

Sir  Maur.  Tinker's  trull, 
A  beggar  without  a  smock. 

Plenty.   Le.  monsieur  almanack, 
Since  he  is  so  cunning  with  his  Jacob's  stafi, 
Find  you  out  a  husband  in  a  bowling-alley. 

Sir  Maur.  The  general  pimp  to  a  brothel. 

Plenty.  Though  that  now 

All  the  loose  desires  of  man  were  raked  up  in  me, 
And  no  means  but  thy  maidenhead  left  to  quench 

them, 

I  would  turn  cinders,  or  the  next  sow-gelder, 
On  my  life,  should  lib  me,  rather  than  embrace  thee. 

Anne.  Wooing  do  you  call  tins! 

Mary.   A  bear-baiting  r.ither. 

Plenty.   Were  you  worried,  you  deserve  it,  and  I 

hope 
I  shall  live  to  see  it. 

Sir  Muur.  I'll  not  rail,  nor  curse  you  : 
Only  this,    you  are   pretty   peats,    and  your  great 

portions 

Add  much  unto  your  handsomeness  ;  but  as 
You  wouid  command  your  husbands,  you  are 

beggars, 
L/eform'd  and  ugly. 

L.  Frag.   Hear  me. 

Plenty.  Not  a  word  more. 

[E.ieunt  Sir  Maurice  Lacy  and  Plenty. 

Anne.  I  ever  thought  it  would  come  to  this. 

Mary.   We  may 

Lead  apes  in  hell  for  husbands,  if  you  bind  us 
T'  articulate  thus  with  our  suitors. 

[Both  speak  weeping. 

Star.  Now  the  cloud  breaks, 
And  the  storm  will  fall  on  n>e. 

L.  Frug.  You  rasc>il,  juggler  ! 

[She  breaks  Stargaze'i  head  and  beats  him. 

Star.  Dear  madam. 

L.  Frug.  Hold  you  intelligence  with  the  stars, 
And  tli us  deceive  me  ! 

Sfor.   My  art  cannot  err ; 
T.f  it  does,  I'll  burn  my  astrolabe.     In  mine  own 

star 

I  did  foresee  this  broken  head,  and  beating  ; 
And  now  your  ladyship  sees,  as  I  do  feel  it, 
It  could  not  be  avoided. 

goe  before  wth  the  groomes,  that  a  chamber  may  be  ready, 
sweete  and  clc ane.  Alsoe,  for  that  yt  is  undecent  to  croud 
tipp  niyM:lf  wth  rny  geiitl.  nslier  in  my  coache,  I  will  have 
him  to  have  a  convenyent  horse  to  attend  me  either  in  citty 
or  C'-imtry.  And  1  must  have  2  foutemen.  And  my  desire 
if,  that  you  defray  all  the  chardgcs  for  me." — Ex.  Antoa  in 
Bihl.  /tart. 

It  may  not  be  impeitinent  to  add,  that  Lord  Compton,  as 
might  reasonably  be  conjectured,  after  such  a  letter  as  this, 
reaped  lit'le  comfort  from  his  wife,  and  less  from  her  im- 
mense fortune.  Thi»  set-lie  (as  much  of  it  at  least  as  relates 
to  the  two  yonn«  ladies  and  llieir  lovers)  is  imitated  with 
infinite  pleasantry  by  Glapthorne,  in  that  admirable  comedy, 
Jf  it  in  a  Constable. 


L.  Frug.  Did  you? 

Star.  Madam, 

Have  patience  but  a  week,  and  if  you  find  not 
All  my  predictions  true,  touching  your  daughters, 
And  a  change  of  fortune  to  yourself,  a  rare  one, 
Turn  me  out  of  doors.     These  are  not  the  men  the 

planets 

Appointed  for  their  husbands  ;  there  will  come 
Gallants  of  another  metal. 

Mill.  Once  more  trust  him. 

Anne.  Mury.  Do,  lady-mother. 

L.  Frug.  1  am  vex'd,  look  to  it ; 
Turn  o'er  your  books ;  if  once  again  you  fool  me. 
You  shall  graze  elsewhere  ;  come,  girls. 

Star.  I  ain  glad  I  'scaped  thus.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Lord  LACY  and  Sir  JOHN  FRUGAL. 

L.  Laey.  The  plot  shows  very  likely". 

Sir  John.  I  repose 

My  principal  trust  in  your  lordship ;  'twill  prepare 
The  physic  I  intend  to  minister 
To  my  wife  and  daughters. 

L.  Lacy.  1  will  do  my  parts 
To  set  it  off  to  the  life. 

Enter  Sir  MAURICE  LACY,  and  PLENTY. 

Sir  John,  It  may  produce 

A  scene  of  no  vulgar  mirth.    Here  come  the  suitors ; 
When  we   understand  how  they  relish  my  wife's 

humours, 
The  rest  is  feasible. 

L.  I  act/.  Their  looks  are  cloudy. 

Sir  John.  How  sits  the  wind!  are  you  ready  to 

launch  forth 
Into  this  sea  of  marriage? 

Plenty.  Call  it  rather 
A  whirlpool  of  afflictions. 

Sir  Muur.  If  you  please 
To  enjoin  me  to  it,  I  will  undertake 
To  find  the  north  passage  to  the  indies  sooner* 
Thsin  plough  with  your  proud  heifer. 

Plenty.  I  will  make 
A  voyage  to  hell  first, — 

Sir  John.  How  sir  ! 

Plenty.  And  court  Proserpine 
In  the  sight  of  Pluto,  his  three-headed  porter, 
Cerberus,  standing  by,  and  all  the  furies 
With  their  whips  to  scourge  me  for't,  than  say,  I, 

Jeffrey, 
Take  you,  Mary,  for  my  wife. 

L.  Lacy.  Why  what's  the  matter? 

Sir  Maur.  The  matter  is,  the  mother  (with  your 

pardon, 

I  cannot  but  speak  so  much)  is  a  most  insufferable 
Proud,  insolent  lady. 

Plenty.  And  the  daughters  worse. 
The  dam  in  years  had  the  advantage  to  be  wicked, 
But  they  were  so  in  her  belly. 

*  L.  Lacy.  The  plot  shows  very  likely.)  It  appears  from 
this  that  Sir  John  had  instilled  his  suspicions  of  his  brother 
into  Lord  Lacy.  It  is  finely  contrived,  to  confirm  tin-in  >n 
the  execution  of  their  design  by  a  new  instance  of  uutVelinij 
pride  in  his  family. 

t  To  find  the  north  passage  to  the  Indies  sooner,}  This 
was  the  grand  object  of  our  maritime  expeditions  in  those 
d»vs,  and  was  prosecuted  with  a  boldness,  dexterity,  and 
p» -severance  which,  though  since  equalled,  pel  haps,  in  the 
same  fruitless  pursuit,  have  not  yet  been  surpassed. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


389 


Sir  Maur.  I  must  tell  you, 
With  reverence  to  your  wealth,  I  do  begin 
To  think  you  of  the  same  leaven. 

Plenty.  Take  my  counsel  ; 
Tis  saier  for  your  credit  to  profess 
Yourself  a  cuckold,  and  upon  record, 
Than  say  thev  ure  your  daughters. 

Sir  John.  You  go  too  far,  sir. 

•Sir  Maur.  They  have  so  articled  with  us ! 

Plenty.  And  will  not  take  us 

For  their  husbands,  but  their  slaves  j  and  so  afore- 
hand 
They  do  profess  they'll  use  us. 

Sir  John.  Leave  this  heat : 
Though  they  are  mine,  1  must  tell  you,  the  per- 

verseness 

Of  their  manners  (which, they  did  not  take  from  me, 
But  from  their  mother)  qualified,  they  deserve 
Your  equals. 

Sir  Maur.  True ;  but  what's  bred  in  the  bone 
Admits  no  hope  of  cure, 

Plenty.  Though  saints  and  angels 
Were  their  physicans. 
Sir  John.  You  conclude  too  fast. 


Plenty.  God  be  wi'  you*  !  I'll  travel  three  years, 

but  I'll  bury 
This  sh.ime  that  lives  upon  me. 

Sir  Maur.  With  your  license, 
I'll  keep  him  company. 

L.  Luci/.    Who  shall  furnish  you 
For  your  expenses  '! 

Plenty.  He  shall  not  need  your  help, 
My  purse  is  his ;  we  were  rivals,  but  now  friends, 
And  we  live  and  die  so. 

Sir  Muur.  Ere  we  go,  I'll  pay 
My  duty  as  a  son. 

Plenty.  And  till  then  leave  you. 

[fcieuat  Sir  Maurice  Lacy  and  Plenty 

L.  Lacy.  They  are  strangely  moved. 

Sir  John.  What's  wealth,  accompanied 
With  disobedience  in  a  wife  and  children? 
My  heart  will  break. 

L.  Lacy.  Be  comforted,  and  hope  better  : 
We'll  ride  abroad  ;  the  fresh  air  and  discourse 
May  yield  us  new  inventions. 

Sir  John.  You  are  noble, 

And  shall  in  all  things,  as  you  please,  command  me. 

[Exeunt 


ACT.  III. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  Secret's  House. 
Enter  SHAVE'EM  and  SECRET. 

Secret.  Dead  doings,  daughter. 

Share.  Doings  !   sufferings,  mother  : 
[For  poor]  men  have  forgot*  what  doing  is  ; 
And  such  as  have  to  pay  for  what  they  do, 
Are  impotent,  or  eunuchs. 

Secret.   You  have  a  friend  yet, 
And  a  striker  too,  I  take  it. 

Shave.  Goldwire  is  so,  and  comes 
To  me  by  stealth,  and,  as  he  can  steal,  maintains  me 
In  clothes,  I  grant ;  but  alas  !    dame,   what's  one 

friend  ? 

I  would  have  a  hundred  ; — for  every  hour  and  use, 
And  change  of  humour  1  am  in,  a  fresh  one. 
'Tis  a  flock  of  sheep  that  irakes  a  lean  wolf  fat, 
And  not  a  single  himbkin.     I  am  starved, 
Starved  in  my  pleasures ;  I  know  not  what  a  coach 

is, 

To  hurry  me  to  the  Bursef,  or  Old  Exchange  : 
The  neat-house  for  musk-melons,  and  the  gardens 
Where  we  traffic  for  asparagus,  are,  to  me, 
In  the  other  world. 

Secret.  There  are  other  places,  lady, 
Where  you  might  find  customers. 

Shay.  You  would  have  me  foot  it 


•  [For  poor]  men  have  foryot,  &c.]  A  foot  is  lost  in  the 
original :  I  have  substituted  the  wi  rds  between  brackets  in 
the  hope  of  restoring  the  sense  of  the  passage. 

t  To  hurry  me  to  the.  Burse,]  To  the  New  Exchange, 
which  was  then  full  of  shops,  where  all  kinds  of  finery  for 
the  ladies,  trinkets,  ornaments,  &c.,  were  sold.  It  was  as 
much  frequented  by  the  fashionable  world  in  James's  days, 
\i  Exeter  Change  in  those  of  Charles  II. 

28 


To  the  dancing  of  the  ropes,  sit  a  whole  afternoon 

there 

In  expectation  of  nuts  and  pippins; 
Gape  round  about  me,  and  yet  not  find  a  chapman 
That  in  courtesy  will  bid  a  chop  of  mutton, 
Or  a  pint  of  drum-wine  for  met. 

Seer  ft.  You  are  so  impatient ! 
But  I  can  tell  you  news  will  comfort  you, 
And  the  whole  sisterhood. 

Shave.   What's  that? 

Secret.  I  am  told 

Two  ambassadors  are  come  over:  a  French  mon- 
sieur, 

And  a  Venetian,  one  of  the  clarissimi, 
A  hot-rein'd  marmoset}:.     Their  followers, 
For  their  countries'  honour,  after  a  long  vacation, 
Will  make  a  full  term  with  us. 

Shate.  They  indeed  are 

Our  certain  and  best  customers : — [knocking  within.'] 
— Who  knocks  there? 

Ramh.  [M.-I//I/II.]  Open  the  door. 

Secret.   What  are  you? 


*  Plenty.  God  be  wi'  youl]  For  this  valedictory  phrase, 
so  common  in  our  old  writers  the  modern  editors  with 
equal  elegance  and  judgment  have  substituted,  Good-by  to 
youl 

t  Or  a  pint  of  dram-wine  for  mi1.]  So  the  old  copy; 
meaning  perhaps  sutler's  wine,  or  such  sophisticated  stuff  ai 
is  disposed  of  at  the  drum  head.  Thus  Shirley: 

"  What  we  have  more  than  to  supply  our  wants, 
Consumes  on  the  drum  head." 

Or  it  may  signify  such  wine  as  is  to  be  found  at  common 
auctions,  or  outcries,  to  which  the  people  were, at  this  time, 
usually  summoned  by  beat  of  drum.  Coxeterand  M.  Ma- 
son read  strum-wine  ;  Dodsley,  */um-wine. 

I  A  hot  rein'd  marmo*et.\  i.  e.  a  monkey,  a  libidiuoui 
animal. 


590 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[Acr  III 


Ramb.  [within.]  Ramble. 

Scuff,  [withm.]  Scuffle. 

Ramb.  [within.]   Your  constant  visitants. 

Shave.   Let  them  not  in  ; 
I  know  them,  swaggering,  suburbian  roarers, 
Sixpenny  truckers. 

Ramb.  [within.]   Down  go  all  your  windows, 
And  your  neighbours'  too  shall  sufter. 

Scuff,  [wuhin.]   Force  the  doors  ! 

Secret.  They  are  outlaws,  mistress  Shave  em,  and 

No  rlmedv^against  them.     What  should  you  fear  ? 
They  are  but  men  ;  lying  at  your  close  ward, 
You"  have  foil'd  their  betters. 

Shave.  Out,  you  bawd  !  you  care  not 
Upon  what  desperate  service  you  employ  me, 
Nor  with  whom,  so  you  have  your  tee. 

Secret.  Sweet  lady-bird, 
Sing  in  a  milder  key. 

Exit,  and  Re-enters  with  RAMBLE  and  SCUFFLE. 

Scuff.  Are  you  grown  proud  1 

Ramb.  I   knew  you  a  waistcoateer  m  the  garden 

alleys*, 
And  would  come  to  a  sailor's  whistle. 

Secret.  Good  sir  Ramble, 
Use  her  not  roughly  ;  she  is  very  tender. 
Ramb.  Rank  and  rotten,  is  she  not? 

[Shave'em  draws  her  knife. 
Shave.  Your  spittle  rogueships  f 

[Ramble  draws  his  sword. 

Shall  not  make  me  so. 

Secret.  As  you  are  a  man,  squire  Scuffle, 
Step  in  between  them :  a  weapon  of  that  length 
Was  never  drawn  in  my  house. 

Shane.  Let  him  come  on  : 
I'll  scour  it  in  your  guts,  you  dog ! 

Ramb.  You  brachej ! 


•  Ramb.  /  knew  you  a  waistcoateer,  &c.]  It  appears 
from  innumerable  passages  in  our  old  plays,  that  waist- 
coati-er  was  a  cant  term  for  a  strumpet  of  the  lowest  kind; 
probably  given  to  them  from  their  usually  appearing,  either 
through  choice  or  necessity ,  in  a  succinct  habit.  Thus  Beau- 
munt  and  Fletcher; 

" Do  you  think  you  are  here,  sir, 

Amongst  your  waistcoateer*,  your  base  wenches, 
That  scratch  on  such  occasions  I"—  Wit  without  Money. 

"  This  is  the  time  of  night,  and  this  the  haunt, 
In  which  I  use  lo  catch  my  waistr.oateers : 
I  hope  they  have  not  left  their  walk." 

The  Noble  Gentleman. 

t  Your  spittle  rogueshipi,  &c.]  Mr.  M.  Mason, following 
his  usual  practice  of  altering  what  he  dislikes  or  misunder- 
stands, changed  spittle  into  spilal,  which  he,  probably,  con- 
ceived to  be  an  abridgment  of  hospital.  But  our  old  wri- 
ters carefully  distinguished  between  these  two  words  ;  with 
them  an  hospital  or  spital  nlvvays  signified  a  charitable  insti- 
tution for  the  advantage  of  poor,  infirm,  and  aged  persons, 
«n  alms  house,  in  short ;  while  ipittles  were  mere  laz.ir- 
liouseft,  receptacles  for  wretches  in  the  leprosy,  and  oiher 
loathsome  diseases,  the  consequence  of  debauchery  and 
vice.  "  Dishonest  women,"  says  Barnaby  Rich,  in  his 
Knyiiih  Hue  and  Crie,  "  thrive  so  ill,  that  if  they  do  not 
lurne  bawd,  when  they  be  some  foure  or  five  and  thirty 
yeerei  of  a^e,  they  must  cither  be  turned  into  some  hos- 
pitall,  or  end  the  rest  of  their  days  in  a  spittle." 

t  Kainb.     You  brache  ! 

Are  y>u  turnd  mankind?!  i.  e.  are  you  become  mas- 
culine 1  i*  your  nature  changed  into  that  of  a  man  ?  This  is 
the  common  acceptation  of  the  word,  though,  as  Upton  ob- 
uervcs  it  sometimes  bears  a  stronger  sense,  and  signifies 
violent,  fetocious,  wicked.  It  is  singular,  however,  that 
not  one  of  Upton's  examples  justifies  his  position,  or  means 
more  than  masculine,  or  mannish ;  he  is,  notwithstanding, 
.orrect  in  his  assertion.  Thus  Chapman  : 


Are  you  turn'd  mankind  ?  you  forgot  1  gave  you, 
When  we  last .  join'd  issue,  twenty  pound — 

Shave.  O'er  night, 

And  kick'd  it  out  of  ran  in  the  morning.     I  was  then 
A  novice,  but  1  know  to  make  my  game  now. 
Fetch  the  constable. 

Enter  GOLDWIHE  junior,  disguised  like  a  Justice  of 
Peace,  DiNO'EM  tike  a  Constable,  and  Musicians  like 
Watchmen. 

Secret.  Ah  me  !  here's  one  unsent  for, 
And  a  justice  of  peace  too, 

Shave.  I'll  hang  you  both,  you  rascals  ! 
1  can  but  ride  :* — you  for  the  purse  you  cut 
In  Paul's  at  a  sermon  ;  I  have  smok'd  you,  ha  ! 
And  you  for  the  bacon  you  took  on  the  highway, 
From  the  poor  marketwoman,  as  she  rode 
From  Rumford. 

Ramb.  Mistress  Shave'em. 

Scuff.  Mistress  Secret, 
On  our  knees  we  beg  your  pardon. 

Ramb.  Set  a  ransome  on  us. 

Secret.   We  cannot  stand  trifling  :  if  you  mean  to 

save  them, 
Shut  them  out  at  the  back  door. 

Shave.  First,  for  punishment, 
They  shall  leave  their  cloaks  behind  them  ;  and  in 

sign 

I  am  their  sovereign,  and  they  mv  vassals, 
For  homage  kiss  my  shoe-sole,  rogues,  and  vanish  ! 
[Eieunt  Ramble  and  Scuffle. 

Gold.  My   brave   virago  !      The    coast's    clear ; 
strike  up. 

[Goldwireand  the  rest  discover  themselves. 

Shave.  My  Gold  wire  made  a  justice  ! 

Secret.  And  your  scout 
Turn'd  constable,  and  the  musicians  watchmen  ! 

Gold.  We  come  not  to  fright  you,  but  to  make 

you  merry  : 
A  light  lavolta.f  [They  dance. 

Shave.  I  am  tired  ;  no  more. 
This  was  your  device  ? 

Ding.  Wholly  his  own?  he  is 
No  pig-sconce,  mistress. 

Secret.  He  has  an  excellent  headpiece. 

Gold.  Fie  !  no,  not  I ;  your  jeering  gallants  say 
We  citizens  have  no  wit. 

Ding.  He  dies  that  says  so  : 
This  was  a  masterpiece. 

Gold.  A  trifling  stratagem, 
Not  worth  the  talking  of 

Shave,  I  must  kiss  thee  for  it 
Again,  and  again. 

•  Ding.  Make  much  of  her.     Did  you  know 
What  suitors  she  had  since  she  saw  you 

Gold.  1'the  way  of  marriage? 

Ding.  Yes,  sir  ;  for  marriage,  and  the  other  thing 
too, 


('or.  I  will  hear  thee  no  more,  1  will  take  no  compassion 
on  thee.  9 

"  Page.    Good    signior    Cornelio,   be    not    too  mankind 
against  your  wife    —  All  Fools. 
And  H,H   : 

"  I  -isk't  phisitians  what  their  conn?ell  was 
For  a  mad  dogge,  or  for  a  mankind  asse." 

Brache  has  been  already  explained. 

*   1  can  but    ride.]  i    e.   I  know  ihe  worst  of  my  punish- 
ment;  1  c-iii  but  be  carted  for  a  strumpet. 

t  -4    light    lavolta.J    See     Great     Duke     of     Florence, 
Act  IV.  sc.2. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


591 


The  commodity  is  the  same.     An  Irish  lord  oft'er'd 

her 
Five  pound  a  week. 

Secret.  And  a  cashier'd  captain,  half 
Of  his  entertainment. 

Ding    And  a  new-made  courtier, 
The  next  suit  he  could  beg*. 

Gold.   And  did  my  sweet  one 
Refuse  all  this  for  me? 

Shave.  Weep  riot  for  jov  ; 

'Tis  true.     Let  others  talk  of  lords  and  co-nmanders, 
And  country  heirs  for  their  servants  ;  but  give  me 
My  gallant  prentice  :  he  parts  with  his  money 
So  civilly,  and  demurely,  keeps  no  account 
Of  his  expenses,  and  comes  ever  furuish'd. — 
I  know  thou  hast  brought  money  to  make  up 
IVIy  gown  and  petticoat,  with  the  appurtenances. 

Gold.  I  have  it  here,  duck  ;    thou  shall  want  for 
nothing. 

Shave.  Let  the  chamber  be  perfumed ;    and   get 

you.  sirrah, 
His  cap  and  pantofles  ready. 

Gold.  There's  for  thee, 
And  thee  :  that  for  a  banquet. 

Secret.  And  a  caudle 
Again  you  rise. 

Gold.  There. 

Shave    Usher  us  up  in  state. 

Gold.  You  will  be  constant  ? 

Shave.  Thou  art  the  whole  world  to  me. 

[Lxeunt  Gold,  and  Shave,  embracing,  music 
playing  before  them. 


SCENE  II. — A  Romn  in  Sir  John  Frugal's  House. 
Enter  LUKE. 

Anne,  [icithin.]  Where  is  this  uncle  ? 

L.  Frug.  [fcrtlftin.]  Call  this  beadsman-brother*; 
He  hath  forgot  attendance. 

Mary,  [within.']  Seek  him  out ; 
Idleness  spoils  him. 

Lithe.   1  deserve  much  more 
Than  their   scorn    can    lead   me   wiili,  and  'tis  but 

justice 

That  I  should  live  the  family's  drudge,  design'd 
To  all  the  sordid  offices  their  pride 
Imposes  on  me;  since,  if  now  !  sat 
A  judge  in  mine  own  cause,  1  should  conclude 
I  am  not  worth  their  pity.     Such  as  want 
Discourse,  and  judgment,    and    through  weakness 

fall, 

May  merit  man's  compassion  ;  but  I, 
That  knew  profuseness  of  expense  the  parent 
Of  wretched  poverty,  her  fatal  daughter, 
To  riot  out  mine  own,  to  live  upon 
The  alms  of  others,  steering  on  a  rock 
I  might  have  s-hunu'd  !     Oh  Heaven  !  it  is  not  fit 
I  should  look  upward,  much  less  hope  for  mercy.f 


*  The  next  suit  he  could  bey.}  Omnia  cum  pretio '  Jus- 
tice was  extremely  venal  in  this  aye  : — but  the  ullii.-ioii, 
perhaps,  is  to  the  crying  grievance  of  the  times,  monopo- 
lies. A  favourite,  who  could  obtain  a  grant  of  these  frmn 
the  easy  monarch,  considered  liis  fortune  as  established  by 
the  vast  sums  at  which  he  disposed  of  ihem  to  rapacious 
adventurers,  who  oppressed  the  people  without  shame,  and 
without  pity. 

t  L.  Frug.  [within.]  Call  this  beadsman-iro/Aer :]  i.  e. 
this  poor  dependent  on  our  charity. 

J  This  penitential  speech  of  Luke  is  introduced  with  ad- 
mirable artifice,  at  the  period  of  tiis  breaking  forth  in  his 


Enter  Lady  FRUGAL,   ANNE,   MARY,  SUAROAZE,  and 

MlLUSCENT. 

L.  Fnig.  What  are  you  devising,  sir  .' 

Anne.  My  uncle  is  much  given 
To  his  devotion. 

Mary.  And  takes  time  to  mumble 
A  paternoster  to  himself. 

L.  Frug.  Know  you  where 
Your  brother  is?  ii  better  would  become  you 
(Your  means  of  life  depending  wholly  on  Lim) 
To  give  your  attendance. 

Luke.   In  my  will  I  do  : 

But  since  he  rode  forth  yesterday  with  lord  Lacy, 
I  have  not  seen  him. 

L.  F'ug.  And  why  went  not  you 
By  his  stirrup  ?   How  !  do  ycTu  look  !   Were  his  eyes 

closed, 
You'd  be  glad  of  such  employment. 

Luke.  'Twas  his  pleasure 

I  should  wait  your  commands,  and  those  I  am  ever 
Most  ready  to  receive. 

L.  Frug.   I  know  you  cau  speak  well ; 
But  say  and  i!o. 

Enter  Lord  Lacy. 

Luke.  Here  comes  iny  Lord. 

L.  Frug.  Further  off: 

\  ou  are  no  companion  for  him,  and  his  business 
Aims  not  at  you,  as  I  take  it. 

Luke.  Can  I  live 
In  this  base  condition  ? 

L.  Frug.  I  hoped,  my  lord, 
You   had  brought  master  Frugal  with   you  ;  for  J 

must  ask 
An  account  of  him  from  you. 

L.  Lacy.  1  can  give  it,  lady ; 
But  with  the  best  discretion  of  a  woman, 
And  a  strong  fortified  patience,  I  deisre  you 
To  give  it  hearing. 

Luke.   My  heart  beats. 

L.  I'  rug.  i\ly  lord,  you  much  amaze  me.     ("chant, 

L.  Lactj.  I  shall  astonish  you.     The  noble  mer- 
W'ho,  living,  was,  for  his  integrity 
And  upright  dealing  (a  rare  miracle 
In  a  rich  citizen),  London's  best  honour  j 
Is 1  am  loth  to  speak  it. 

Luke.  Wonderous  strange! 

L.  Frug.  I  do  suppose  the  worst;  not  dead,  I 
hope  ! 

L.  Lacy.    Your  supposition's   true,  your   hopes 

are  false ; 
He's  dead. 

L.  Frug.  Ah  me  ! 

Ani.e.    My  father  ! 

SLiru.  My  kind  lather! 

Luke.  Mow  they  insult  not. 

L.  Lacu.  Pray  hear  me  out. 
He's  dead  ;  dead  to  the  world  and  you,  and  now 
Lives  only  to  himself. 

Luke.  What  riddle's  this? 

L.  Fmg.  Act  not  the  torturer  in*  my  afflictions; 
But  make  me  understand  the  sum  of  all 
That  1  must  undergo. 

L.  Lacy.  In  few  words  take  it  : 


true  .-haracter;  nor  if  the  insolence  of  lady  Frugal   and  her 
daughters  less  judiciously  tinie'l. 

*  L.  Fruit.    Art  not  I  lie  torturer  in  my  affliction*  ;\  Mr 
M.  Mason  reads,  it  is  impossible  to  say  wh>, 

Act  not  the  torturer  of  my  ajjticlivns. 


."92 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


f  ACT  IIL 


He  is  retired  into  a  monastery, 
Where  he  resolves  to  end  his  days. 

Luke.  More  strnnge. 

L.  Lacy.  I  sa\v  him  take  post  for  Dover,  and  the 

wind 

Sitting-  so  fair,  by  this  he's  ssife  at  Calais, 
And  ere  long  will  be  at  Lovain. 

L.  Frug.  Could  I  guess 

What  were  the  motives  that  induced  him  to  it, 
'Twere  some  allay  to  mv  sorrows. 

L.  Lacy.  I'll  instruct  you, 
And   chide  you   into  that  knowledge ;  'twas  your 

pride 

Above  vour  rank,  and  stubborn  disobedience 
Of  these  your  daughters,  in  their  milk  sucked  from 

you : 

At  home  the  harshness  of  his  entertainment, 
You  wilfully  forgetting  that  your  all 
Was  borrow'd  from  him  ;  and  to  hear  abroad 
The  imputations  dispersed  upon  you, 
And  justly  too,  I  fear,  that  drew  him  to 
This  strict  retirement :  and  thus  much  said  for  him, 
I  am  myself  to  accuse  you. 

L.  Frng.  I  confess 

A  guilty  cause  to  him,  but  in  a  thought, 
My  lord,  I  ne'er  wrong'd  you. 

L.  Lacy.  In  fact  you  have. 
The  insolent  disgrace  you  put  upon 
My  only  son,  and  Plenty,  men  that  loved 
Your  daughters  in  a  noble  w;iy,  to  wash  off 
The  scandal,  put  a  resolution  in  them 
For  three  years'  travel. 

L.  Frug.  I  am  much  grieved  for  it. 

L.  Lacif.  One  thing  I  had  forgot ;  your  rigour  to 
His  decay'd  brother,  in  which  your  flatteries, 
Or  sorceries,  made  him  a  co-agent  with  you, 
Wrought  not  the  least  impression. 

Luke.  Hum  !  this  sounds  well. 

L.  Frug.  ''['is  now  past  help  :  after  these  storms, 

my  lord, 
A  little  calm,  if  you  please. 

L.  Lacy.  If  what  1  have  told  you 
Shovv'd  like  a  storm,  what  now  I  must  deliver 
Will  prove  a  raging  tempest.     His  whole  estate, 
In  lands  and  leases,  debts  and  present  monies, 
With  all  the  moveables  he  stood  possess'd  of, 
With  the  best  advice  which  he  could  get  for  gold 
From  his  learned  counsel,  by  this  formal  will 
Is  pass'd  o'er  to  his   brother. — [Giving  the  will  to 

Luke]. — With  it  take 
The  key  of  his  counting-house.     Not  a  groat  left 

you, 
Which  you  can  call  your  own. 

L.  Frug.   Undone  for  ever  ! 

Anne.  Mary.  What  will  become  of  us  ? 

Luke.  Hum  ! 

L.  Lacy.  The  scene  is  changed, 
And  he  that  was  your  slave,  by  fate  appointed 

[Lad;/  Frugal,  Mary,  and  Anne  kneel. 
Your  governor  :  you  km  cl  to  me  in  vain, 
I  cannot  help  you  ;  I  discharge  the  trust 
IiiipoM'd  upon  me.     This  humility 
From  him  may  gain  remission,  and  perhaps 
Forgetfuless  of  your  barbarous  usage  to  him. 

L.  Frug.  Am  I  come  to  this ! 

L.  Lucy.  Enjoy  your  own,  good  sir, 
But  use  it  with  due  reverence.     I  once  heard  you 
Speak  most  divinely  in  the  opposition 
Of  a  revengeful  humour  ;  to  these  show  it, 
And  such  who  then  depended  on  the  mercy 


Of  your  brother,  wholly  now  at  your  devotion, 
And  make  good  the  opinion  I  held  of  you, 
Of  which  t  am  most  confident. 

Luke.  Pray  you  rise.  [Raises  them, 

And  rise  with  this  assurance,  I  am  still 
As  I  was  of  late,  your  creature;  and  if  raised 
In  any  thing,  'tis  in  my  power  to  serve  you  ; 
My  will  is  still  the  same.     O  my  good  lord  ! 
This  heap  of  wealth  which  you  possess  me  of, 
Which  to  a  worldly  man  had  been  a  blessing, 
And  to  the  messenger  might  with  justice  challenge 
A  kind  of  adoration,  is  to  me 
A  curse  I  cannot  thank  you  for;  and  much  less 
Rejoice  in  that  tranquillity  of  mind 
My  brother's  vows  must  purchase.     I  have  made 
A  dear  exchange  with  him  :  he  now  enjoys 
My  peace  and  poverty,  the  trouble  of 
His  wealth  conferr'd  on  me,  and  that  a  burthen 
Too  heavy  for  my  weak  shoulders. 

L.  Lacy.  Honest  soul, 
With  what  feeling  he  receives  it ! 

L.  Frttg.  You  shall  have 
My  best  assistance,  if  you  please  to  use  it, 
To  help  you  to  support  it. 

Luke.  By  no  means  : 

The  weight  shall  rather  sink  me,  than  you  part 
With  one  short  minute  from  those  lawful  pleasures 
Which  you  were  born  to,  in  your  care  to  aid  mo: 
You  shall  have  all  abundance.     In  my  nature 
1  was  ever  liberal ;  my  lord,  you  know  it ; 
Kind,  affable. — And  now  methinks  I  see 
Before  my  face  the  jubilee  of  joy, 
When  'tis  assured  my  brother  lives  in  me, 
His  debtors,  in  full  cups  crown'd  to  my  health, 
With  paeans  to  my  praise,  will  celebrate  ! 
For  they  well  know  'tis  far  from  me  to  take 
The  forfeiture  of  a  bond  :  nay,  I  shall  blush, 
The  interest  never  paid  after  three  years, 
When  I  demand  my  principal  :  and  his  servants, 
Who  from  a  slavish  fear  paid  their  obedience, 
By  him  exacted,  now,  when  they  aie  mine, 
Will  grow  familiar  friends,  and  as  such  use  me  ; 
Being  certain  of  the  mildness  of  my  temper, 
Which  my  change  of  fortune,  frequent  in  most  men, 
Hath  not  the  power  to  alter. 

L.  Lacy.  Yet  take  heed,  sir, 
You  ruin  not,  with  too  much  lenity, 
What  his  fit  severity  raised. 

L.  Frug.  And  we  fall  from 
That  height  we  have  maintain'd. 

Luke.  I'll  build  it  higher. 
To  admiration  higher.     With  disdain 
I  look  upon  these  habits,  no  way  suiting 
The  wife  and  daughters  of  a  knighted  citizen 
Bless'd  with  abundance. 

L.  Lacy.  There,  sir,  I  join  with  you  ; 
A  fit  decorum  must  be  kept,  the  court 
Di>tinguish'd  from  the  city. 

Lvke.  With  your  favour, 

I  know  what  you  would  say ;  but  give  me  leave 
In  this  to  be  your  advocate.     You  are  wide, 
Wide  the  whole  region*,  in  what  I  purpose,         . 


You  are  wide, 


Wide  the  whole  rtgion,  in  what  1  purpose.}  This  is  a  most 
admirable  stroke,  and  slums  with  what  exquisite  judgment 
Masainger  discriminates  his  character.  Lord  Lacy  had 
touched  a  discordant  string,  and  the  vanity  of  Luke,  already 
raised  loan  inordinate  pitch  b>  his  rec.-nt  gli.npseot' wealth, 
is  irritated  and  alarmed.  The  expre^ii.-n,  You  are  wide, 
wide  the  whole  reyion,  is  a  Latinism,  tola  ctclo,  tola  reyiont 
oberrat. 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


393 


Since  all  the  titles,  honours,  long  descents, 
Borrow  their  gloss  from  wealth,  the  rich  with  reason 
May  challenge  their  prerogatives  :  and  it  shall  be 
My  glory,  nay  a  triumph,  to  revive, 
In  the  pomp  that  these  shall  shine,  the  memory 
Of  the  Roman  matrons,  who  kept  captive  queens 
To  be  their  handmaids.     And  when  you  appear 
Like  Juno  in  full  majesty,  and  my  nieces 
Like  Iris,  Hebe,  or  what  deities  else 
Old  poets  fancy  (your  cramm'd  wsirdrobes  richer 
Than  various  nature's),  and  draw  down  the  envy 
Of  our  western  world  upon  you ;  only  hold  me 
Your  vigilant  Hermes  with  aerial  wings 
(My  caduceus,  my  strong  zeal  to  serve  you), 
Prest*  to  fetch  in  all  rarities  may  delight  you, 
And  I  am  made  immortal. 

L.  Lacy.  A  strange  frenzy  ! 

Luke.  Off  with  these  rags,  and  then  to  bed  ;  there 

dream 

Of  future  greatness,  which,  when  you  awake, 
I'll  make  a  certnin  truth  :  but  I  must  be 
A  doer,  not  a  promiser.     The  performance 
Requiring  haste,  I  kiss  your  hands,  and  leave  you. 

[Exit. 

L.  Lacy.  Are   we  all   turn'd    statues  ?    have  his 

strange  words  charm'd  us? 
What  muse  you  on,  lady  ? 

L.  Frug.  Do  not  trouble  me. 

L.  Lacy.  Sleep  you  too,  young  ones? 

Anne.  Swift-wing'd  time,  till  now, 
Was  never  tedious  to  me.     Would  'twere  night ! 

Mary.   Nay,  morning  rather. 

L.  La  !/.   Can  you  ground  your  faith 
On  such  impossibilities  \  have  you  so  soon 
Forgot  your  good  husband  ? 

L.  Frug.  He  was  a  vanity 
I  must  no  more  remember. 

L.  Lacy.  Excellent ! 
You,  your  kind  father  ? 

Anne.  Such  an  uncle  never 
Was  read  of  in  story  ! 

L.  Lacy.  Not  one  word  in  answer 
Of  my  demands  1 

Mary.  You  are  but  a  lord  ;  and  know, 
Mv  thoughts  soar  higher. 

L.  Lac u.  Admirable  !   I'll  leave  you 
To  your  castles  in  the  air.  -  \Vhen  I  relate  this 
It  will  exceed  belief,  but  he  must  know  it.       [Erif. 

Star.  Now  I   may  boldly  speak.     May  it  please 

you,  madam, 

To  look  upon  your  vassal ;  I  foresaw  this, 
The  stars  assured  it. 

L.  Frug.  I  begin  to  feel 
Myself  another  woman. 

'Star.  Now  you  shall   find 
All  my  predictions  true,  and  nobler  matches 
Prepared  for  my  young  ladies. 

Mill.  Princely  husbands. 

Anne.  I'll  go  no  lessf. 

Mary.   Not  a  word  more  ; 
Provide  my  night-railj. 

Mill.  What  shall  we  be  to-morrow  !          [Exeunt. 

*  Prest  to  fetch  in,&c.]  i.e.  ready,  prepared,  to  fetch  in. 
The  word  occurs  so  frequently  in  this  sense,  that  it  is  unue- 
cessiry  to  produce  any  example  of  it. 

t  Anne.  I'll  go  no  lets.]  This  is  a  gaming  phrase,  and 
means,  I  will  not  play  for  a  smaller  stake. 

J  Provide  my  night-rail, 1 "  Enter  Crowstitch  with  a  night- 
rail.  Crow.  Pray  madam  does  tlii?  belong  to  you  or  miss  f 
O  la!  Mr.  Semibrief  here !  (folds  up  the  night-shift  hat- 
tili/J."  Lmx  for  Money. 


SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  LUKE. 

Luke.  'Twas  no  fantastic  object,  but  a  truth, 
A  real  truth  ;  nor  c'ream  :   I  did  not  slumber, 
And  could  wake  ever  with  a  brooding  eye 
To  gaze  upon't !  it  did  endure  the  touch, 
I  saw  and  felt  it !      Yet  what  I  beheld 
And  handled  oft,  did  so  transcend  belief 
(  Mv  wonder  and  astonishment  pass'd  o'er), 
[  faintly  could  give  credit  to  my  senses. 
Thou  dumb  magician, — [Taking  out  a  key], — that 

without  a  charm 

Didst  make  my  entrance  easy,  to  possess 
What  wise  men  wish,  and  toil  fur  !    Hermes'  moly, 
Sibylla's  golden  bough,  the  great  elixir, 

j   Imagined  only*  by  the  alchymist, 

j   Compared  with  thee  are  shadows — thou  the  sub- 
stance, 

i  And  guardian  of  felicity  !  No  marvel, 
My  brother  made  thy  place  of  rest  his  bosom, 
Thou  being  the  keeper  of  his  heart,  a  mistress 
To  be  hugg'd  ever!    In  by-corners  of 
This  sacred  room,  siher  in  bass,  heap'd  up 
Like  billets  saw'd  and  ready  for  the  fire, 
Unworthy  to  hold  fellowship  with  bright  gold 
That  flow'd  about  the  room,  conceal'd  itself. 
There  needs  no  artificial  light;  the  splendour 
Makes  a  perpetual  day  there,  night  and  darkness 
By  that  still-burning  lamp  for  ever  banish'd  ! 
But  when,  guided  by  that,  my  eyes  had  made 
Discovery  of  the  caskets,  and  they  open'd, 
Each  sparkling  diamond  from  itself  shot  forth 
A  pyramid  of  flames,  and  in  the  roof 
Fix'd  it  a  glorious  star,  and  mmle  the  place 
Heaven's  abstract,  or  epitome! — rubies,  sapphires, 
And  ropes  of  orient  pearl,  these  seen,  I  could  not 
But  look  on  with  conteinptf.      And  yet  I  found 
What  weak  credulity  could  have  no  faith  in, 
A  treasure  far  exceeding  these  :  here  lay 
A  manor  bound  fast  in  a  skin  of  parchment, 
The  wax  continuing  hard,  the  iicres  melting  j 
Here  a  sure  deed  of  gift  for  a  market-town, 
If  not  redeem'd  this  day,  which  is  not  in 
The  unthrift's  power  :   there  being  scarce  one  shire 
In  Wales  or  England,  where  my  monies  are  not 
Lent  out  at  usury,  the  certain  hook 


*  Imagined  only  by  the  alchymist,]  \.  e.  which  only  ex- 
ists in  the  imagination  of  the  akin  mist 

t and  made  the  place 

Heaven's  abstract. or  epitome: — rubies,  sapphires, 
And  ropes  of  orient  pearl,  these  seen,  I  could  not 
But  look  on  with  contempt.]  For  these  most   beautiful 
lines,  which  1  have  faithfully  taken  from  the  old  copies,  the 
modern  editors  give  us, 

—  and  made  the  peace 

Heaven's  abstract,  or  epitome.     Rubies,  sapphires, 
And  ropes  of  oriental  pearl  ;  these  seen,  1  could  not 
But  look  on  gold  with  contempt  !  ! 

These  vile  and  senseless  interpolations  utterly  subvert  not 
only  the  metre,  but  the  meaning  of  the  passage:  indeed  it  is 
evident  that  neither  Coxeler  nor  Mr.  M.  Mason  (I  am  loth 
to  speak  of  Dodsley),  understood  a  syllable  of  what  they 
were  mangling  under  the  idea  of  reforming.  The  sense  now 
is  clear  enough  :  the  diamonds,  which  are  described  by  one 
of  the  most  magnificent  figures  to  be  found  in  all  poetry,  so 
ravished  his  si.iln,  that  he  looked  upon  the  other  precious 
stones,  rubies,  sapphires,  and  pearls  (not  the  gold,  which  he 
had  already  dismissed  troin  his  thoughts),  with  contempt. 
Errors  of  this  nature  are  the  more  to  be  regretted,  HS  they 
have  induced  many  critics  (mid  among  them  Dr.  Ferriar*) 
to  complain  of  a  want  of  liarinony  in  a  speech  rhythmical 
anil  melodious  almost  beyond  example. 

*  See  The  Essay  on  Massinqer. 


334 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[Arr  TIL 


To  draw  in  more.     I  am  sublimed  !  gross  earth 
Supports  me  not  ;  1  walk  on  air  ! — Who's  there  1 
Enter    Lord     LACY,    with    Sir    JOHN    FRVCAL,    Sir 
MAI'KICF.  LACY,  and  PLENTY,  disguised  as  Indians. 

Thieves  !  raise  the  street !  thieves  ! 

L.  Lani.   What  strange  passion's  this  ! 
Have  you  vour  eyes  ?  do  you  know  me? 

Luke.   You,  my  lord  ! 

I  do  :  but  this  retinue,  in  these  shapes  too, 
May  well  excuse  my  fears.     When  'tis  your  plea- 
sure 

That  I  should  wait  upon  you,  give  me  leave 
To  do  it  at  your  own  house,  for  I  must  tell  vou, 
Things  as  they  now  are  with  me  well  consider'd, 
I  do  not  like  such  visitants. 

L.  Lacy.  Yesterday, 

\Vhen  you  had  nothing,  praise  your  poverty  for't, 
You  could  have  sung  secure  before  x  thief; 
But  now  you  are    grown  rich,  doubts  and  suspi- 
cions, 
And  needless  fears,  possess  you.     Thank  a  good 

brother; 
But  let  not  this  exalt  you. 

Luke.  A  good  brother*  ! 
Good  in  his  c  •nscience,  I  confess,  and  wise. 
In  giving  o'er  the  world.     But  his  estate, 
Whteh  your  lordship  may  conceive  great,  no  way 

answers 

The  general  opinion  :  alas  ! 
With  a  great  charge,  I  am  left  a  poor  man  by  him. 

L.  Loci/.  A  poor  man,  say  you  ? 

Luke.  Poor,  compared  with  that 
'Tis  thought  I  do  possess.     Some  little  land, 
Fair  household  furniture,  a  few  good  debts, 
But  empty  bags,  J  find  :  yet  I  will  be 
A  faithful  steward  to  his  wife  and  daughters  ; 
And.  to  the  utmost  of  inj  power,  obey 
His  will  in  all  things. 

L.  Lacy.  I'll  not  argue  with  you 
Of  his  estate,  but  bind  you  to  performance 
Of  his  last  request,  which  is,  for  testimony 
Of  his  religious  charity,  that  you  would 
Receive  these  Indians,  lately  sent  him  from 
Virginia,  into  your  house  ;  and  labour 
At  any  rate,  with  the  best  of  your  endeavours, 
Assisted  by  the  aids  of  our  divines, 
To  make  them  Christians. 

Luke.  Call  you  this,  my  lord, 
Religious  charity  ;  to  send  infidels, 
Like  hungry  locusts,  to  devour  the  bread 
Should  feed  his  family  1     1  neither  cau 
Nor  will  consent  to't. 

L.  Lacy.  Do  not  slight  it ;  'tis 
With  him  a  business  of  such  consequence, 
That  should  he  only  hear  'tis  not  embraced, 

•  Luke.    A  good  brother  ! 

Good  in  his  conscience,  /  confess,  &c.l  Luke  alludes  here 
to  the  mercantile  sense  of  the  word  good,  i.  e.  rich.  In 
Lord  Lacy's  speech,  there  is  an  allusion  to  the  well  known 
vei  se : 

Canlulit  vacuut  corum  latrone  viator. 


And  cheerfully,  in  this  his  conscience  aiming 
At  the  saving  of  three  souls,  'twill  draw  him  o'er 
To  seo  it  himself  accomplish'd. 

Luke.   Heaven  forbid 

1  should  divert  him  from  his  holy  purpose 
To  worldly  cares  again  !   1  rather  will 
Sustain  the  burthen,  and  with  the  converted 
Feast  the  converters,  who,  I  know,  will  prove 
The  greater  feeders. 

Sir  John.   Oh,  ha,enewah  Chrish  bulltf  leika. 

Plenty.   Enaiito. 

Sir  Maur.  Ha\-ric<>  hntikia  banner  y. 

Luke.   Ha  !   in  this  heathen  language, 
How  is  it  possible  our  doctors  should 
Hold  conference  with  them,  or  I  use  the  means 
For  their  conversion  ] 

L.  Lacu.  That  shall  be  no  hindrance 
To  your  good  purposes*  :  they  have  lived  long 
In  the  Knglish  colony,  and  speak  our  language 
As  their  own    dialect  ;    the  business  does  concern 

you  : 

Mine  own  designs  command  me  hence.     Continue, 
As  in  your  poverty  you  were,  a  pious 
Ai:d  honest  man.  [Exit. 

Luke.  That  is,  interpreted, 
A  slave  and  beggar. 

Sir  John.  You  conceive  it  right  ; 
There  being  no  religion,  nor  virtue, 
But  in  abundance,  and  no  vice  but  want. 
All  deities  serve  Plutus. 

Ltike    Oracle  ! 

Sir  John.    Temples    raised    to   ourselves  in  tb* 

increase 

Of  wealth  and  reputation,  speak  a  wise  man; 
But  sacrifice  to  an  imagined  Power, 
Of  which  we  have  no  sense  but  in  belief, 
A  superstitious  fool. 

Luke.  True  worldly  wisdom  ! 

Sir  JitJm.  All  knowledge  else  is  folly. 

Sir  Maur.  Now  we  are  yours, 
Be  confident  your  better  angel  is 
Enter'd  your  house. 

Plenty.  There  being  nothing  in 
The  compass  of  your  wishes,  but  shall  end 
In  their  fruition  to  the  full. 

Sir  John.  As  yet, 

You  do  not  know  us  ;  but  when  yon  understand 
The  wonders  we  can  do,  and  what  the  ends  were 
That  brought  us  hither,  you  will  entertain  us 
With  more  respect. 

Luke.  There's  something  whispers  to  me 
These  are  no  common  men  ;  —  my  house  is  yours, 
Enjoy  it  freely  :  only  grant  me  this, 
Not  to  be  seen  abroad  till  I  have  heard 
More  of  your  sacred  principles.     Pray  enter. 
You  are  learned  Europeans,  and  we  worse 
Than.  ignorant  Americans. 

Sir  John.  You  shall  find  it.  f  Exeunt. 


*  To  your  good  purposes  .•]  Mr.  M.  Mason  omits  good; 
and,  what  is  of  more  importance,  the  exit  at  the  conclusion 
ol  the  speech. 


SCBNK  I.] 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


395 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  Frugal's  House. 

Enter  DING'EM,  GETTALL,  and    HOLDFAST. 
Ding.  Not  speak  with  liiui!  with  fear  survey  me 

better, 
Thou  figure  of  famine  ! 

Gelt.  Coming,  as  we  do, 

From  his  quondam  patrons,  his  dear  ingles  now*, 
The  brave  spark  Tradewell, — 
Ding.  And  the  man  (if  men 
In  the  service  of  a  woman,  gallant  Goldwire  ! 

Enter  LUKE. 

Hold.  I  know  them  for  his  prentices,  without 
These  flourishes. — Here  are  rude  fellows,  sir. 
Ding.  Not  yours,  you  rascal ! 
Hnid.  No,  don  pimp  ;  you  may  seek  them 
In  Bridewell,  or  the  hole;  here  are  none  of  your 

comroguesf. 
Luke.  One  of  them  looks   as  he  would  cut  my 

throat : 
Your  business,  friends? 

Hold.  I'll  fetch  a  constable; 
Let  him  answer  him  in  the  stocks. 

Ding.  Stir  an  thou  dar'st : 
Fright  me  with  Biidewell  and  the  stocks!  they  are 

fleabitings 
I  am  fnmiliar  with.  [Draws. 

Luke.  Pray  you  put  up  ; 
And,  sirrah,  hold  your  peace. 

Ding.  Thy  word's  a  law, 

And  1  obey.     Live,  scrape-shoe,  and  be  thankful. 
Thou  man  of  muck  and  money,  for  as  such 
I  now  salute  thee,  the  suburbian  gamesters 
Have  liea-d  thy  fortunes,  and  I  am  in  person 
Sent  to  congratulate. 

Gelt.  The  news  hath  reach'd 
The  ordinaries,  and  all  the  gamesters  are 
Ambitious  to  shake  the  golden  gollsf 
Of  worshipful  master  Luke.     1  come  from  Trade- 
well, 

Your  fine  facetious  factor. 
Ding.  I  from  Goldwire; 
Me  and  his  Helen  have  prepared  a  banquet, 
With  tiie  appurtenances,  to  entertain  thee; 
For  I  must  whisper  in  thine  ear,  thou  art 
To  be  her  Paris :  but  bring  money  with  thee 
To  quit  old  scores. 

Gelt.   Blind  chance  hath  frown 'd  upon 
Brave  Tradewell:   lie's  blown  up,  but  not  without 
Hope  of  recovery,  so  you  supply  him 


* his  dear  ingles  note,]  i.  e.  Ms  bo- 
som friends,  his  associates ,  enyhle,  which  the  cimiinetiiators 
sometimes  confuund  « ith  this  wunl,  dirtVrs  from  it  altoge- 
ther, bolh  in  its  derivation  and  it*  iiie.miiig. 

t  Here  are  none  of  your  comrogues:]  This  is  absurdly 
changed  in  the  modern  editions  into  comrades,  a  very  su- 
perfluous word  after  fellows. 

j  the  goldvn  golls,  &c. I   Golls  is  a  cant  word 

for  hands,  or  rather  lists:  it  occurs  continually  in  our  old 
poets.  Thus  Decker:  "Hold  up  thy  hands;  I  have  seen 
the  day  when  tliou  diiUt  not  scorn  to  hold  up  thy  i/olls." 

Xatiromastix. 

"  Bid  her  tie  up  her  head,  and  wish  her 
To  wash  her  hands  in  bran  or  flower, 
And  do  you  in  like  manner  scour 
Your  dirty  golU."  Cotton's  Virgil,  B.  IV. 


With  a  good  round  sum.  In  my  house,  I  can  assure 

you, 
There's  half  a  million  stirring. 

Luke.  What  hath  he  lost  1 

Gett.  Three  hundred. 

Luke.  A  trifle. 

Gett.  Make  it  up  a  thousand, 
And  1  will  fit  him  with  such  tools  as  shall 
Bring  in  a  myriad 

Luke.  They  know  me  well, 

N  or  need  you  use  such  circumstances  for  them  : 
What's  mine  is  theirs.     They   are  iny  friends,  not 

servants, 

But  in  their  care  to  enrich  me ;  and  these  courses 
The  speeding  means.     Your  name,  I  pray  you  ? 

Gett.  Gettall. 

I  have  been  many  years  an  ordinary-keeper, 
My  box  my  poor  revenue. 

Luke.  Your  name  suits  well 

With  your  profession.  Bid  him  bear  up,  he  shall  not 
Sit  long  on  Penniless-  Bench. 

Gett.  There  spake  an  angel. 

Luke.  You  know  mistress  Shave'em? 

Gett.  The  pontifical  punk  ? 

Luke.  The  same.     Let  him  meet  me  there  some 

two  hours  hence : 

And  Tell  Tom  Goldwire  I  will  then  be  with  him 
Furnish'd  beyond  his  hopes  ;  and  let  your  mistress 
Appear  in  her  best  trim. 

Ding.  She  will  make  thee  young, 
Old  .-Esoti  :   she  is  ever  furnish'd  with 
Medsa's  drugs,  restoratives.     I  fly- 
To  keep  them  sober  till  thy  worship  come ; 
They  will  be  drunk  with  joy  else. 

Gett.  I'll  run  with  you. 

[Exeunt  Dhig'em  and  Gettall. 

Hold.  You  will  not  do  as  you  say,  I  hope  ? 

Luke,   inquire  not ; 

I  shall  do  what  becomes  me. — [Knocking  within."] — 
To  the  door.  [Exit  Holdfast. 

New  visitants  ! 

Re-enter  HOLDFAST. 

What  are  they? 

//<>/(/.  A  whole  batch,  sir, 

Almost  of  the  same  leaven  :  your  needy  debtors, 
Penury,  Fortune,  Hoyst. 

Luke.  They  come  to  congratulate 
TLe  fortune  fallen  upon  me. 

Hold.  Rather,  sir, 
Like  the  others,  to  prey  on  you. 

Luke.  I  am  simple  ;  they 
Know  my  good  nature :  but  let  them  in,  however. 

Hold.  All  will  come  to  ruin  !  I  see  beggary 
Already  knocking  at  the  door. — You  may  enter — 

[Speaking  to  those 

But  use  a  conscience,  and  do  not  work  upon 
A  tender-hearted  gentleman  too  much  ; 
'Twill  show  like  charity  in  you. 

Enter  FORTUNE,  PENURY,  and  HOYBT. 

Luke.   Welcome,  friends  : 
I  know  your  hearts,  and  wishes ;  you  are  glad 
You  have  changed  your  creditor 


396 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[Acr  IV 


Pen.  1  weep  for  joy 
To  look  upon  his  worship's  face. 

For.  His  worship's ! 

I  see  lord  mayor  written  on  his  forehead  ; 
The  cap  of  maintenance,  and  city  sword, 
Borne  iq>  in  state  before  him. 

Hoyst.   Hospitals, 
And  a  third  Burse,  erected  by  his  honour. 

Pen.  The  city  poet  on  the  pageant  day 
Preferring  him  before  Gresham.  \ 

Hoyst.  All  the  conduits 
Spouting  canary  sack. 

For.  Not  a  prisoner  left, 
Under  ten  pounds. 

Pen.  We,  his  poor  beadsmen,  feasting 
Our  neighbours  on  his  bounty. 

Tsttke.  AJay  I  make  good 

Your  prophecies,  gentle  friends,  as  I'll  endeavour 
To  the  utmost  of  my  power  ! 

Hold.  Yes,  for  one  year, 
And  break  the  next. 

Luke.   You  are  ever  prating,  sirrah. 
Your  presfnt  business,  friends? 

For.  Were  your  brother  present, 
Mine  had  been  of  seme  consequence  ;  but  now 
The  power  lies  in  your  worship's  hand,  'tis  little, 
And  will,  I  know,  as  soon  as  ask'd,  be  granted. 

1  uke.  'Tis  very  probable. 

For.  The  kind  forbearance 
Of  my    great   debt,    by   your  means,    Heaven  be 

prais'd  for't ! 

Hath  raised  my  sunk  estate.     I  have  two  ships, 
Which  I  long  since  gave  for  lost,  above  my  hopes 
Return'd  from  Barbary,  and  richly  freighted. 

Lukt.  Where  are  they  ? 

.For.  Near  Gravesend. 

Luke.  I  am  truly  glad  of  it. 

For.  I    find    your   worship's   charity,   and   dare 

swear  so. 

Now  may  I  have  your  license,  as  I  know 
With  willingness  I  shall,  to  make  the  best 
Of  the  commodities,  though  you  have  execution, 
And  afterjudgment,  against  all  that's  mine, 
As  my  poor  body,  I  shall  be  enabled 
To  make  payment  of  my  debts  to  all  the  world, 
And  leave  myself  a  competence. 

Luke.  You  much  wrong  me, 
If  you  only  doubt  it.     Yours,  Mr.  Hoyst? 

Hoyst.  'Tis  the  surrendering  back  the  mortgage 

of 
My   lands,    and   on    good   terms,    but   three   days 

patience  ; 

By  an  uncle's  death  I  have  means  left  to  redeem  it, 
And  cancel  all  the  forfeited  bonds  I  seal'd  to, 
In  my  riots,  to  the  merchant ;  for  I  am 
Resolved  to  leave  off'  play,  and  turn  good  husband. 

Luke.  A  good  intent,  and  to  be  cherish'd  in  you. 
Yours,  Penury  ? 

Pen.  My  state  stands  as  it  did,  sir  : 
What  I  owed  I  owe,  but  can  pay  nothing  to  you. 
Vfit,   if  you   please  to  trust  me  with  ten  pounds 

more, 

I  cau  buy  a  commodity  of  a  sailor 
Will  make  me  a  freeman.     There,  sir,  is  his  name  ; 
And  the  parcels  I  am  to  deal  for. 

[Gives  him  a  paper. 

Luke.  You  are  all  so  reasonable 
In  your  demands,  that  I  must  freely  grant  them. 
Some  three  hours  hence  meet  me  on  the  Exchange, 
You  Bhail  be  amply  satisfied. 


Pen.  Heaven  preserve  you  ! 

For.  Happy  were  London,  if  within  her  walls 
She  had  many  such  rich  men  ! 

Luke.  No  more;  now  leave  me  ; 
I   am  full  of  various  thoughts. — [Exeunt    Fortune, 

Hoyst,  and  Penury.] — Be  careful,  Holdfast : 
I  have  much  to  do. 

Hold.  And  I  something  to  say 
Would  you  give  me  hearing. 

Luke.  At  my  better  leisure. 
Till  my  return    look  well  unto  the  Indians  ; 
In  the  mean  time  do  you  as  this  directs  you. 

[Gives  him  a  paper.      Exeuit. 


SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Shave'em's  House. 

EnterGowwiRf.  junior, TnM>EV,-Ei--L  junior,  SHAVE' EM, 
SECRET,  GETTALL,  and  DJNG'EM. 

Gold.  All  that  is  mine  is  theirs.    Those  were  his 
words  ? 

Ding.  1  am  authentical. 

Trade.     And  that  I  should  not 
Sit  long  on  Penniless-Bench  ? 

Gett.  But  suddenly  start  up 
A  gamester  at  the  height,  and  cry,  At  all! 

Shave.  And  did  he  seem  to  have  an  inclination 
To  toy  with  me  ? 

Ding.  He  wish'd  you  would  put  on 
Your  best  habiliments,  for  he  resolved 
To  make  a  jovial  day  on't. 

Gold.  Hug  him  close,  wench, 
And  thou  may'st  eat  gold  and  amber.     I  well  know 

him 

For  a  most  insatiate  drabber  ;  he  hath  given. 
Before  he  spent  his  own  estate,  which  was 
Nothing  to  the  huge  mass  he's  now  possess'd  of, 
A  hundred  pound  a  leap. 

Shaie.  Hell  take  my  doctor  ! 

He  should  have  brought  me  some  fresh  oil  of  talc  ; 
These  ceruses  are  common*. 

Secret.  ' Troth,  sweet  lady, 
The  colours  are  well  laid  on. 

Gold.  And  thick  enough, 
I  find  that  on  my  lips. 

Shave.  Do  you  so,  Jack  Sauce  ! 
I'll  keep  them  further  off. 

Gold.  But  be  assured  first 

Of  a  new  maintainer  ere  you  cashier  the  old  one. 
But  bind  him  fast  by  thy  sorceries,  and  thou  shall 
Be  my  revenue ;  the  whole  college  study 
The  reparation  of  thy  ruin'd  face  ; 
Thou  shalt  have  thy  proper  and  bald-headed  coach- 
man ; 

Thy  tailor  and  embroiderer  shall  kneel 
To  thee,  their  idol :  Cheapside  arid  the  Exchange 
Shall  court  thy  custom,  and  thou  shalt  forget 

*  He  should  have  brouyht  me  spine  fresh  oil  of  talc  ; 

These  ceruses  are  common.  \  Talc  is  a  fossil  ea:-ily  divi- 
sible into  thin  laminae.  From  its  smoothness,  nnclitosilv, 
and  brightness,  it  has  been  "really  c<  Icbratcd  as  a  conmetic, 
and  the  chymists  have  submitted  it  to  a  variety  of  ope- 
rations for  procuring  from  it  oils,  salts,  tinctures,  ma- 
gisteries,  &c.,  for  that  purpose:  but  all  their  labours  have 
been  in  vain,  and  all  the  preparations  sold  innltr  the  name 
of  oil  of  talc,  &c.,  have  either  contained  nothing  of  that 
mineral,  or  only  a  fine  powder  of  it.  To  this  information, 
which  I  owe  to  the  Kncyclojisedia  Britannica,  1  have  only 
to  add,  that  a  deleterious  composition,  under  this  name,  was 
sold  by  the  quacks  of  Massinger's  time,  as  a  wa.-h  for  the 
complexion,  and  is  mentioned  by  all  his  contemporaries 
Ceruse,  I  fear,  is  yet  in  use. 


SriNE  II.] 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


397 


There  e'er  was  a  St.  Martin's*  :   thy  procurer 
Shall  be  sheath'd  in  velvet   and  a  reverend  veil 
Pass  her  for  a  grave  matron.     Have  an   eye  to  the 

door, 

And  let  loud  music,  when  this  monarch  enters, 
Proclaim  his  entertainment. 

Ding.   1  hat's  my  office. 

[Flourish  of  cornets  within. 
The  consort's  ready. 

Enter  LUKE. 

Trade.   And  the  pod  of  pleasure, 
Master  Luke,  our  Comus,  enters. 

Gold.  Set  your  face  in  order, 
I  will  prepare  him. — Live  1  to  see  this  day, 
And  to  acknowledge  you  my  royal  master  ? 

Trade.   Let  the  iron  chests  fly  open,  and  the  gold, 
Rusty  for  want  of  use,  appear  ag-.iin  ! 

Gett.   Make  my  ordinary  flourish  ! 

Shave.  Welcome,  sir, 
To  your  own  palace  !  [The  music  plays. 

Gold.  Kiss  your  Cleopatra, 

And  show  yourself,  in  your  magnificent  bounties, 
A  second  Antony  ! 

Ding.  All  the  nine  worthies  .' 

Secret.  Variety  of  pleasures  wait  upon  you, 
And  a  strong  back  ! 

Luke.  Give  me  leave  to  breathe,  I  pray  you. 
I  am  astonished  !   all  this  preparation 
For  me  1  and  this  choice  modest  beauty  wrought 
To  feed  my  appetite? 

Alt.    We  are  all  your  creatures. 

Luke.  A  house  well  furnish'd ! 

Gnl.il.  At  your  own  cost,  sir. 
Glad  I  the  instrument.     I  prophesied 
You  should  possess  what  now  you  do,  and  therefore 
Prepared  it  for  your  pleasure.     There's  no  rag 
This  Venus  wears,  but, on  my  knowledge,  was 
Derived  from  your  brother's  cash  ;  the  lease  of  the 

house, 
And  furniture,  cost  near  a  thousand,  sir. 

Shave.  But   now  you  are   master  both  of  it  and 

me, 
I  hope  you'll  build  elsewhere. 

Luke.  And  see  you  placed, 

Fair  one,  toyourdesert.     As  I  live,  friend  Trade- 
well, 
I  hardly   knew   you,  your  clothes  so  well  become 

you. 
What  is  your  loss  ?  speak  truth. 

Trade.  Three  hundred,  sir. 

Gett.  But  on  a  new  supply  he  shall  recover 
The  sum  told  twenty  times  o'er. 

Shave,  There's  a  banquet, 
And  alter  that  a  soft  couch,  that  attends  you. 

Luke.  I  couple  not  in  the  daylight.     Expectation 
Heightens  the  pleasure  of  the  night,  my  sweet  one  ! 
Your  music's  harsh,  discharge  it ;  I  have  provided 
A  better  consort,  and  you  shall  frolic  it 
In  another  place.  [The  music  ceases. 

Gold.   But  have  you  brought  gold,  and  store,  sirf  ? 

Trade.  I  long  to  wear  the  casterf. 


-  Thou  thalt  forget 


Th'-re  e'er  was  a  St.  Martin's;]  The  parish  of  St.  Martin 
appears  fnun  the  old  histories  of  London,  to  have  been  dis- 
tinguished, succes.«ivtly,  for  a  sanctuary,  a  bridewell,  a  spit- 
tle, and  an  alms-house.  Which  of  them  was  to  be  driven 
from  the  mind  of  mistress  Shavc'em,  by  the  full  tide  of 
prosperity  which  is  here  anticipated,  must  be  left  to  the 
kagacity  of  the  reader. 

t  Gold.  But  have  you  brought  gold,  and  store,  sir?} 
This,  as  I  have  al.eady  observed,  is  a  line  of  an  old  ballad. 

J  Tra-le.  1  lony  to  wear  the  caster.]   Tradewell  is  anxious 


Gold.  I  to  appear 
In  a  fresh  habit. 

Shave.   My  mercer  and  my  silkman 
Waited  me  two  hours  since. 

Luke.   I  ti m  no  porter 
To  carry  so  much  gold  as  will  supply 
Your  vast,  desires,  but  I  have  ta'en  order  for  you  : 

Enter  Sheriff,  Marshal,  and  Officers. 
You  shall  have  what  is  fitting,  and  they  come  here 
Will  see  it  perform 'd. —  Do  your  offices  :  you  have 
My  lord  chief-justice's  warrant  for't. 

Sher.  Seize  them  all. 

Shave.  The  city  marshal ! 

Gold.  And  the  sheriff!   I  know  him. 

Secret.   We  are  betrayed. 

Ding.   Undone. 

Gett.   Dear  master  Luke. 

G:>ld.  You  cannot  be  so  cruel ;  your  persuasion 
Chid  us  into  these  courses,  oft  repeating, 
Shou'i/our*elies  city-sparkt,  and  hang  up  money  ! 

Luke.  True  ;  when  it  was  my  brother's,  I  con- 
temn'd  it ; 
But  now  it  is  mine  own,  the  case  is  altered. 

Trade.  \\i\]  you  prove  yourself  a  devil?  tempt 

us  to  mischief, 
And  then  discover  it ! 

Luke.  Argue  that  hereafter; 

In  the  meantime,  Master  Goldwire,  you  that  made 
Your  ten-pound  suppers  ;  kept  your  punks  at  livery 
In  Brentford,  Staines,  and  liarnet,  and  this,  m  Lon- 
don ; 

Held  correspondence  with  your  fellow-cashiers, 
Ka  me   ka  thee  !  and  knew  in  your  accompts 
To  cheat  mv  brother,  if  you  c;m,  evade  me. 
If  there  be  law  in  London,  your  father's  bonds 
Shall  answer  for  what  you  are  out. 

for  a  supply  of  money,  to  retnrn  to  the  ordinary  or  gam- 
bling house.  For  caster  Mr.  M.  Mason  chooses  to  read 
caitor :  lie  then  observes  on  his  own  sophistication,  "allu- 
ding to  the  throwers  of  dice  at  hazard,  and  to  the  cloth 
made  of  the  beaver's  hair  "  The  last  supposition  is  unlikely, 
the  former  is  probably  right.  The  difficulty,  however,  is  not 
in  the  word  caster,  but  wear.  Wliether  wear  the  caster, 
siiiiiitifd  in  the  language  of  gaming,  to  tire  the  caster,  or  had 
any  other  meaning  more  appropriate  to  the  profession,  I 
know  not;  but  am  willing  to  suppose  so,  in  preference  to 
tampering  with  the  text.  1805. 

I  have  suffered  this  note,  which  I  trust  is  sufficiently 
modest,  to  remain  as  a  memento  to  those  who,  like  myself, 
may  have  to  treat  of  technical  terms,  in  an  art  to  which 
they  are  strangers.  While  I  was  gravely  labouring  to  rea- 
son on  a  printer's  blunder,  and  to  explain  a  te\t  which,  if 
correct,  I  should  not  have  understood,  a  reference  to  the 
Monthly  Mirror  set  all  right  in  an  instant. 

"  Ware  the  caster!"  (for  so  it  should  be  and  not  wear). 
"When  the  setter  supposes  himself  to  possess  more  money 
than  the  caster,  it  is  usual  for  Mm,  on  putting  his  stake  into 
the  rin»,  to  cry  (fare  caster!  the  caster  then  declares  at  all 
under  such  a  sum,  ten,  twenty, or  fifty  pounds,  for  instance; 
or  else  to  place  against  the  stakes  of  certain  setters,  the  cor- 
responding sums,  and  cry,  Ware  cover'd  only  !"  This  ex- 
planation undoubtedly  adds  greatly  to  the  force  and  humour 
of  this  character.  "  The  ambitious  Tradewell  expects  by 
the  assistance  of  Lnke,  to  be  lord-paramount  of  the  gaming- 
table :  as  caster  to  be  at  all!  and  as  setter,  to  ware  the  cas- 
ter I" 

Mr.  M.  Mason's  observation  on  caster,  led  me  to  observe 
that  this  was  also  a  cant  term  for  a  Plymouth  cloak,  i.  e. 
a  staff,  which  I  mention,  beca.ise  it  gives  me  an  opportunity 
of  adding  the  following  lively  and  pleasing  passage,  from 
Shirley,  which  the  reader  may,  if  he  pleases,  add  to  what 
has  been  already  advanced  on  this  term, 

" a  reed 

But  waved  discreetly,  has  so  many  pores, 
Jt  sncks  up  all  the  rain  that  falls  a  bout  one. 
With  this  defence,  when  other  men  I  ave been 
Wet  to  the  skin  through  all  their  cloaks,  I  have 
Defied  a  tempest,  and  walked  by  the  taverns 
Dry  as  a  bone."— Lady  of  Pleasure.  Act.  IV. 


398 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


Gold.  You  often  told  us 
It  was  a  bugbear. 

Luke.  Such  a  one  as  shall  fright  them 
Out  of  their  estates,  to  make  me  satisfaction 
To  the  utmost  scruple.     And  for  you,  madam, 
My  Cleopatra,  by  your  own  confession, 
Your  house,  and  all  your  moveables,  are  mine  ; 
Nor  shall  you  nor  your  matron  need  to  trouble 
Y'our  mercer,  or  your  silkman  ;  a  blue  gown, 
And  a  whip  to  boot,  as  I  will  handle  it, 
Will   serve   the  turn  in  bridewell ;  and  these  soft 

hands, 

When  they  are  inured  to  beating  hemp,  be  scour'd 
In    your    penitent    tears,    and    quite    forget   their 

powders 
And  bitter  almonds. 

Shave.  Secret.  Ding.  Will  you  show  no  mercy? 

Luke.  1  am  inexorable. 

Celt.  I'll  make  bold 
To  taKc  n.y  leave  ;  the  gamesters  stay  my  coming. 

Luke.  We  must  not  part  so,  gentle  master  Gett- 

all. 

Your  box,  your  certain  income,  must  pay  back 
Three  hundred,  as  I  take  i',  or  you  lie  by  it. 
There's  half  a  million  stirring  in  your  house, 
This   a   poor   trifle. — Master    Shrieve    and   master 

M  arshal , 
On  your  perils  do  your  offices. 

Gold.  Dost  thou  cry  now  [To  Tradewell. 

Like  a  maudlin  gamester  after  loss?    I'll  suffer 
Like  a  boimmf,  and  now  in  my  misery, 
In  scorn  of  all  thy  wealth,  to  thy  teeth  tell  thee 
Thou  wert  my  pander. 

Luke.  Shall  I  hear  this  from 
My  prentice  ? 

A/or.  Stop  his  mouth. 

Sher.  Away  with  them. 

[Exeunt  Sheriff.  Marshal,  and  Officers,  with 
Gold.  Trade.  Shave.  Secret.  Gett.  and  Ding. 

Luke.  A  prosperous  omen  in  my  entrance  to 
My  alter'd  nature  ;  these  house-thieves  remov'd, 
And  what  was  lost,  beyond  my  hopes  recover'd, 
Will  add  unto  my  heap  :  increase  of  wealth 
Is  the  rich  man's  ambition,  and  mine 
Shall  know  no  bounds.     The  valiant  Macedon 
Having  in  his  conceit  subdued  one  world, 
Lamented  that  there  were  no  more  to  conquer : 
In  my  way,  he  shall  be  my  great  example. 
And   when  my  private  house,  in  cramm'd  abund- 
ance, 

Shall  prove  the  chamber  of  the  city  poor, 
And  Genoa's  bankers  shall  look  pule  with  envy 
When  1  am  mentioned,  I  shall  grieve  there  is 
No  more  to  be  exhausted  in  one  kingdom. 
Religion,  conscience,  charity,  farewell ! 
To  me  you  are  words  only,  and  no  more ; 
All  human  happiness  consists  in  store.  [Exit. 


/'//  suffer 

Like  a  boman,]  "  A  batnan,  in  the  language  of  Alsatn" 
(While  Friars,  of  fraudulent  debtors,  gamblers,  thieves), 
"  means  a  gallant  fellow."  M.  MASON. — It  does  so;  but  I 
doubt  whether  this  was  the  author's  word.  Goldwire  is  not  a 
Cimblcr,  nor  dors  he  attVct  the  cant  of  one.  llomiin,  in  ihe 
quarto,  ii«iven  with  the  capital  letter,  and  is  not  improbably  a 
misprint  for  Roman.  To  die  or  to  .suffer  like  a  Roman,  occurs 
peroetnally  in  our  old  plays,  an<l,  generally,  in  a  kiml  of 
mock-heroic.  Thus  La/.arillo,  in  The  H'oman-Uater  "  I 
will  die  bravely,  and  like  a  Roman .'" 


SCENE   III.— A  Street. 

Enter  Serjeants  uith  FORTUNE,  HOYST,  and  PEXUKY. 
For.  At  master  Luke's  suit*  !    the  action  twenty 

thousand  ! 
1  Serj.    With  two  or  three  executions,  which  shall 

grind  you 
To  powder  when  we  have  you  in  the  counter. 

For.  Thou  dost  belie  him,  varlet !  be,  good  gentle- 
man, 
Will  weep  when  he  hears  how  we  are  used. 

1  Serj.  Yes,  millstones. 

Pen.  He  promised   to  lend  me  ten  pound   for  a 

bargain, 
He  will  not  do  it  this  way. 

2  Serj.   I  have  warrant 

For  what  I  have  done.     You  arc  a  poor  fellow, 

And  there  being  Intle  to  be  got  by  you, 

In  charity,  as  I  urn  an  officer, 

1  would  not  have  seen  you,  but  upon  compulsion, 

And  for  mine  own  security. 

3  Serj.  You  are  a  gallant, 

And  I'll  do  you  a  courtesy,  provided 

That  you  Lave  money  :  for  a  piece  an  hour, 

I'll  keep  you  in  the  house  till  you  send  for  bail. 

2  Serj.  In  the  mean  time,  yeoman,  run  to  the  other 
counterf, 

And  search  if  there  be  aught  else  out  against  him. 

3  Serj.  That  done,  haste  to  his  creditors  :  he's  a 
prize, 

And  as  we  are  city  pirates  by  our  oaths, 
We  must  make  the  best  on't. 

Hoiist.  Do  your  worst,  I  care  not. 
I'll  be  removed  to  tbe  Fleet,  and  drink  and  drab 

there 

In  spite  of  your  teeth.     I  now  repent  I  ever 
Intended  to  be  honest. 

Enter  LUKE. 

3.  Seij.  Here  he  comes 
You  had  best  tell  so£. 

For.   Worshipful  sir, 

You  come  in  time  to  free  us  from  these  bandogs. 
I  know  you  gave  no  way  to'U 

Pen.  Or  if  you  did, 
'Twas  but  to  try  our  patience. 

Hoy.  1  must  tell  you 
I  do  not  like  such  trials. 

Luke.  Are  you  Serjeants 
Acquainted  with  the  danger  of  a  rescue, 
Y'et  stand  here  prating  in  the  street?  the  counter 
Is  a  safer  place  to  parley  in. 

For.  Are  you  in  earnest? 


*  At  master  J^uke's  suit  !  The  action  twenty  thousand  (1 
The  old  copy  reads,  At  M.  Luke's  suit!  die.,  which  I  only 
notice  for  the  sake  of  observing  that  our  old  writers  assumed 
to  themselves  the  privilege  of  abridging  the  word  matter, 
and  pronouncing  only  ihe  initial  letter  of  it  (em),  as  in  the 
line  before  us.  Of  this  there  are  too  many  instances  in  this 
single  play  to  admit  a  doubt;  since  without  some  license  of 
this  sort,  many  lines  could  not  be  spoken  as  verse. 

t  2  Serj.  Jn  the  mean  time,  yeoman,  run  to  the  other 
counter,  &c.]  Fielding  has  closely  followed  Massinger  in 
his  Amelia;  indeed,  he  has  done  little  more  than  copied 
him,  or  rather  perhaps  nature,  which  each  of  them  had  in 
view.  The  dialogue  before  us  might  have  been  written  yes 
terday. 

J  3  Serj.    Here  he  comes 

You  had  best  tell  so  }     Mr.  M.  Mason  reads, 
Here  he  comes  ; 
You  had  best  him  tell  so. 

His  false  pointing  made  his  barbarous    interpolation    neeet- 
sary;  the  old  copy  is  evidently  rigrt. 


>CESE  IV.] 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


399 


Luke.  Yes,  faith  ;  I  will  be  satisfied  to  a  token*, 
Or,  build  upon't,  you  rot  there. 

For.   Can  a  gentleman 

Of  your    soft    and    silken    temper  speak  such  lan- 
guage ? 

Pen.  So  bonest,  so  religious  ? 
HOIJ.  That  preached 
So  much  of  charity  for  us  to -your  brother? 

I, uke.  Yes,    when    I    was  in   poverty  it  showed 

well  ; 

jt  I  inherit  with  his  state,  his  mind, 
And  rougher  nature.     I  ijrant  then  I  talked, 
For  some  ends  to  myself  concealed,  of  pity, 
The  poor  man's  orisons,  and  such  like  nothings : 
But    what    I   thought   you  shall  all  feel,  and  with 

rigour  ; 
Kind    master   Luke   says  it.      Who  pays  for  your 

attendance  ? 
Do  you  wait  gratis  ? 
For.  Hear  us  speak. 
Luke.  While  I, 

Like  the  adder,  stop  mine  ears  :  or  did  I  listen, 
Though  you  spake  with    the  tongues  of    angels   to 

me, 
lam  not  to  be  altered. 

For.  Let  me  make  the  best 
Of  my  ships,  and  their  freight. 

Pen.  Lend  me  the  ten  pounds  you  promised. 
Hoy.    A   day   or  two's   patience    to    redeem   mv 

mortgage, 

And  you  shall  be  satisfied. 
Fur.  To  the  utmost  farthing. 
Luke.  I'll    show    some    mercy ;   which  is,  that  I 

will  not 

Torture  you  with  false  hopes,  but  make  you  know 
What  you  shall  trust  to.     Your  ships  to  my  use 
Are  seized  on.      I  have  got  into  my  hands 
Your  bargain  from  the  sailor,  'twas  a  good  one 
For  such  a  petty  sum.     I  will  likewise  take 
The  extremity  of  your  mortgage,  and  the  forfeit 
Of  your  several  bonds  ;  the  use  and  principal 
Shall  not  serve.     Think  of  the  basket,  wretches, 
And  a  coal-sack  for  a  winding-sheet. 
For.  Broker  ! 
Hoy.  Jew  ! 
For.  Impostor! 
Hoy.  Cut-throat! 
For.  Hypocrite  ! 
Luke.  Do,  rail  on  ; 
Mov '  mountains  with  your   breath,  it   shakes  not 

me. 
Pen.  On  my  knees  I  beg  compassion.     My  wife 

and  children 
Shall  hourly  pray  for  your  worship. 

For.  Mine  betake  thee 
To  the  devil,  thy  tutor*. 
Pen.   Look  upon  my  tears. 
Hiiy.   My  rage. 
For.  My  wrongs. 
Luke.  They  are  all  alike  to  me  ; 


*  Luke.     Yes,  faith,  1  will  be  satisfied  to  a   token,]  i.  e. 
to  a  farthing. 

t  For.  M'me  betake  thee 

To  the  devil,  f.hy  tutor.]  That  is,  says  Mr.  Davies, 
"may  the  earth  open  to  swallow  thee  up,  or  majst  ilum  be 
undermine'!" !  Why,  this  "is  the  beat  fooling  of  all."  To 
betake  is  to  recommend,  to  consign,  lo  give  over:  My  wife 
and  children,  say-  Penury,  shall  pray  for  you.  Aline  (i.e. 
my  wife  and  children)*  add.s  Fortune,  shall  consign  you  to 
tiiu  devil,  voui  tutor. 


Entreaties,  curses,  prayers,  or  imprecations. 
Do  your  duties,  serjeants,   I   am  elsewhere  look'd 
for.  [Em. 

3  Serj.  This  your  kind  creditor  ! 
2  Serj.  A  vast  villain,  rather. 
Pen.  See,  see,    the   Serjeants   pity  us  !   yet  he's 

marble. 

Hoy.   Buried  alive ! 
For.  There's  no  means  to  avoid.it.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— A  Rotmin.  Sir  John  Frugal's  House. 
Ei-.ter  HOLDFAST,  STARGAZE,  and  MILLISCENT. 

Star.  Not  wait  upon  my  lady? 
Hold.  Nor  come  at  her  ; 
You  find  it  not  in  your  almanack. 

Mill.  Nor  I  have  license 
To  bring  her  breakfast  ? 

H"td.  My  new  master  hath 
Decreed  this  for  a  fasting-d;iy.     She  hath  feasted 

long, 
And  after  a  carnival  Lent  ever  follows. 

Milt.  Give  me  the  key  of  her  wardrobe.     You'll 

repent  this ; 
1  must  know  what  gown  she'll  wear. 

Hold.  You  are  mistaken, 
Dame   president  of  the  sweetmeats  ;  she  and  her 

daughters 

Are  lurird  philosophers,  nnd  must  carrv  all 
Their  wealth  ab'.mt  them:  they  have  clothes  laid  in 

their  chamber, 

If  they  please  to  put  them  on,  and  without  help  too, 
Or  they  may  walk  naked.      You  look,   master  Star- 
gaze, 
As  you  had  seen  a  strange  comet,  and  had  now 

foretold 

The  end  of  the  world,  and  on  what  day  :  and  you, 
As  the  wasps  had  broke  into  the  gallipots, 
And  eaten  up  your  apricots. 

L.  Fnig.  [within.]  Stargaze!  Milliscent ! 
Milt.  My  ladv's  voice. 
Hold.  Stir  not,  you  are  confined  here. 
Your  ladyship  may  approach  them  if  you  please, 
But  they  are  bound  in  this  circle. 

L.  Frug.  [idthin]   Mine  own  bees 
Rebel  against  me*  !     When  my  kind  brother  knows 

tliis, 
I  will  be  so  revenged  ! 

Hold.  The  world's  well  alter'd. 
He's  your  kind  brother  now  ;  but  yesterday 
Your  slave  and  jesting-stock. 

Enter  Lady  FRUGAL,  ANNE,  and  MARY,  in  coarse 
ha  hits,  weeping. 

Mill.  What  witch  hath  transformed  you  ? 

Star.  Is   this    the   glorious  shape  your  cheating 
brother 

Promised  you  should  appear  in? 

Mill.  My  young  ladies 

In  buffin  gowns,  and  green  aprons  !  tear  them  off; 
Rather  show  all  than  be  seen  thus. 

Hold.  Tis  more  comely, 
I  wis,  than  their  other  whim-whams. 


*    L.  Frut;.     lUiw  own  bees 

lifbt'l  ayainst  me,}  This  is  a  strange  expression  ;  but  it 
is  probably  nglii  :  the  lady  seems  still  to  consider  herself  a* 


400 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[Acr  [V 


Mill.  A  French  hood  too, 
Now  'tis  out  of  fashion  !  a  fool's  cap  would  show 

better. 

L.  Frug.   We  are  fool'd  indeed  :  by  whose  com- 
mand are  we  used  this  1 

Enter  LUKE. 

Hold.  Here  he  comes  that  can  best  resolve  you. 
L.  Fntg.  O,  good  brother! 
Do  you  thus  preserve  your  protestation  to  me  1 
Can  queens  envy  this  habit  ?  or  did  Juno 
E'er  feast  in  such  a  shape  ? 

Anne.  You  talk'd  of  Hebe. 
Of  Iris,  and  I  know  not  what;  but  were  they 
Dress'd  as  we  are  ?  they  were  sure  some  chandlers' 

daughters 
Bleaching  linen  in  Moorfields. 

Mary.  Or  exchange  wenches, 
Coming  from  eating  pudding-pies  on  a  Sunday 
At  Pimlico,  or  Islington. 
Luke.  Save  you,  sister  ! 
I  now  dare  style  you  so  :  you  were  before 
Too  glorious  to  be  look'd  on,  now  you  appear 
Like  a  city  matron,  and  my  pretty  nieces 
Such  things  as   were  born  and  bred  there.     Why 

should  you  ape 

The  fashions  of  court-ladies,  whose  high  titles, 
And  pedigrees  of  long  descent,  give  warrant 
For  their  superfluous  bravery  ?  'twas  monstrous : 
Till  now  you  ne'er  look'd  lovely. 

L.  Frug.  Is  this  spoken 
In  scorn  ? 

Luke.  Fie!  no;  with  judgment.     I  make  good 
My  promise,  and  now  show  you  like  yourselves, 
In  your  own  natural  shapes,  and  stand  resolved 
You  shall  continue  so. 

L.  Frug.  It  is  confess'd,  sir.* 

Luke    Sir !   sirrah :  use  your   old  phrase,  I  can 

bear  it. 

L.  Frug.  That,  if  you  please,  forgotten,  we  ac- 
knowledge 

We  have  deserved  ill  from  you,  yet  despair  not, 
Though  we  are  at  your  disposure,  you'll  maintain 

us 

Like  your  brother's  wife  and  daughters. 
Luke.  Tis  my  purpose. 
L.  Frug.  And  not  make  us  ridiculous. 
Luke.  Admired  rather, 
As  fair  examples  for  our  proud  city  dames, 
And  their  proud  brood  to  imitvite.     Do  not  frown  ; 
If  you  do,  I  laugh,  and  glory  that  I  have 
The  power,  in  you,  to  scourge  a  general  vice, 
And  rise  up  a  new  satirist :  but  hear  gently, 
And  in  a  gentle  phrase  I'll  reprehend 
Your  late  disguised  deformity,  and  cry  up 
This  decency  and  neatness,  with  the  advantage 
You  shall  receive  by't. 

L.  Frug.  We  are  bound  to  hear  you. 

Luke.    With  a  soul  inclined   to    learn.       Your 

father  was 

An  honest  country  farmer,  goodman  Humble, 
By  his  neighbours  ne'er  call'd  Master.     Did  your 

pride 

Descend  from  him  1  but  let  that  pass  :  your  fortune, 
Or  rather  your  husband's  industry,  advanced  you 


•  L.  Frng.  It  i*  confesi'd,  sir.]  A  speech  of  Luke's  ap- 
pears to  be  lost  litre,  for  in  th.it  to  which  this  forms  the  reply, 
no  iicriyy.aii.il  of  Lady  Prusj.il  is  bioii^lH  forward  ;  nor  does 
it  at  all  appear,  what  she  so  meekly  admits. 


To    the   rank  of  a  merchant's   wife.     He  made   a 

knight, 

And  your  sweet  mistress-ship  ladyfied,  you  wore 
Satin  on  solemn  days,  a  chain  of  gold, 
A  velvet  hood,  rich  borders,  and  sometimes 
A  dainty  miniver  cap*,  a  silver  pin 
Headed  with  a  pearl  worth  three-pence,  and  thus 

far 

You  were  privileged,  and  no  man  envied  it ; 
It  being  for  the  city's  honour  that 
There  should  be  a  distinction  between 
The  wife  of  a  patrician,  and  plebeian. 

Mill.  Pray  you,  leave  preaching,  or  choose  some 

other  text ; 

Your  rhetoric  is  too  moving,  for  it  makes 
Your  auditory  weep. 

Luke.  Peace,  chattering  magpie  ! 
I'll  treat  of  you  anon  ;  but  when  the  height 
And  dignity  of  London's  blessings  grew 
Contemptible,  and  the  name  lady  mayoress 
Became  a  bv-word,  and  you  scorn'd  the  means 
By  which  you  were  raised,  my  brother's  fond  indul- 
gence 

Giving  the  reins  to  it;  and  no  object  pleased  you 
But  the  glittering  pomp  and  bravery  of  the  court ; 
What  a  strange,  nay  monstrous,  metamorphosis  fol- 
lowed ! 

No  English  workman  then  could  please  your  fancy, 
The   French    and  Tuscan  dress   your  whole    dis- 
course ; 

This  bawd  to  prodigality,  entertain'd 
To  buzz  into  your  ears  what  shape  this  countess 
Appear'd  in  the  last  mask,  and  how  it  drew 
The  young  lords'  eyes  upon  her ;  and  this  usher 
Succeeded  in  the  eldest  prentice'  place 
To  walk  before  you 

L.  Frug.  Pray  you  end. 

Hold.  Proceed,  sir  ; 

I  could  fast  almost  a  prenticeship  to  hear  you, 
You  touch  them  so  to  the  quick. 

Luke.  Then,  as  I  said, 

The  reverend  hood  cast  off,  your  borrow'd  hair, 
Powder'd  and  curl'd,  was  by  your  dresser's  art 
Form'd  like  a  coronet,  hang'd  with  diamonds, 
And  the  richest  orient  pearl ;  your  carcanets 
That  did  adorn  your  neck,  of  equal  value*  : 
Your  Hungerford  bands,  and  Spanish  quellio  ruffs  ; 
Great  lords  and  ladies  feasted  to  survey 
Embroider'd  petticoats;  and  sickness  feign'd 
That  your  night-rails  of  forty  pounds  a  piece 
Might  be  seen  with  envy  of  the  visitants  ; 
Rich  pantofles  in  ostentation  shown, 


*  A  dainty  miniver  cap,]  Miniver,  as  I  learn  from  Cot- 
grave,  ii  the  fur  of  the  ermine  mixed  with  that  of  the  sma1[ 
weasel  (menu  vair),  called  gris  or  gray.  In  the  days  of 
our  author,  and  indeed,  lung  before,  the  use  of  furs  was 
almost  universal.  The  nobility  had  them  of  ermine  and 
sable,  the  wealthy  merchants,  of  vair  and  gray  (the  dainty 
miniver  of  Luke),  and  the  lower  onler  of  people  of  such 
home  material*  as  were  easiest  supphed,  squirrel,  lamb,  and 
above  all,  rabbit's  skins.  For  this  last  article  the  demand 
was  ancienily  so  great,  that  innumerable  rabbit  warrens 
were  established  In  the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis. 

t your  carcancfi, 

That  did  adorn  your  necks,  of  equal  value :] with 

•what  he  had  mentioned  before.  I  should  not  have  noticed 
this,  had  not  Mr.  M.  Mason,  to  spoil  the  sense  of  a  plain 
passage,  read,  with  equal  value.  Quetlio  (a  corruption  of 
citi-ltti)  •  ruffs,  are  rulis  for  the  neck.  Luke  furnishes  the 
most  complete  picture  of  the  dress,  manners,  &c.,  of  the 
different  classes  of  citizens'  wives,  at  that  time,  that  is  to  be 
found  on  the  ancient  stage. 


SCENE  I  ] 


THE  CITf  MADAM. 


401 


And   roses  worth    v  family* ;  you   were  served  in 

plate, 

S»irr'd  not  a  foot  without  your  coach,  and  going 
To  church,  not  I'or  devotion,  but  to  show 
Your   pomp,  you  were  tickled  when  the   beggars 

cried, 

Heaven  save  your  honour  !  this  idolatry 
Paid  to  a  painted  room. 

Hold.  iS';iy,  you  have  reason 
To  blubber,  all  of  you. 

Luke,  And  when  you  lay 
In  childbed,  at  the  christening  of  this  minx, 
I  well  remember  it,  as  you  had  been 
An  absolute  princess,  since  they  have  no  more, 
Three  several  chambers  hung,  the  first  with  arras, 
And  tbat  for  waiters  ;  the  second  ciimson  satin, 
For  the  meaner  sort  of  guests  ;  the  third  of  scarlet 
Of  the  r-ch  Tvrian  dye  ;  a  canopy 
To  cover  the  brat's  cradle ;  you  in  state 
Like  Pompey's  Julia. 

L.  Frug.  No  more,  I  pray  you. 

Luke.  Of  this,  be  sure,  you  shall  not.    I'll  cut  off 
Whatever  is  exorbitant  in  you. 
Or  in  [your]   daughters,  and  reduce  you  to 
Your  natural  forms  and  habits  ;  not  in  revenge 
Of  your  base  usage  of  me,  but  to  fright 
Others  bv  your  example  :   'tis  decreed 
You  shall  serve  one  another,  for  I  will 
Allow  no  waiter  10  you.     Out  of  doors 
With  these  useless  drones! 

Hold.    Will  you  pack  ? 

Mill.  Not  till  I  have 
My  trunks  along  with  me. 

Luke.  Not  a  rag  ;  you  came 
Hither  without  a  box. 


Star.  You'll  show  to  me 
1  hope,  sir,  more  compassion. 

llatd.  Troth  I'll  be 

Thus  far  a  suitor  for  him  :  he  hath  printed 
An  almanack  for  this  year  at  his  own  charge  ; 
Let  him  have  the  impression  with  him,  to  set  up 
wiih. 

Luke.  For  once  I'll  be  entreated ;  let  it  be 
Thrown  to  him  out  of  the  window. 

Star.  O  cursed  stars 

That  reigned  at  my  nativity  !  how  have  you  cheated 
Your  poor  observer ! 

Anne.  Must  we  part  in  tears? 

Alary.  Farewell,  good  Milliscent! 

L.  Frug.  lam  sick,  and  meet  with 
A  rough  physician.     O  my  pride  and  scorn ! 
IIou-  justly  am  I  punish'd  ! 

Mary.  Now  we  suffer 
For  our  stubbornness  and  disobedience 
To  our  good  father. 

Anne,  And  the  base  conditions 
We  imposed  upon  our  suitors. 

Luke.  Get  you  in, 
And  catterwaul  in  a  corner. 

L.  Frug.  There's  no  contending. 

[L.  Frugal,  Anne,  and  Mary,  go  off  at  one  door, 
Stargaze  and  Milliscent  at  the  other. 

Luke.  How 
Lik'st  thou  my  carriage,  Holdfast  1 

Hold.  Well  in  some  part, 
But  it  relishes,  1  know  not  how,  a  little 
Of  too  much  tyranny. 

Luke.  Thou  art  a  fool : 
He's  cruel  to  himself,  that  dares  not  be 
Severe  to  those  that  used  him  cruelly.          [  Exeunt 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  Sir  John  Frugal's  House. 
Enter  LUKE,  Sir  JOHN  FRUGAL,  Sir  MAURICE  LACY, 

and  PLENTY. 

Luke.  You  care  not  then,  as  it  seems,  to  be  con- 
verted 
To  our  religion  ? 

Sir  John.    We  know  no  such  word, 
Nor   power  but  the  devil,  and  him  we  serve  for 

fear, 
Not  love. 

Luke.  I  am  glad  that  charge  is  saved. 
Sir  John.  Wre  put 
That  trick  upon  your  brother,  to  have  means 

•  And  roses  worth  a  family  :]  1  have  already  said  that 
these  ruses  (knots  of  ribands)  were  enormously  large  ;  and 
it  appears  from  Stow  (who,  as  Mr.  GiU-lirist  justly  observes, 
is  frequently  the  best  commentator  on  Massinger)  that  they 
were  extremely  dear.  "  Concerning  shoe-roses  either  ->f 
silke  or  what  sturte  soever,  they  were  not  then  (in  the  reign 
of  queen  Elisabeth)  used  nor  known;  nor  was  there  any 
garters  above  the  price  of  five  shillings  a  payre,  altho  at 
this  day  (James  I.)  men  of  meane  rank  weare  garters  and 
thoe  rote*  of  more  than  five  pounds  price."  P.  103!t  tol. 


To  come  to  the  city.     Now  to  you  we'll  discover 
The  close  design  that  brought  us,  with  assurance, 
If  you  lend  your  aids  to  furnish  us  with  that 
Which  in  the  colony  was  not  to  be  purchased, 
No  merchant  ever  made  such  a  return 
For  his  most  precious  venture,  as  you  shall 
Receive  from  us  ;  far,  far  above  your  hopes, 
Or  fancy,  to  imagine. 

Luke.  It  must  he 

Some  strange  commodity,  and  of  a  dear  value, 
(Such  an  opinion  is  planted  in  me 
You  will  deal  fairly ).  that  I  would  not  hazard . 
Give  me  the  name  of  it. 

Sir  Mater.  1  fear  you  will  make 
Some  scruple  in  your  conscience  to  grant  it. 

Lukf.  Conscience!  no,  no;  so  it  may  be  done 

with  safety, 
And  without  danger  of  the  law. 

Plenty.   For  that 

You  shall  sleep  securely :  nor  shall  it  diminish, 
But  add  unto  your  heap  such  an  increase, 
As  what  you  now  possess  shall  appear  an  atom, 
To  the  mountain  it  brings  with  it. 


40* 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[Acr.  V, 


Ljifce.  Do  not  rack  me 
With  expectation. 

Sir  John.  Thus  then  in  a  word  : 
The  devil— why  start  you  at  his  name?  if  you 
Desire  to  wallow  in  w'ealth  and  worldly  honours, 
You  must  make  haste  to  be  familiar  with  him,— 
This  devil,  whose  priest  1  am,  and  by  him  made 
A  deep  magician  (for  I  can  do  wonders), 
Appear'd  to  me  in  Virginia,  and  commanded, 
With  many  stripes,  for  that's  his  cruel  custom, 
1  should  provide,  on  pain  of  his  fierce  wrath, 
Against  the  next  great  sacrifice,  at  which 
We,  grovelling  on  our  faces,  fall  before  him, 
Two  Christian  virgins,  that  with  their  pure  blood 
Might  dye  his  horrid  altars  ;  and  a  third, 
In  his  hate  to  such  embraces  as  are  lawful, 
Married,  and  with  your  ceremonious  rites, 
As  an  oblation  unto  Hecate, 
And  wanton  Lust,  her  favourite. 

Luke.  A  devilish  custom! 
And  yet  why  should  it  startle  me'.— There  are 
Enough  of  the  sex  fit  for  this*  use  ;  but  virgins, 
And  such  a  matron  ns  you  speak  of,  hardly 
To  be  wrought  to  it. 

Plenty.  A  mine  of  gold,  fora  fee, 
Waits  him  that  undertakes  it  and  performs  it. 

Sir  Mnur.    Know  you   no  distressed  widow,  or 

poor  maids, 
Whose   want  of  dower,  though  well  born,  makes 

them  weary 
Of  their  own  country t  ? 

Sir  John.  Such  as  "had  rather  1)6 
Miserable  in  another  world,  than  where 
They  have  surfeited  in  felicity? 

Li&f..  Give  me  leave 

I  would  not  lose  this  purchase.     A  grave  matron  ! 

[/hi,/«. 

And  two  pure  virgins  !  Umph  !  I  think  my  sister, 
Though  proud,  was  ever  honest ;  and  my  nieces 
Untainted  yet.     Why  should  not  they  be  shipp'd 
For  this  employment  ?  they  are  burthensome  to  me, 
And  eat  too  much  ;  and  if  ihey  stny  in  London, 
They  will  find  friends  that  to  my  loss  will  force  me 
To  composition  :  'twere  a  masterpiece, 
If  this  could  be  effected.      I  hey  were  ever 
Ambitious  of  title  :  should  I  urge, 
Mulching  with  these  they  shall  live  Indian  queens, 
It  niav  do  much  :   hut  what  shall  I  fee!  here, 
Knowing  to  what  they  are  design'd  ?  They  absent, 
The  thought  of  t.em  will  leave  me.     It  shall  be 

so. 

I'll  furnish  you,  and,  to  endear  the  service, 
In  mine  own  familj,  and  my  blood  loo. 

Sir  John.  Make  this  good,  and  your   house  shall 

not  contain 
The  gold  we'll  send  you. 

Lukit.  You  have  seen  my  sister, 
\nd  my  two  nieces  ? 


•  Enough  of  the  sex  fit  for  this  «*>;'    So  the  old  copy, 
and  rightly.     The  modern  editi-rs  read,/r/«r  his  use. 

t  Sii  M  .inr.   Know  you  >u>  dinfrtuxed  widow,  or  pnur  maids, 
tt'hflsf  want  nf  dower,  thouyh  wrll  burn, makes  thun  wi'ary 
Of  their  uwn  country  ?}     I  have  ail-  ntl>  icimtm-.l  the  me- 
tre of  tnis  (and   indeed    of  every  other)  Play,  in   innumer- 
able pi  ices:   "he   reader,   however,  may    not    be  un.timi.-ed 
with  a  S|>C'.-iineii,  now  anil  tlR-n,  of  the  manner  in  which  this 
most  harmonious  poet  Ins  been  hitherto  printed.     The  lines 
above  n.-p  tlins  divided  b>  Coxetrr  anil  Mi.  M.  Ma»on: 
Know  you  iu>  dixtrewd  widow,  or  poor 
A.'.ii.t*.  whose  u-aitt  of  dower,  thnui/li  wM  born, 
jtlitHtf   an  weary  of  (heir  own  country  t 


Sir  John.  Yes,  sir. 

Luke.  These  persuaded 

How  happily  they  shall  live,  and  in  what  pomp, 
When  they  are  in  your  kingdoms,  for  you  must 
Work  them  a  belief  that  you  are  kings 

Plenty.   We  are  so. 

Luke.  I'll  put  it  in  practice  instantly*.  Study  yo 
For  moving  language.     Sister  !  Nieces ! 

Enter  Lady  FRUGAL,  ANNE,  and  MARY. 

How! 
Still  mourning !    dry  your  eyes,  and  clear  these 

clouds 

That  do  obscure  your  beauties.     Did  you  balieve 
My  personated  reprehension,  though 
It  show'd  like  a  rough  ang-er,  could  be  serious? 
Forget  the  fright  I  put  you  in  :  my  end, 
In  humbling  you,  was  to  set  oft' the  height 
Of  honour,  principal  honour,  which  my  studies, 
When  you  least  expect  it,  shall  confer  upon  you  ! 
Sdll  you  seem  doubtful :   be  not  wanting  to 
Yourselves,  nor  let  the  strangeness  of  the  means, 
With  the  shadow  of  &ome  danger,  render  you 
Incredulous. 

L.  Fnig.  Our  usage  hath  been  such, 
As  we  can  faintly  hope  that  your  intents 
And  language  are  the  same. 

Luke.  I'll  change  those  hopes 
To  certainties. 

Sir  John.  With  what  art  he  winds  about  them  . 

Luke.  What  will  you  say,  or  w'aa*  thanks  shall  I 
look  for, 


probable  in  the  highest  degree.  "  Bloody,  indeed,  it  is, 
but  is  it  out  lit'  c.li.nai  tcr  ?  Luke  is  the  er  ature  of  no  or- 
<!ni  ,r\  n,iiid,  and  lie  %vho  conducted  him  thus  l.,r  \\ilh  such 
unexampled  skill,  \vas  litre  likrly  to  dent-it  him  at  tlie 
end.  It  appears  that  Massinger  was  ile>irons  cf  showing, 
in  ihe  person  of  Luke,  It  e  hidi  ons  portraiture  of  avarice 
personified.  The  li>ve  of  money  is  the  riilim;  pa.-siou  of 
Ills  Mm1. ;  it  gather*  sirengt  i  with  indulgence;  and  the  ptos- 
j  ct  of  Mich  unbounded  vve.tlih  a*  is  here  held  out  to  him, 
is  properly  calculated  to  overcome  the  fear  of  law,  and  the 
remonstrances  of  Ihe  few  scruples  of  conscience  which  jet 
torment  him. 

History  furnishes  examp'e*  of  men  who  have  sacrificed 
friends,  kindred,  all,  to  the  distant  view  of  wealth  ;  and 
we  niinht  have  known,  without  t  e  instance  of  Lu.-cc,  th.it 
avarice,  while  it  depraves  the  feelings,  enfeebles  the  judg- 
ment, and  i ende.  s  its  votaries  at  once  ci editions  ami  un- 
naiural. 

Wilh  respect  to  another  objection  which  has  been  raised, 
that  "  Luke  is  too  much  of  a  man  of  the  wot  i  .  to  be  so 
grossly  i.nposed  upon,"  it  is  more  easil>  obviated.  Instead 
of  going  back  to  the  age  of  the  poet,  we  inconsiderately 
bring  him  forward  to  our  own,  anil  invest  him  with  all  our 
knowledge.  This  is  an  evil  as  common  as  it  is  giiev -us. 
That  the  Indians  do  not  worship  the  devil,  we  know;  but 
did  Massinger  know  it  f  Our  old  writers  partook  of  the 
geneial  crednlitj,  and  believed  the  wonders  the)  told  ;  Ihey 
would  not  else  have  lold  them  so  well.  All  the  fust  disco 
Verers  of  Ameriea  were  themselves  fully  persuaded,  and 
earnestly  laboured  to  persuade  other!:,  that  the  natives  wor- 
shipped the  devil.  Kvery  shapeless  block,  every  rude  stone 
p.iint'tilly  battered  by  the  poor  savages  into  a  distant  resem- 
blance »f  animated  nature,  and  therefore  prized  by  them, 
was,  by  their  more  savage  visitois.  iai.cn  lor  a  represen- 
tation of  M-me  misshapen  fiend  to  tihom  they  ottered  lui- 


<fll     utruui      .      ^|M   .>•*./      and,     Illfiet'O,     i      5C.«llieijr    nnu^ 

ri.er  of  Massinger's  limf  who  was  not  of  the  same  belief 


feCENE  II.] 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


403 


If  now  I  raise  you  to  such  eminence,  as 
The  wife  and  daughters  of  a  citizen 
Never  arrived  at !  many,  for  their  wealth,  I  grant, 
Have  written  ladies  of  honour,  and  some  few 
Have  higher  titles,  and  that's  the  furthest  rise 
You  can  in  England  hope  for.     What  think  you 
If  I  should  mark  you  out  a  way  to  live 
Queens  in  another  climate  ? 

Anne.  We  desire 
A  competence. 

Mary.  And  prefer  our  country's  smoke 
Before  outlandish  fire. 

L.  Fmg.  But  should  we  listen 
To  sucli  impossibilities,  'tis  not  in 
The  power  of  man  to  make  it  good. 

Luke.  I'll  do  it : 

Nor  is  this  seat  of  majesty  far  removed  ; 
It  is  but  to  Virginia. 

L.  Frug.  How  !  Virginia  ! 

High  heaven  forbid  !  Remember,  sir,  I  beseech  you, 
What  creatures  are  sbipp'd  thither. 

Anne.  Condemned  wretches, 
Forfeited  to  the  law. 

Mary.  Strumpets  and  bawds, 
For  the  abomination  of  their  life, 
Spew'd  out  of  their  own  country. 

Luke.   Your  false  fears 
Abuse  my  noble  purposes.     Such  indeed 
Are  sent  as  slaves  to  labour  there,  but  you 
To  absolute  sovereignty.     Observe  these  men, 
With  reverence  observe  them  ;  they  are  kings  of 
Such  spacious  territories  ami  dominions, 
As  our  Great  Britain  measured  will  appear 
A  garden  to  it. 

At*  .Maur.  You  shall  be  adored  there 
As  goddesses. 

Sir  John.  Your  litters  made  of  gold, 
Supported  by  your  vassals,  proud  to  bear 
The  burthen  on  their  shoulders. 

Plenty.  Pomp  and  ease, 
With  delicates  that  Europe  never  knew, 
Like  pages  .-hall  wait  on  you. 

Luke.  If  you  have  minds 
To  entertain  the  greatness  offer'd  to  you, 
With  outstretched  arms,  and  willing  hands  embrace 

it. 

But  this  refused,  imagine  what,  can  make  you 
Most  miserable  here,  and  rest  assured, 
In  storms  it  falls  upon  you  :   take  them  in, 
And  use  your  best  persuasion.     If  that  fail, 
I'll  send  them  aboard  in  a  dry  fat. 

[Ereunt  all  but  Sir  John  Frugal  and  Luke. 

•   Sir  Jnhn.  Be  not  moved,  sir  ; 
We'll  work  them  to  your  will.     Yet,  ere  we  part, 
Your  worldly  cares  dV ferr'd,  a  little  mirth 
Would  not  misbecome  us. 

Luke    You  say  well  :  and  now 
It  comes  into  my  memory,  'tis  my  birthday, 
Which  with  solemnity  I  would  observe, 
But  that  it  would  ask  cost. 

Sir  John.  That  shall  not  grieve  you. 
By  my  art  I  will  prepare  you  such  a  feast, 
As  Persia,  in  her  height  of  pomp  and  riot, 
Did  never  equal ;  and  such  ravishing  music 
As  the  Italian  princes  seldom  heard 
At  their  greatest  entertainments.  .N  ame  your  guests. 

Ljj/ce.   I  must  have  none. 

Sir  John.  Not  the  city  senate? 

Luke.  No ; 


Nor  yet  poor  neighbours  :  the  first  would  argue  me 

Of  foolish  ostentation,  and  the  latter 

Of  too  much  hospitality  ;  a  virtue 

Grown  obsolete,  and  useless.     I  will  sit 

Alone,  and  surfeit  in  my  store,  while  others 

With  envy  pine  at  it  ;  my  genius  pamperM 

With  the  thought  of  what   I  am,  and  what  they 

suffer 
I  have  mark'd  out  to  misery. 

Sir  John.  You  shall  : 

And  something  I  will  add  you  yet  conceive  not, 
Nor  will  I  be  slow-paced. 

Luke.  I  have  one  business, 
And  that  dispatch'd  I  am  free. 

Sir  John.  About  it,  sir, 
Leave  the  rest  to  me. 

Luke.  Till  now  I  ne'er  loved  magic.         [Exeunt 


SCENE  II. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Lord  LACY,  GOLDWIRE  senior,  and  TKADEWELL 
senior. 

L  Lacy.  Believe  me,  gentlemen,  I  never  was 
So  cozen'd  in  a  fellow.     He  disguised 
Hypocrisy  in  such  a  cunning  shape 
Of  real  goodness,  that.  I  would  have  sworn 
This  devil  a  saint.     *M.  Goldwire,  and   M.  Trade- 
well, 
What  do  you  mean  to  do?  Put  onf. 

Gold.  With  your  lordship's  favour. 

L.  Lacy.  I'll  have  it  so. 

Trade.   Your  will,  my  lord,  excuses 
The  rudeness  of  our  manners. 

L.  Loci/.   You  have  received 
Penitent  letters  from  your  sons,  I  doubt  nut' 

Trade.  They  are  our  only  sons. 

Gold.  And  as  we  are  fathers, 
Remembering  the  errors  of  our  youth, 
We  would  pardon  slips  in  them. 

Trade.  And  pay  for  them 
In  a  moderate  way. 

Gold.  In  which  we  hope  your  lordship 
Will  be  our  mediator. 

L.  Lacy.  All  my  power 

Enter  LUKE. 

You  freely  shall  command  ;    'tis  he  !    You  are  well 

met, 
And   to  my  wish, — and   wonderous    brave !    your 

habit 
Speaks  you  a  merchant  royal. 

Luke.  What  I  wear, 
I  take  not  upon  trus.t 

L.  Lacy.  Your  betters  may, 
And  blush  not  for't. 

Luke.  If  you  have  nought  else  with  me 
But  to  argue  that,  I  will  make  bold  to  leave  you. 
L.  Lacy.    You  are  very  peremptory  ;    pray  you 

stay  : 
I  once  held  you  an  upright  honest  man. 

Luke.  I  am  honester  now 
By   a  hundred   thousand  pound,  I  thank  my  stars 

for't, 
Upon  the  Exchange  ;  and  if  your  late  opinion 

«  M.  Goldwire,  and  M.  Tradewell,}  See 

Act  IV.,  sc.  iii. 

t  Put  on.J   i.    e.   be  covered:  an 

sion  that  frequently  occurs. 


404 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[Acr  V 


Be  aller'd,  who  can  help  it  ?  Good  my  lord, 
To  the  point ;  I  have  oilier  business  than  to  talk 
Of  honesty,  and  opinions. 
L.  Lncy.    Yet  you  rnav 

Do  well,  if  you  please,  to  show  the  one,  and  merit 
The  other  from  good  men,  in  a  case  that  now 
Is  oflfer'd  to  you. 

Luke.   What  is  it?  I  am  troubled. 
L.  Laci/.  Here  are  two  gentlemen,  the  fathers  of 
Your  brother's  prentices. 

Luke.   Mine,  my  lord,  I  take  it. 
L.  Lacy.  Goldwire,  and  Tradewell. 
Luke.  They  are  welcome,  if 
They  come  prepared  to  satisfy  the  damage 
I  have  sustain'd  by  their  sons. 
Gold.  We  are,  so  you  please 
To  use  a  conscience. 

Trade.  Which  we  hope  you  will  do, 
For  your  own  worship's  sake. 

Luke.  Conscience,  my  friends, 
And  wealth,  are  riot  always  neighbours.     Should  I 

part 

With  what  the  law  gives  me,  I  should  suffer  mainly 
In  my  reputation  ;  for  it  would  convince  me 
Of  indiscretion  :  nor  will  you,  I  Lope,  move  me 
To  do  myself  such  prejudice. 
L.  Lacy.  No  moderation? 

Luke.    I  hry  cannot  look  for't,  and  preserve  in  me 
A  thriving  citizen's  credit.     Your  bonds  lie 
For  your  sons'  truth,  and  they  shall  answer  all 
They  have  run  out :  the  masters  never  prosper'd 
Since  gentlemen's  sons  grew  prentices  :  when  we 

louk 

To  have  our  business  done  at  home,  tliey  are 
Abroad  in  the  tennis-court,  or  in  Partridge-alley, 
In  Lambeth  Marsh,  or  a  cheating  ordinary, 
Where  I  found  your    sons.      I  have  your  bonds  : 

look  to't. 

A  thousand  pounds  apiece,  and  that  will  hardly 
Repair  my  losses. 

L.  Lacy.  Thou  dar'st  not  show  thyself 
Such  a  devil ! 

Luke.  Good  words. 

L.  Lacy.  Such  a  cut-throat !  I  have  heard  of 
The  usage  of  your  brother's  wife  and  daughters  ; 
You  shall  find  you  are  not  lawless,  and  that  your 

monies 
Cannot  justify  your  villanies. 

Luke.  I  endure  this. 

And,  good  my  lord, now  you  talk  in  time  of  monies, 
Pay  in  what  you  owe  me.     And  give  me  leave  to 

wonder 

Your  wisdom  should  have  leisure  to  consider 
The  business  of  these  gentlemen,  or  my  carriage 
To  my  sister,  or  my  nieces,  being  yourself 
So  much  in  my  danger*. 
L.  Lacy.  In  thy  danger? 
Luke.  Mine. 

I  find  in  my  counting-house  a  manor  pawn'd, 
Pawn'd,    my  good   lord ;    Lacy   manor,    and    that 

manor 

From  which  you  have  the  title  of  a  lord, 
An  it  please  your  good  lordship  !     You  are  a  noble- 
man ; 

Pray  you  pay  in  my  monies  :  the  interest 
Will  eat  faster  in't,  than  aquafortis  in  iron. 
Now  though  you  bear  me  hard,  I  love  your  lordship. 


*  So  much  in  my  danger.]  i.  e.  in  my  debt.     See  Fatal 
Dowry,  Act.  I.  sc.  ii. 


I  grant  your  person  to  be  privileged 

From  all  arrests  ;  yet  there  lives  a  foolish  creature 

Call'd  an  tinder-sheriff,  who,  being  well-paid,   will 

serve 

An  extent*  on  lords  or  lowns'  land.  Pay  it  in  , 
1  would  be  loth  your  name  should  sink,  or  that 
Your  hopeful  son,  when  he  returns  from  travel, 
Should  find  you  my  lord-without-land.  You  are 

angry 
For  my  good  cousel :  look  you  to  your  bonds  ;  had 

1  known 
Of  your  coming,  believe't,  I   would  have  had  ser- 

jeants  ready. 

Lord,  how  you  fret !  but  that  a  tavern's  near 
You  should  taste  a  cup  of  muscadine  in  my  house, 
To  wash  down  sorrow  ;  but  there  it  will  do  better  : 
I  know  you'll  drink  a  health  to  me.  [Ent, 

L.  Lacy.  To  thy  damnation. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  villain  !  heaven  forgive  me 
For  speaking  so  unchristianly,  though  he  deserves  it. 
Gold.   We  are  undone. 
Trade.  Our  families  quite  ruin'd. 
L.  Lacy.  Take  courage,  gentlemen  ;  com  fort  may 

appear, 

And  punishment  overtake  him,  when  he  least  ex- 
pects it.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Sir  JOHN  FRUGAL  and  HOLDFAST. 

Sir  John.  Be  silent  on  your  life. 

Hold.  I  am  o'er  joyed. 

Sir  John.  Are  the  pictures  placed  as  I  directed  ? 

Hold.   Yes,  sir. 

Sir  John.  And  the  musicians  ready  ? 

Hold.  All  is  done 
As  you  commanded. 

Sir  John,    [at  the  door.']    Make    haste ;    and    be 

careful  ; 
You  know  your  cue,  and  postures  ? 

Plenty,  [within.]  We  are  perfect. 

Sir  John.  'Tis  well  :   the  rest  are  come  too  ? 

Hold.  And  disposed  of 
To  your  ow  n  wish. 

Sir  John.   Set  forth  the  table :  So  ! 

Enter  Servants  with  a  rich  banquet. 
A  perfect  banquet.     At  the  upper  end, 
His  chair  in  state  ;  he  shall  feast  like  a  prince. 

Hold.  And  rise  like  a  Dutch  hangman. 

Enter  LUKE. 

Sir  John.  Not  a  word  more. 

How  like  you  the  preparation  ?     Fill  your  room, 
And  taste  the  cates  ;  then  in  your  thought  consider 
A  rich  man,  that  lives  wisely  to  himself, 
In  his  full  height  of  glory. 

Luke.  I  can  brook- 
No  rival  in  this  happiness.     How  sweetly 
These  dainties,  when  unpaid  for,  please  my  palate  ! 
Some  wine.     Jove's  nectar  !   brightness  to.  the  star 
That  governed  at  my  birth  !   shoot  down  thy  in- 
fluence, 

And  with  a  perpetuity  of  being 
Continue  this  felicity,  not  gained 
By  vows  to  saints  above,  and  much  less  purchased 


*  An  extent  on  lords  or  Inwns'  land.]  To  extend,  as  lias 
been  already  observed,  is  a  leijal  term  for  "laying  an  ex 
edition  on."  Thus  Shaduell,  in  The  Virtuoio  : 

Niece,  my  land  in  the  country   is  extended,  and  \\\  ray 
goods  seized  on." 


III.] 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


By  thriving  industry  ;  nor  fallen  upon  me 

As  a  reward  to  piety,  and  religion, 

Or  service  to  my  country  :  I  owe  all 

This  to  dissimulation,  and  the  shape 

I  wore  of  goodness.     Let  my  brother  number 

His  beads  devoutly,  and  believe  his  alms 

To  beggars,  his  compassion  to  his  debtors, 

Will  wing  his  better  part,  disrobed  of  flesh, 

To  soar  above  the  firmament.     1  am  well ; 

Arid  so  I  surfeit  here  in  all  abundance, 

Though  styled  a  cormorant,  a  cut-throat,  Jew, 

And  prosecuted  with  the  fatal  curses 

Of  widows,  undone  orphans,  and  what  else 

Such  as  malign  my  state  can  load  me  with, 

I  will  n  t  envv  it.     You  promised  music. 

Sir  John.  And  you  shall    hear  the  strength  and 

power  of  it, 

The  spirit  of  Orpheus  raised  t/^make  it  good, 
And  in  those  ravishing  strains  with  which  he  moved 
Charon  and  Cerberus  to  give  him  way 
To  fetch  from  hell  his  lost  Eundice. 
Appear  !   swifter  than  thought  ! 

Music.     Enter   at   one  door,    Cerbtrus,    at  the  other, 
Charon,  Orpheus,  anil  Chorus. 

Luke.  'Tis  wonderous  strange  ! 

Sir  John.  Does  not  the  object  and  the  accent  take 

you  ? 
Luke.  A  pretty  fable*. 

[Exeunt  Orpheus  and  the  rest 

But  that  music  should 
Alter  in  fiends  their  nature,  is  to  me 
Impossible:  since  in  myself  I  find, 
\\  hat  I  have  once  decreed  shall  know  no  change. 

Sir  JO/PI.  You  are  constant  to  your  purposes  ;  yet 

I  think- 
That  1  could  stagger  you. 

Lnke.   How! 

Hir  John.  Should  I  present 
Your  servants,  debtors,  and  the  rest  that  suffer 
By  your  fit  severity,  1  presume  the  sight 
Would  move  you  to  compassion. 

Lnke.  Not  a  mote. 

The  music  that  your  Orpheus  made  was  harsh, 
To  the  delight  1  should  receive  in  hearing 
Their  cries  and  groans  :  if  it  be  in  your  power, 
I  would  now  see  them. 

Sir  John.  Spirits,  in  their  shapes, 
Shall  show  them  as  they  are  :  but  if  it  should  move 
you  ? — 

Lnke.  If  it  do,  may  I  ne'er  find  pity ! 

Sir  John.  Be  your  own  judge. 
Appear!  as  I  commanded. 

Sad  Music.  Enter  GOLDWIIIE  junior,  and  TRADEWFLL 
junior,  as  from  jirison ;  FORTUNE,  HOVST,  and 
PENURY  ;  Serjeants  u'iih  TRADEWELL  senior,  and 
GOI.DWIRE  senior; — these J'Mwed  by  SIIAVE'EM,  in 
a  blue goirir ,  SECRET  and  DIXG'EM  ;  (hry  all  kneel 
to  LUKE,  lifting  up  their  hand*.  STAIIGAZE  is  seen 
with  a  pack  of  almanacks,  and  MILLISCENT. 


•  From  this  it  appears  that  the  fable  of  Orpheus  and 
Eurydice  was  acted  in  dumb  show.  Few  of  M^singer's 
plays  are  without  an  interlude  of  some  kind  or  other. 

t  SHAVE'KM  in  a  blue  gown,]  i.  e.  in  the  livery  of  Bride- 
well. It  appears  from  many  passages  in  our  old  plays, 
particularly  from  the  second  pdrt  of  Decker's  Honett  Whore, 
that  this  was  the  dress  in  which  prostitutes  were  compelled 
to  do  penance  there.  OQ 


Luke. — Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
This  move  me  to  compassion,  or  raise 
One  sign  of  seeming  pity  in  my  face  ! 
You  are  deceived  :   it  rather  renders  me 
More  flinty  and  obdurate.     A  south  wind 
Shall  sooner  s>often  marble,  and  the  rain, 
That  slid  s  down  gently  from  his  flaggy  wings 
O'erflow  the  Alps,  than  knees,  or  tears,  or  groans 
Shall  wrest  compunction  from  me.     Tis  my  glory 
That  they  are  wretched,  and  by  me  made  so  : 
It  sets  my  happiness  oft':   1  could  not  triumph 
If  these  were  not  my  captives.  —  Ha  !  mv  tarriers. 
As  it  appears,  have  seized  on  these  old  foxes, 
As  1  gave  order;   new  addition  to 
.My    scene    of   mirth:     ha,  ha! — they  now  grow 

tedious, 
Let  them  be  removed. 

[Exeunt  CM.  and  the  rest. 

Sorce  other  object,  if 
Your  art  can  show  it. 

Sir  John.  You  shall  perceive  'tis  boundless. 
Yet  o:>e  thing  real,  if  you  please? 
Luke.  -  What  is  it? 
Sir  John.    Your  nieces,  ere  they  put  to  sea,  crave 

humbly, 

Though  absent  in  their  bodies,  they  mav  take  leave 
Of  their  late  suitors'  statues. 

Enter  Lady  FRUGAL,  ANNE,  and  MART. 

Luke.  There  they  hang  ; 
In  things  indifferent  1  am  tractable. 

Sir  John.  There  pay  your  vows,  you  have  liberty. 

Anne.  O  sweet  figure 
Df  my  abused  Lacy*  !   when  removed 
Into  another  world,  I'll  daily  pay 
A  sacrifice  of  sighs  io  thy  ramembnnov; 
And  with  a  shower  of  tears  strive  to  wa.-,h  off 
1  he  stain  of  that  contempt  my  foolish  pride 
And  insolence  threw  upon  thee. 

3/uri/.  I  had  been 

Too  happy,  if  1  had  enjoyed  the  substance; 
3ut  far  unworthy  of  it.  imw  1  fall 
Thus  prostrate  to  thy  statue. 

L.  Frug.  AJy  kind  hushand 
Bless'd  m  my  misery),  from  the  monastery 
To  which  my  disobedience  confined  thee, 
A'ith  thy  soul's  eye,  which  di.-tance  cannot  hinder, 
,ook  on  nay  penitence.     O,  that  1  could 
jail  back  time  past !  thy  holy  vow  dispensed, 
rVith  what  humility  would  i  observe 
My  lonsr-neglecied  duty  ! 

Sir  John.  Does  not  this  move  you? 

Luke.  Yes,  as  they  do  the  statues,  and  her  sor- 
row 

My  absent  brother.     If,  by  your  magic  art.  „ 
You  can  give  life  to  these,  or  bring  lain  hither 


*  Anne.     O  ttceet  fiyttre 

Of  my  beloved  Lacy!]  There  is  some  difficulty  in  under 
standing  the  iiu'ch.iubiu  of  this  si-ene.  M.t-Mii,rr,  like  hif 
contemporaries-,  confounds  statue  with  picture,  and  this 
creates  contusion  : — it  seems  as  if  Lacy  and  Tinny,  by 
Miine  contrivance  behind,  stood  within  the  frames,  and 
in  the  exact  dress  and  altitudes  of  thtir  respective  portraits, 
\\hich  Sir  John  appear?  to  have  procured,  and  hung  up  ill 
tlie  back  part  "f  the  room  ;  from  whence,  at  a  |.rccon- 
cerud  signal,  they  descend,  and  come  forward.  The  dine- 
linn,  in  the  quarto,  is,  Plenty  and  Lacy  ready  behind.  The 
atiempt  to  mark  the  stase  airaimeinent-  of  this  interesting 
scene  will,  1  hope.be  received  with  that  indulgence  to  which, 
from  the  wr.tch.  d  assistant  e  afforded  by  tin-  old  copies,  i 
i-,  in  some  measure,  entitled. 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


[ACT.  V 


To  witness  her  repentance,  I  may  have, 
Perchance,  some  feeling  of  it. 

Sir  Jnhn.   For  your  sport 

You  shnll  see  a  master- piece.     Here's  nothing  but 
A  superficies  ;   colours,  and  no  substance. 
Sit  still,  and  to  your  wonder  and  am.izement, 
I'll  give  these  organs.     This  the  sacrifice 
To  nmke  the  great  work  perfect. 

[Makes    mystical  gesticulations.       Sir    Maurice 
Lacy  mid  Plenty  give  signs  of  animation. 

Luke.  Prodigious ! 

Sir  Joint.  Nay,  they  have  life,  and  motion.     De- 
scend ! 
[Sir  Maurice  Lacy  and  Plenty  descend  and  com* 

jot-ward. 

And  for  your  absent  brother, — this  wash'd  off, 
Against  v  our  •will  you  shall  know  him. 

Enfer  l.or>i  LACY,  with  GOLDWIRE  senior  and  junior, 
TRADI.WELL  senior  andjunior,  the  Debtors,  fyc.  fyc. 

Luke.  I  am  lost. 
Guilt  strikes  me  dumb. 

Sir  John.  You  have  seen,  my  lord,  the  pageant  ? 

L.  Lucy.  I  have,  and  am  ravish'd  with  it. 

Sir  Jo/in.   What  think  you  now 
Of  this  clear  soul?  this  honest  pious  man? 
Have  I  stripp'd  him  bare,  or  will  your  lordship  have 
A  further  trial  of  him  ?     '  I'is  not  in 
A  wolf  to  change  his  nature. 

L.  Lac ii.  I  long  since 
ContVss'd  my  error. 

Sir  John.  Look  up  ;  I  forgive  you, 
And  seal  your  pardons  thus. 

[Embraces  Lady  Frugal,  Anne, and  Mary. 

L.  Fnig.  I  am  too  full 
Of  joy  to  speak  it. 

Anne.  I  am  another  creature  ; 
Not  what  I  was. 

Mori/.  I  vow  to  show  myself, 
When  1  am  married,  an  humble  wife, 
Not  a  commanding  mistress. 

Plenty.  On  those  terms, 
I  gladly  thus  embrace  you.  [7"<>  Mary. 

Sir  Maiir.  Welcome  to 
My  bosom  :  as  the  one  half  of  myself, 
I'll  love  and  cherish  you.  [To  Anne. 

Gold.jim.  Mercy  ! 

Trade,  jtin.  and  the  rest.  Good  sir,  mercy! 

Sir  John.  This  day  is  sacred  to  it.     All  shall  find 

me, 

As  far  as  lawful  pity  can  give  way  to't, 
Indulgent  to  your  wishes,  though  with  loss 
Unto  myself.     My  kind  and  honest  brother, 
Looking  into  yourself,  have  you  seen  the  Gorgon? 
What  a  golden  dream  you  have  had  in  the  possession 
Of  my  estate  ! — but  here's  a  revocation 
I  hat  wakes  you  out  of  it.     Monster  in  nature  ! 
Revengeful,  avaricious  atheist. 
Transcending  all  example  ! — but  I  shall  be 
A  sharer  in  iby  crimed,  should  I  repeat  them — 
\\  hat  wilt  ihou  do?  turn  hypocrite  again, 
With  hope  dissimulation  can  aid  thee? 
Or  that  one  eye  will  shed  a  tear  in  sign 
Of  sorrow  for  thee?     I  have  warrant  to 
Make  hold  with  mine  own,  pray  you  uncase  :  this 

key  too 

I  must  make  bold  with.     Hide  thyself  in  some  de- 
sert, 


Where  good  men  ne'er  may  find  thee  ;  or  in  justice 

Pack  to  Virginia,  and  repent ;  not  for 

Those    horrid    ends    to    which    thou    didst   design 

these. 
Luke.  I  care  not  where  I  go:  what's  done,  with 

\vords 
Cannot  be  undone. 

[Exit. 

L.  Frug.  Yet,  sir,  show  some  mercy 
Because  his  cruelty  to  me  aud  mine 
Did  good  upon  us. 

Sir  John.  Of  that  at  better  leisure, 
As    his    penitency    shall     work    me.      Make    you 

j;ood 

Your  promised  reformation,  and  instruct 
Our   city    dames,   whom  wealth  makes  proud,    tt> 

move 

In  their  own  spheres  ;  and  willingly  to  confess, 
In  their  habits,  manners,  and  their  highest  port, 
A  distance  'twixt  the  city  and  the  court. 

[Exeunt*. 


*  Every  friend  to  the  reputation  of  Msjsinger  ni'ist 
cherish  the  remembrance  of  this  Play.  It  exhibits  t-qnal 
power  of  thought  and  copiousness  of  matter.  The  circum- 
stantial detail  of  the  manners  of  the  age  (though  some  part 
of  it  is  to  be  regretted),  the  impression  with  which  the 
moral  lessons  are  convened,  and  the  strong  incidents  with 
which  the  scenes  abound,  fill  the  mind  with  variety  of 
excellence.  It  is  a  powerful  and  a  pregnant  composition, 
and  has  the  effect  of  history,  satire,  and  comedy  united. 

The  object  of  the  Play  is t'ormilly  sta  ed  at  the  conclusion: 
but  it  is  observable,  lh<*t  the  person  who  incidentally  par- 
takes in  the  promotion  of  it,  becomes  the  most  inaiked 
character,  and  obscures  those  who  are  originally  concerned. 
The  effect  is  stronger  Through  its  own  surpri  e;  and  the 
address  of  Massinger  is  p  oved  in  proportion  as  he  pro- 
duces so  important  an  agency  from  so  indirect  a  promise. 
There  is  another  mark  of  his  address.  The  real  character 
of  Luke  i-  unusually  suspended  ;  and  even  when  suspicion 
begins,  it  is  balanced  by  a  new  contrivance  of  regard.  Tlie 
final  disclosure  of  the  villain  becomes,  in  this  instance  too, 
more  striking,  through  the  previous  concealment,  anil  we 
hate  him  the  more  on  account  of  the  good  opinion  we  have 
wasted  upon  him.  The  character  ot  Luke  is  so  predominant 
that  it  well  deserves  the  particular  attention  of  the  rea  ;er. 

He  is  originally  <t  It"  indulgent,  idle,  riotous,  prodigal, 
and  vicious;  Mipp,  rted  by  his  brother,  he  appears  penitent, 
pious,  unusually  humble,  compassionate,  charitable,  and 
draws  much  of  our  pity  and  esteem.  When  he  hears  <>(  Ini 
supposed  fortune,  he  assumes  the  most  imposing  hypocrisy, 
otters  protection  that  he  may  betray,  talks  ot  kindness,  that 
he  may  be  finally  severe,  and  masks  a  decided  cruelty  with 
the  most  deceitful  promises  of  liberality.  Every  restraint 
being  at  length  removed,  the  appearance  of  his  »oft  feeling 
is  hanged  into  a  savage  and  ferocious  avarice;  his  glossy 
deceit  becomes  avowed  and  daring  villany  :  he  is  insoleut, 
oppressive,  insatiabl  •,  obdurate,  inexorable,  and  impious. 
The  character  ii  true,  though  some  of  its  parts  are  oppo-ite. 
The  sufferings  from  his  former  profuseuess,  and  perhaps  the 
exhaustion  of  its  plea-tires,  might  well  piepare  him  for 
future  avarice:  nor  are  such  changes  (infrequent  in  ccmmon 
life.  Hii  intermediate  show  of  goodness  is  easily  reconciled 
with  the  unextinguished  viciousness  of  his  mind.  His 
penitence  i*  deceit,  his  piety  is  hypocrisy,  his  strange 
hiiniilny  an  inbred  baseness,  und  his  talk  of  liberality  a 
genuine  disregard  of  money  that  is  not  his  own. — In  short, 
the  character  is  at  once  bol<l  aud  natural,  and  is  described 
with  uncommon  art  and  effect 

The  i, ther  characters  lose  part  of  their  importance  through 
the  ascendency  of  Luke.  Vet  ihe  women  are  well  repre- 
sented ;  and  their  ignorance  and  vulgarity,  their  admira- 
tion of  tl:e  unintelligible  jargon  of  Stargaze,  and  their  con- 
tented forgetful nes*  of  Frugal  amidst  the  new  promises  of 
Luke,  are  very  amusing.  Nor  is  the  outrageous  treatment 
ot  the  suitors  unnatural,  though  the  desire  of  getting  tliein 
a*  husbands  might  have  been  expected  to  leach  some  caution. 
It  appears  that  ihe  predictions  of  Stargaze  had  convinced 
them  of  the  certain  submission  of  Lacy,  Kc.,  and  then-fore 
caution  was  unnecessary.  The  unevtmpl>d  impudence  of 
the  demands  is  only  explained  by  the  blind  credulity  of  the 
mother.  Stargaze  himself  is  humorously  tieated.  In  Th» 
Pictwt,  Sophia  speaks  with  all  the  seriousness  of  religioa 


THE  CITY  MADAM. 


407 


against  the  practice  of  magic.  Ridicule  alone  is  bestowed 
on  judicial  astrology.  After  various  failures  and  renewals 
of  credit,  the  wretched  professor  is  driven  otf  the  stage,  dis- 
graced, poor,  beaten,  and,  worse  than  all,  compelled  to 
acknowledge  the  futility  of  his  art.  In  the  midst  of  this 
excellence,  there  is  an  inadvertence  not  wholly  unimportant. 
Tin:  moral  purpose  of  the  play  is  accomplished,  even  upon 
moral  principles  by  its  most  flagitious  character.  Luke  is 
a  declared  villain,  and  a  reformer  too!  He  allows  revenge 
to  be  the  motive  of  his  cruelty,  yet  he  rises  up  a  "  new 
satirist"  against  the  vices  of  the  city !— It  is  obvious  that 
Massinger  has  forgot  himself.  He  has  confounded  in  the 
la.i.e  person  his  own  general  and  patiiotie  views  with  the 


private  malice  of  Luke:  and  in  thU  mixture  of  design 
Luke  trtlks  alternatively  for  himself  and  for  the  poet ! 

All  instriK  live  moral  yet  remains  to  be  drawn  irom  the 
apparent  hv.mility  of  Luke.  It  is  the  excess  of  this  quality 
which  gives  the  reader  the  first  suspicion  of  hypocrisy. 

We  mast  not  administer  to  the  follies  or  vices  ot  others 
by  a  base  subserviency  ;  nor  must  we  console  the  di.sgrare  of 
preterit  submission  with  the  prospect  of  future  revenge. 
Humility,  well  understood,  has  true  purity  and  true  eleva- 
tion. It  raises  u«  above  all  moral  meanness;  and,  while  it 
prescribes  an  unaffected  lowliness  of  service,  it  dignffies  the 
obscurest  actions  through  the  principle  from  which  they 
flow.  Da.  IRKLANU. 


THE   GUABDIAN. 


THE  GuAitDiAM.]  This  "  Comical  History"  was  licensed  by  the  Master  of  the  Revels,  October  31st, 
1633 ;  but  not  printed  till  1655,  when  it  was  put  to  the  press,  together  with  The  Bashful  Lover,  and  The 
Very  Woman,  by  Humphrey  Moseley,  the  general  publisher  of  that  age. 

Its  plot  is  singularly  wild  and  romantic  ;  the  most  interesting  and  probable  part  of  it  is,  perhaps,  the 
poet's  own;  the  incident  of  lolanteand  Calipso  is  borrowed.  The  original  tale  is  in  The  Heetopadrs ; 
whence  it  was  transferred  to  the  Fables  of  Pilpay  ;  it  was  translated  into  Greek  about  the  end  of  the 
eleventh  century,  by  S;meonSeth,  a  learned  Orientalist  ;  and  thus  found  its  way  into  Latin,  and  made  a 
part  of  those  quaint  collections  of  ribald  morality,  which,  in  Massinger's  time,  were  in  every  one's  hands. 
A  sneer  at  miracles  was  not  likely  to  escape  the  wits  of  Italy  ;  it  was  therefore  inserted  by  Boccac-cioinhis 
Decameron,  where  it  is  but  poorly  told.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  have  introduced  it  with  some  degree  ot 
dexterity  into  the  plot  of  Women  Pleased  ;  and  it  has  been  versified  (from  a  translation  of  the  Sanscrit)  with 
exquisite  humour,  by  my  ingenious  friend  Mr.  Hoppner. 

It  would  be  a  miserable  waste  of  time  to  examine  from  what  specific  work  Massinger  derived  an  adven- 
ture which  probably  existed  in  a  hundred  different  publications,  and  which  was  scarcely  worth  the  picking 
up  any  where:  those,  however,  who  wish  for  more  on  the  subject,  may  consult  the  late  Air.  Hole's  Remarks 
tn  the  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments. 

This  popular  Drama  was  produced  at  the  "Private-house  in  Black-fryers."  From  a  memorandum  in 
the  Office-book  of  Sir  Henry  Herbert,  we  learn,  that,  shortly  after  its  appearance,  it  was  acted  before  the 
king.  "  The  Guardian,  a  play  of  Mr.  Massinger's,  was  performed  at  court  on  Sunday  the  12  January, 
1633,  by  the  king's  players,  and  welllikte."  MaLtne's  Hiitirrical  Account  of  the  English  Stage. 


PROLOGUE. 


AFTER  twice  putting  forth  to  sea*,  his  fame 
Shipwrecked  in  eitherf,  and  his  once-known  name 
In  two  years'  silence  buried,  perhaps  lost 
In  the  general  opinion  ;  at  our  cost 
(A  zealous  sacrifice  to  Neptune  made 
For  good  success  in  his  uncertain  trade) 


*  After  /«,•«', v  putting  forth,  &c.]  I  scarcely  know  whe- 
ther 1  •MtofltUM  this  righily  or  nut,  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  plajers  allude  to  two  pieces  of  Msssinger,  which  were 
condemned  on  the  first  representation.  This  ill  fortune  ap- 
pears to  have  induced  ihe  modest  poet  to  give  up  all  fur- 
ther ihuughts  of  writing  for  llie  static;  the  players,  however, 
who  knew  his  worth,  prevailed  on  him  to  try  his  fate  once 
more;  and  to  obviate  his  objections  to  the  uncertainty  of 
popular  favour,  purchased  (he  piece  outright :  this,  indeed, 
was  no  uncommon  circumstance.  The  event  proved  that 
they  had  made  no  wrong  estimate  of  his  talent.',  for  The 
Guardian  is  said  to  "  have  been  oflen  acted  with  great  ap- 
plause." 

A  difficulty  yet  remains.  The  prologue  speaks  of  two 
years'  silmce,  yet  The  City  Madam  was  licensed  on  the 
25th  of  May,  1632,  and  the  present  Comical  Hbtory,  on  the 
last  day  of  October  in  the  following  year,  an  interval  of  on- 
iv  seventeen  months:  but,  perhaps, accuracy  of  compntation 
is  not  to  be  looked  for  in  these  occasional  productions. 

t  . hit  fame 

Xhipwreck'd  In  cither,]  Mr.  M.  Mason  chooses  to  read,  in 
neither',  but,  according  to  his  usual  custom,  as.-iijns  no  read 
»on  for  the  variation,  though  it  be  important  enough  to  re- 
julre  one.  as  it  makes  the  passage  arraut  nonsense. 


Our  author  weighs  up  anchors,  and  once  more 

Forsaking  the  security  of  the  shore, 

Resolves  to  prove  his  fortune  :  what  'twill  be, 

Is  not  in  him,  or  us,  to  prophesie ; 

You  only  can  assure  us  :  yet  he  prayed 

This  little  in  his  absence  might  be  said, 

Designing  me  his  orator.     He  submits 

To  fiie  grave  censure  of  those  abler  wits 

His  weakness  ;  nor  dares  he  profess  that  when 

The  critics  laugh,  he'll  laugh  at  them  agen. 

(Strange  self-love  in  a  writer  !)  He  would  know 

His  errors  as  you  fiud  them,  and  bestow 

His  future  studies  to  reform  from  this, 

What  in  another  might  be  judged  amiss. 

And  yet  despair  not,  gentlemen  ;  though  he  feai 

His  strengths  to  please,  we  hope  that  you  shall  hear 

Some  things  so  writ,  as  you  may  truly  say 

He  hath  not  quite  forgot  to  make  a  play, 

As  'tis  with  malice  rumoured  :  his  intents 

Are  fair;  and  though  he  want  the  compliments 

Of  wide-month'd  promisers,  who  still  engage, 

before  their  works  are  brought  upon  the  stage, 

Their  parasites  to  proclaim  them  :  this  last  birth, 

Deliver'd  without  noise,  may  yield  such  mirth, 

As,  balanced  equally,  will  crv  down  the  boast 

Of  arrogance,  and  regain  his  credit  lost. 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


ALPHONSO,  king  of  Naples. 

Duke  MONTPENSIEU,  general  of  Milan. 

SEVERING,  a  banished  nobleman. 

MONTECLARO,  his  brother-in-law  (supposed  dead),  dis- 

gitiitd  under  the  name  of'  Laval. 
DURAZZH,  The  Guardian. 

CALDORO,  his  nrpheioand  ward,  in  love  with  Calista. 
ADORIO,  a  young  libertine. 
CAMILLO,  1 

LENTULO,  >  Neapolitan  gentlemen. 
DONATO,   ) 
CARJO,  cook  to  Adorio. 


CLACDIO,  a  confidential  servant  to  Severino. 

Captain. 

Banditti. 

Servants. 

IOLANTE,  wi/'e  to  Severino. 

CAIJSTA,  her  daughter,  in  love  with  Adorio. 

MIRTILLA,  Cahsta's  maid. 

CALIPSO,  the  conjidant  of  lolante. 


Singers,  Countrymen. 


SCENE — Partly  at  Naples,  and  partly  in  the  adjacent  country. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— Naples.     A  Grove. 


Enter  DUUAZZO,   CAMILLO,  LENTULO,  DONATO,  and 
tiro  Servant!. 

Dur.  Tell  me  of  his  expenses  !  Which  of  you 
Stands  bound  for  a  gazet?  be  spends  his  own ; 
And    you     impertinent    fools    or    knaves    (make 

choice 

Of  either  litle,  which  your  signiorships  please), 
To  meddle  in't. 

Camil.  Your  age  gives  privilege 
To  this  harsh  language. 

Dur.  My  age!  do  not  use 

That  word  again  ;  if  you  do,  I  shall  grow  young, 
And  swinge  you  soundly :   I  would  have  you  know 
Though  1  "write  fifty  odd,  1  do  not  carry 
An  almanack  in  my  bones  to  pre-declare 
What  weather  we  shall  have  ;  nor  do  I  kneel 
In  adomtion,  at  the  spring  and  fall, 
Before  my  doctor,  fora  dose  or  two 
Of  his  restoratives,  which  are  things,  I  take  it, 
You  are  familiar  with. 

Camii.  '1  his  is  from  the  purpose. 

Pur.  I  cannot  cut  a  caper,  or  groan  like  you 
When  I  have  done,  nor  run  away  so  nimbly 
Out  of  the  field  :  but  bring  me  to  a  fence-school, 
And  crack  a  blade  or  two  for  exercise, 
Ride  a  baib'd  horse,  or  take  a  leap  alter  me, 
Following  ray  hounds  or  hawks  (and,  by  your  leave, 
At  a  gamesome  mistress),  and  you  shall  confess 
I  am  in  the  May  of  my  abilities, 
And  you  in  your  December. 

Lent.  We  are  glad  you  bear 
Your  years  so  well. 

Dur.   My  years!  no  more  of  years ; 
If  you  do,  at  your  peril. 

Cutnil.   We  desire  not 
To  prove  your  valour. 

Dur.  'Tis  your  safest  course. 

Camil.  But  as  friends  to  your  fame  and   repu- 
tation, 

Come  to  instruct  you  •.  your  too  much  indulgence 
To  the  exorbitant  waste  of  young  Caldoro. 


Your  nephew  and  your  ward,  hath  rendered  you 
But  a  bad  report  among  wise  men  in  Naples. 

Dur.  Wise  men  !  —  in  your  opinion  ;  but  to  me 
That  understand  myself  and  them,  they  are 
Hide-bounded  money-mongers :    they  would  have 

me 

Train  up  my  ward  a  hopeful  youth,  to  keep 
A  merchant's  book ;  or  at  the  plough,  and  clothe 

him 

In  canvass  or  coarse  c  tton;  while  1  fell 
His  woods*,  grant  leases,  which  he  must  make  good 
When  he  comes  to  age,  or  be  compell'd  to  marry 
With  a  cast   whore   and   three   bastards;  let   him 

know 

No  more  than  how  to  cipher  well,  or  do 
His  tricks  by  the  square  root ;  grant  him  no  plea- 
sure 

But  quoits  and  nine-pins ;  suffer  him  to  converse 
With  none  but  clowns  and  cobblers :  as  the  Turk 

says. 

Poverty,  old  age,  and  aches  of  all  seasons, 
Light  on  such  heathenish  guardians ! 

Don.   You  do  worse 

To  the  ruin  of  his  state,  under  your  favour, 
In  feeding  his  loose  riots. 

Dur.  Riots  !  what  riots  ? 

He   wears   rich   clothes,    i    do   so ; — keeps  horses, 
games,  and  wenches ; 


while  /  fell 


His  woods, grant  leases,  J»c  ]  This  is  by  no  means  an  ex- 
wggeiated  description  of  the  tyranny  which  was  sometime] 
exercised  by  a  guardian  over  the  ward  whom  Jaw  hail    pnt 
into  his  power.     Thus  Falconbiidge  threatens  young  Scar 
borow,  who  had  fallen  in  love  without  his  consent : 
"  My  steward  too;— Post  yon  to  Yorkshire, 
Where  lies  my  \ounj;«tcr's  land  :  and,  sirrah, 
Fell  me  his  wood,  make  havock,  spoil  and  waste  : 
Sir,  you  shall  know  that  \on  arc  icuni  to  me, 
I'll  make  you  poor  enough  : — thru  meiM  yourself." 

Mlfitrift  of  liiforctd   Marriage. 

Jf'atdship,  which  was  a  part  of  ihe  royal  prerogative 
under  the  feudal  sjs-t  in,  and  another  mine  for  the  most 
oppressive  slavery,  was  happily  abolished  under  Charlts  II. 
Before  that  time  wardship*  were  sold,  «ith  all  their  advan- 
tage* (which  are  detailed  in  Blacks-tone,  Vol.  1 1.),  and  some- 
times begged  by  the  favourite  com  tier  of  the  day.  Our  old 
poets  are  lull  of  allusions  to  these  iniquitous  transaction*. 


410 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


[Acr  I 


'T is  not  amiss,  so  it  be  done  with  decorum  : 
In  an  lieir  'tis  ten  times  more  excusable 
Than  to  be  over-thrifty.     Is  there  aught  else 
That  you  can  charge  him  with  ? 

Camil.  With  what  we  grieve  for, 
And  you  will  not  approve. 

Dur.  Out  with  it,  man. 

Camil.  His  rash  endeavour,  without  your  consent, 
To  match  himself  into  a  family 
Not  gracious  with  the  times. 

Uur.  Tis  still  the  better  ; 
By  this  means  he  shall  scape  court-visitants, 
Ami  not  be  eaten  out  of  house  and  home 
In  a  summer  progress  *:   but  does  he  mean  to  marry? 

Camil.   Yes,  sir,  to  marry. 

Dm:  In  a  beardless  chin 

'Tis   ten   times   worse    then   wenching.      Family ! 
whose  family  ? 

CiimiL  Signior  Severino's. 

Diir.  How!  not  he  that  kill'd 
The  brother  of  his  wife,  as  it  is  rumour'd, 
Then  fled  upon  it;  since  proscribed,  and  chosen 
Captain  of  the  banditti  ;  the  king's  pardon 
On  no  suit  to  be  granted  ? 

L-nt.  The  same,  sir. 

Dur.  This  touches  near:  how  is  his  love  return 'd 
P-  the  saint  he  worships? 

Dim.  She  affects  him  not, 
But  dotes  upon  another. 

Dur.  Worse  and  worse. 

Camil.  You  know  him,  young  Adorio. 

Dur.  A  brave  gentleman  ! 
What  proof  of  this  ? 

Lent.  I  dogg'd  him  to  the  church  ; 
Where  he,  not  for  devotion,  as  I  guess, 
Bui  'o  make  his  approaches  to  his  mistress, 
Is  offer  seen. 

Camil.  And  would  you  stand  conceal'd 
Among  these  trees,  for  he  must  pass  this  green, 
The  matins  ended,  as  she  returns  home, 
You  may  observe  the  passages. 

D«r.  I  thank  you  : 
This  torrent  must  be  stopt. 

Dun.  'I  hey  come. 

Camil.  Stand  close.  [They  retire. 

Enter  ADORIO,  CALISTA,   MIBTILLA,  and  CALDORO, 
tnujjled. 

Calit.  I  know  I  wrong  my  modesty. 

Ador.  And  wrong  me, 
In  being  so  importunate  for  that 
I  neither  can  nor  must  grant. 

Cults.  A  hard  sentence  ! 

•  By  this  means  he  shall  trape  court -visitants, 
And  not  be  eaten  out  of  house  and  home 
In  a  tummer  progress.]  This  stroke  of  patire  must  have 
been  p<-culi,irly  well  received;  as  many  of  the  gentry  had 
foniiil  those   summer  pro^retset  of  the  court  almost  too  ex- 
pensive for  them  to  bear. 

Pulleiiham,  who  was  well  acquainted  with  these  matters, 
tells  us,  that  Henry  VII.  was  ottcndcd  with  his  host  if  he 
undertook  to  defray  "  the  charge  of  his  dyct  if  he  passed 
moe  nieaK-s  th;m  one."  P.  247.  And  of  Kli/.abeth  he  gays, 
th,it  "her  mxjestie  hath  been  know ne  often  times  to  mis- 
like  the  snpertluoni  expense  of  her  subjects  bestowed  upon 
her  in  times  of  her  progresses." 

J, nuts  was  not  10  delicate:  it  appears  from  many  scat- 
tered passives  in  the  publications  of  llmse  limes,  that  he 
abused  this  part  of  the  rojal  prerogative  to  a  great  degree, 
and  lay  heavy  upon  his  subjects.  Charles,  who  was  now 
on  ihe  throne,  WHS  Ie<s  bnrthensome  ;  and  in  the  r  .ccecding 
reign,  these  predatory  excursions,  together  with  other  op- 
pressive claims  of  barbarous  times,  were  cut  rely  done 
»way. 


And  to  increase  my  misery,  by  you, 
Whom  fond  affection  hath  made  my  judge, 
Pronounced  without  compassion.     Alas,  sir, 
Did  I  approach  you  with  unchaste  desires, 
A  sullied  reputation  ;  were  deform 'd, 
As  it  may  be  I  am,  though  many  affirm 
I  am  something  more  than  handsome 

Dur.  1  dare  swear  it. 

Calls.  Or  if  I  were   no  gentlewoman,  but  bred 

coarsely, 

You  might,  with  some  pretence  of  reason,  slight 
What  you  should  sue  for. 

Dur.  Were  he  not  an  eunuch, 
He  would,  and  sue  again  ;  1  am  sure  I  should. 
Pray  look  in  my  collar,  a  flea  troubles  me  : 
Hey  day  !  there  are  a  legion  of  young  Cupids 
At  barley-break  in  my  breeches. 

Calis.  Hear  me,  sir; 

Though  you  continue,  nay  increase  your  scorn, 
Only  vouchsafe  to  let  me  understand 
What  my  defects  are  ;  of  which  once  convinced, 
I  will  hereafter  silence  my  harsh  plea, 
And  spare  your  further  trouble. 

Ado>:  1  will  tell  you, 
And  bluntly,  as  my  usual  manner  is. 
Though  I  were  a  woman-hater,  which  I  am  not, 
But  love  the  sex  ;  for  my  ends,  take  me  with  you  ; 
If  in  my  thought  I  found  one  taint  or  blemish 
In  the  whole  fabric  of  your  outward  features, 
I  would  give  myself  the  lie.     You  are  a  virgin 
Possess'd  of  all  your  mother  could  wish  in  you  , 
Your  father  Severino's  dire  disaster 
In  killing  of  your  uncle,  which  I  grieve  for, 
In  no  part  taking  from  you.     I  repeat  it, 
A  noble  virgin,  for  whose  grace  and  favours 
The  Italian  princes  might  contend  as  rivals  : 
Yet  unto  me,  a  thing  far,  far  beneath  you 
(A  noted  libertine  I  profess  myself), 
In  your  mind  there  does  appear  one  fault  so  gross, 
Nay,  I  might  say  unpardonable  at  your  years, 
If  justly  you  consider  it,  that  I  cannot 
As  you  desire,  affect  you. 

Calis.  Make  me  know  it, 
I'll  soon  reform  it. 

Ador.  Would  you'd  keep  your  word  ! 

Calis.  Put  me  to  the  test. 

A  dor.  I  will.     You  are  too  honest, 
And,  like  your  mother,  too  strict  and  religious, 
And  talk  too  soon  of  marriage  ;  I  shall  break, 
If  at  that  rate  I  purchase  you.     Can  1  part  with 
My  uncurb'd  liberty,  and  on  my  neck 
Wear  such  a  heavy  yoke?  hazard  my  fortunes, 
With  all  the  expected  joys  my  i/e  can  yield  me, 
For  one  commodity,  before  .?  prove  it? 
Venus  forbid  on  botl  sides  !  let  crook'd  hams, 
Bald  heads,  declining  shoulders,  furrow'd  cheeks, 
Be  awed  by  ceremonies  :  if  vou  love  me 
In  the  way  young  people  should,  I'll  fly  to  meet  it: 
And  we'll  meet  merrily. 

Catis.  'Tis  strange  such  a  man 
Can  use  such  language. 

Atlm:  In  my  tongue  my  heart 

Speaks  freely,  fair  one.      Think  on't,  a  close  friend, 
Or  private  mistress,  is  court  rhetoric  ; 
A  wife,  mere  rustic  solecism  :   so  good  morrow  .' 

[Adorio  offers  to  go,  Caldoro  comes  forward  ana 
stops  liim. 

Camil.   HOT/  like  you  this? 
Dur    A  well-bred  gentleman! 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


411 


I  am  thinking  now  if  ever  in  the  dark, 
Or  <!runk.  I  met  his  mother  :  he  must  have 
Some  drops  of  my  blood  in  him,  for  at  his  years 
I  wns  much  of  his  religion. 

Ciiinit.  Out  upon  you  ! 

DON.  The  colt's  tooth  still  in  your  mouth  ! 

Dnr.   \Vhnt  means  ibis  whispering? 

Athr.  You  may  perceive  I  seek  not  to  displant  you, 
Where  you  desire  to  grow  ;  for  further  thanks, 
'Tis  needless  compliment. 

Cald.    1  here  are  some  natures 
Which  blush  to  owe  a  benefit,  if  not 
Received  in  corners  ;  holding  it  an  impairing 
To  their  own  worth,  should  they  acknowledge  it. 
I  inn  made  of  other  clay,  and  therefore  must 
Trench  so  f.ir  on  your  leisure,  as  to  win  you 
'J  o  li'iid  a  patient  ear,  while  I  profess 
Before  inv  glorv,  ihongh  your  scorn,  Calista, 
How  much  1  am  vour  servant. 

Atior.  My  designs 

Are  tior  sr>  in  gent,  but  they  can  dispense 
With  so  much  time. 

Cninil.   Pray  you  now  observe  your  nephew. 

Dnr.   How  he  looks  !  like  a  school-boy  that  had 

play'd  the  truant, 
Ami  went  to  be  breech'd. 

Cald.  M  adam  ! 

Cutis.   A  new  affliction  : 
Your  suit  offends  as  much  as  his  repulse, 
It  heing  not  to  be  granted. 

Mti  t.    t Ie;ir  him,  madam  ; 
His  sorrow  is  not  personated  ;  he  deserves 
Your  pitv,  not  contempt. 

Dur.  He  has  made  the  maid  his  ; 
And,  as  the  master  of  The  Art  of  Love 
Wisely  affirms*,  it  is  a  kind  of  passage 
I'o  (lie  mistress'  favour. 

Cald.  I  come  not  to  urge 
My  merit,  to  deserve  you,  since  you  are, 
Weigh'd  truly  to  your  worth,  above  all  value  : 
Much  l«'ss  to  argue  you  of  want  of  judgment 
For  following  one  that  with  wing'd  feet  flies  from  you. 
While  I,  at  all  parts,  without  boast,  his  equal. 
In  vain  pursue  vou  :   bringing  those  flames  with  me, 
Those  lawful  flames  (for,  madam,  know  with  other 
[  never  shall  approach  you),  which  Adorio, 
In  scorn  of  Hvnien  and  religious  rites, 
With  atheistical  impudence  contemns  ; 
And  in  his  loose  attempt  to  undermine 
The  fortress  of  your  honour,  seeks  to  ruin 
All  holy  aliars  by  clear  minds  erected 
To  virgin  honour. 

Dnr.  JMy  nephew  is  an  ass ; 
Y\  hat  a  ('evil  hath  he  to  do  with  virgin  honour, 
Aluirs,  or  lawful  flames,  when  he  should  tell  her 
They  are  superstitious  nothings;  and  speak  to  the 

purpose, 

Of  the  delight  to  meet  in  the  old  dance, 
Between  a  pair  of  sheets  ;  my  grandain  call'd  it 
The  Peopling  of  the  World. 

Calis.  How,  gentle  sir  ! 
To  vindicate  my  honour  ?  that  is  needless  ; 
1  dare  not  fear  the  worst  aspersion  malice 
Can  throw  upon  it. 


*  And  at  the  maitfr  of  the  Art  of  Love 
H'itely  aJfirm»,Stc. 
$ed  print  ancillam  captandee  nosir  puellte 

l 'ura  tit  :  arc?ssnx  moiliat  i'la  tuos. 
Uanc  tu  poUicitit,  hanc  tu  coTumpe  rogando: 
(Juod  pet  is,  ej'acili.si  volet  ilia,  feres.     Lib.  i.  35  i 


Cald.  Your  sweet  patience,  lady, 
And  more  than  dove-like  innocence,  render  you 
Insensible  of  an  injury,  for  which 
I  deeply  suffer.     Can  you  undergo 
The  scorn  of  being  refused  !  I  must  confess 
It  makes  for  my  ends  ;  for  had  he  embraced 
Your  gracious  offers  tender'd  him,  I  had  been 
In  my  own  hopes  forsaken  ;  and  if  yet 
There  can  breathe  any  air  of  comfort  in  me, 
To  his  contempt  1  owe  it:  but  his  ill 
No  more  shall  make  way  for  my  good  intents, 
Than  virtue,  powerful  in  herself  can  need 
The  aids  of  vice. 

Adar.  You  take  that  license,  sir, 
Which  vet  I  never  granted. 

Cald.  I'll  force  more  ; 
Nor  will  I  for  my  own  ends  undertake  it, 
As  1  will  make  apparent,  but  to  do 
A  justice  to  your  sex,  with  mine  own  wrong 
And  irrecoverable  loss*.     To  thee  1  turn, 
Thou  goatish  ribald,  in  whom  lust  is  grown 
Defensiblef,  the  last  descent  to  hell, 
\\  Inch  gapes  wide  for  thee  :  look  upon  this  lady, 
And  on  her  fame  (if  it  wera  possible, 
Fairer  than  she  is;,  and  if  base  desires 
And  beastly  appetite  will  give  thee  leave, 
Consider  how  she  sought  thee  :  how  this  lady, 
In  a  noble  way,  desired  thee.     Was  she  fashion'd 
In  an  inimitable  mould  (which  Nature  broke, 
The  great  work  perfected^),  to  be  made  a  s-lave 
To  thy  libidinous  twines,  and  when  commanded, 
To  be  used  as  physic  after  drunken  surfeits ! 
Mankind  should  rise  against  thee  :  what  even  now 
I  heard  with  horror,  showed  like  blasphemy, 
And  as  sue!)  I  will  punish  it. 

[Strikes  Adorio ;  the  rest  rush  forward;  they 
all  draw. 

Calis.  Murder! 

Mirt.  Help! 

Ditr.  After  a  whining  prologue,  who  would  hard 

look'd  for 
Such   a  rough  catastrophe  ?      Nay,  come  on,  fear 

nothing : 

Never  till  now  my  nephew !  and  do  you  hear,  sir 
(And  yet  I  love  thee  too)?  if  you  take  the  wench 

now, 

I'll  have  it  posted  first,  then  chronicled, 
Thou  wert  hesiten  to  it. 

Ador.  You  think  you  have  shown 
A  memorable  masterpiece  of  valour 
In  doing  this  in  public,  and  it  may 
Perhaps  deserve  her  shoe-string  for  a  favour  : 
Wear  it  without  my  envy  ;  but  expect 
For  this  affront,  when  time  serves,  I  shall  call  you 
To  a  strict  accompt.  [En'f. 

Dur.  Hook  on,  follow  him,  harpies  ! 


*  And  irrecoverable  loss.}  So  the  old  copy.  Afr.  M. 
Mason  discards  it  from  the  texl,  for  an  improvement  of 
liis  own  ;  he  reads,  irrevocable  • 

• — in  whom  lust  is  yrown 

Defensible,]  i.  e.  as  Mr.  M.  Mason  <~bserves,  an  objccl 
of  his  justification,  rather  than  of  his  >li...i.e. 

which  \ature bro'.i', 

7  he  great  work  perfected,]  We  have  had  il.is  thought  in 
several  of  the  preceding  plays:  indeed,  I  ki  i  w  no  idea  so 
common;  scarce  a  sonnetleer  or  playwright  from  Surrey  lo 
Sliadwell  being  without  it.  It  imi.-t  have  had  considerable 
charms  in  the  eyes  of  our  forefathers,  since  neii  her  its  triteness 
nor  its  folly  could  prevent  its  eternal  repetiiion.  7'winet, 
which  occurs  j--  the  next  line,  is  constantly  used  by  the 
writcri  of  Mas.-inger'f  time  for  embraces,  in  a  bad  sense. 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


fAcrl 


You  may  feed  upon  this  business  for  a  month, 
If  you  manage  it  handsomely  : 

[Exeunt  Camilla,  Lentulo,  and  Donate. 

When  two  heirs  quarrel*, 
The  swordmen  of  the  city  shortly  after 
Appear  in  plush,  for  their  grave  consultations 
In  taking  up  the  difference:  some,  I  know, 
Make  a  «et  living  on't.      Nay  let  him  go, 
Thou  art  master  of  the  field  :  enjoy  thy  fortune 
With  moderation  :  for  a  flying  foe, 
Discreet  and  provident  conquerors  build  up 
A  bridge  of  gold.     To  thy  mistress,  boy  !  if  I  were 
In  thy  shirt,  how  I  could  nick  it ! 

Cu'l'l    You  stand,  madam. 
As  you  were  rooted,  and  I  more  than  fear 
My  passion  hath  offended  :   I  perceive 
The  roses  frighted  from  your  cheeks,  and  paleness 
To  usurp  their  room  ;  yet  you  may  please  to  ascribe  it 
To  my  excess  of  love,  and  boundless  ardour 
To  do  you  right ;  for  myself  I  have  done  nothing. 
I  will  not  curse  my  stars,  howeVr  assured 
To  me  you  are  lost  for  ever :  for  suppose 
Adorio  slain,  and  by  my  hand,  my  life 
Is  forfeited  to  the  law,  which  1  contemn, 
So  with  a  tear  or  two  you  would  remember 
I  was  your  martyr,  and  died  in  your  service. 

Calis.  Alas,  you  weep!  and  in  my  just  compassion 
Of  what  you  suffer,  I  were  more  than  marble 
Should  1  not  keep  \ou  company:  you  have  sought 
My  favours  nobly,  and  I  am  justly  punish'd 
In  wild  Adorio's  contempt  and  scorn, 
For  my  ingratitude,  it  is  no  better, 
To  your  deservings  :  yet  such  is  my  fate, 
Though  I  would,  1  cannot  help  it.     O  Caldoro! 
In  our  misplaced  affection  1  prove 
Too  soon,  and  with  dear-bought  experience,  Cupid 
Is  blind  indeed,  and  hath  mistook  his  arrowsf. 
If  it  be  possible,  learn  to  forget 
(And  yet  that  punishment  is  too  light),  to  hate, 
A.  thankless  virgin  :  practise  it :  and  may 
Your  due  consideration  that  I  am  so, 
In  your  imagination  disperse 
Loathsome  deformity  upon  this  face 
That  hath  bewitch'd  you !  more  I  cannot  say. 
But  that  I  truly  pity  you,  and  wish  you 
A  better  choice,  which,  in  my  prayers,  Caldoro, 
I  ever  will  remember. 

[Exeunt  Calista,  and  Mirtilla. 

Dur.  'Tis  a  sweet  rogue. 
Why,  how  now  !  thunderstruck  ? 

Cald.  1  am  not  so  happy  . 
t)h  that  I  were  but  muster  of  myself, 
You  soon  should  see  me  nothing. 

D«r.  What  would  you  do? 

Cald.  With  one  stab  give  a  fatal  period 
To  my  woes  and  life  together. 

Dur-  For  a  woman  ! 

Better  the  kind  were  lost,  and  generation 
•Maintain, M  a,  new  way. 

Cold.  Pray  you,  sir,  forbear 
This  profane  language. 

Dur.  Pray  you,  be  you  a  man, 
And  whimper  not  like  a  girl :  all  shall  be  well. 
An  I  live  it  shall;  this  is  no  hectic  fever, 


•   When  two  fair*  quarrel,  &c.]   See    Maid  of  Honour. 
Act  I.  sc.  i. 

f Cupid 

ft  blind  indeed,  and  hath  mistook  his  arrows.]  See   Virgin 
Martyr,  Act  I.  sc.j. 


But  a  lovesick  ague,  easy  to  be  cured. 

And  I'll  be  your  pbvsician,  so  you  subscribe 

To  my  directions.     First,  you  must  change 

This  city  whorish  air,  for  'tis  infected, 

And  my  potions  will  not  work  here  j   I  must  have 

you 

To  mv  country  villa  :  rise  before  the  sun, 
Then  make  a  breakfast  of  the  morning  dew, 
Serv'd  up  by  nature  on  some  grassy  hill ; 
You'll  find  it  nectar,  and  far  more  cordial 
Than  cullises,  cock-broth,  or  your  distillations 
Of  a  huinlred  crowns  a  quart. 

Cald.   You  talk  of  nothing. 

Dur.  This  ta'en  as  >»  preparative  to  strengthen 
Your  queasy  stomach,  vault  into  your  saddle  ; 
With  ail  this  flesh  1  can  do  it  without  a  stirrup  : — 
My  hounds  uncoupled,  and  my  huntsmen  ready, 
You    shall   hear   such    music    from  their  tuneable 

mouths, 

That  you  shall  sny  the  viol,  harp,  theorbo, 
Ne'er    made    such    ravishing   harmony ;    from  the 

groves 

And  neighbouring  woods,  with  frequent  iterations, 
Enamnur'd  of  the  cry,  a  thousand  echoes 
Repeating  it. 

Cald.  What's  this  to  me  ? 

Dur.  It  shall  be, 

And  vou  give  thanks  for't.     In  the  afternoon, 
For  we  will  have  variety  of  delights, 
We'll  to  the  field  again  ;  no  game  shall  rise, 
Hut  we'll  be  ready  for't ;  if  a  hare,  iny  greyhound* 
Shall  make  a  course  ;  for  the  pie  or  jay,  a  spar-hawk 
Flies  from  the  fist ;  the  cro'.v  so  near  pursued, 
Shall  be  compell'd  to  seek  protection  under 
Our  horses'  bellies  ;  a  hern  put  from  her  siege, 
And  a  pistol  shot  off  in  her  breech,  shall  mount 
So  high,  that,  lo  your  view,  she'll  seem  to  soar 
Above  the  middle  region  of  the  air : 
A  cast  of  haggard  falcons,  by  me  mann'd, 
Eying  the  prey  at  first,  appear  as  if 
They  did  turn  tail ;  but  with  their  labouring  wings 
Getting  above  her,  with  a  thought  their  pinions 
Cleaving  the  purer  element,  make  in, 
And  by  turns  bind  with  her*;  the  frighted  fowl, 
Lying  at  her  defence  upon  her  back, 
With  her  dreadful  beak  awhile  defers  her  death, 
Rut,  by  degrees  forced  down,  we  part  the  fray, 
And  ft-ast  upon  her. 

CaW.This  cannot  be,  I  grant, 
But  pretty  pastime. 

Dur.  Pretty  pastime,  nephew  ! 
'Tis  royal  sport.     Then,  for  an  evening  flight, 
A  tiercel  gentle,  which  I  call,  my  masters, 
As  he  were  sent  a  messenger  to  the  moon, 

*  And  ijr  turns  bind  toith  her  ;<  This  exquisite  desciip 
tion  of  rural  amusements  H  from  the  hand  of  a  great  master. 
I  lament  that  it  is  so  technical;  but,  in  Mass-iiiger's  tim« 
this  langu.ige  was  perfectly  familiar  to  the  audience  nho 
heard  it,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  in  every  play  that  came 
before  them.  To  bind  witk,  as  1  learn  from  that  authen- 
tic treaiise,  the  Gentlemen's  Recreating,  "is  ihe  «ame  as  to 
tire  or  seise.  A  hawk  is  said  to  bind  when  she  seizeth  her 
prey." 

There  is  a  striking  similarity  between  tins  description 
and  a  passage  in  Spenser: 

"  As  when  a  cast  of  Faiilcons  make  their  flight 

At  an  henshaw,  that  lies  aloft  on  \MII- 
The  whiles  thi-y  strike  at  him  with  heedless  might. 
The  warie  tbiilr  his  bill  doth  backward  wrinir ; 
On  which  the  first,  whose  force  her  Iir.«t  d.ilh  bring, 
Herselfe  quite  through  the  body  doth  engore 
And  falleth  downe  to  ground  like  senscle»se  thing  :" 
Faerie  Queeue,  B.  \  I.,  c.  7. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


4J 


In  such  a  place  flies*,  as  he  seems  to  say, 

See  me,  or  see  me  not !  the  partridge  sprung, 

He  makes  his  stoop  ;  but  wanting  breath,  is  forced 

To  cancelierf;  then,  with  such  speed  as  if 

He  carried  lightning  in  his  wings,    he  strikes 

The  trembling  bird,  who  even,  in  death  appears 

Proud  to  be  made  his  quarry. 

Cald.   Vet  all  this 
Is  nothing  to  Calista. 

Dur,  Thou  shall  find 
Twenty  Calistas  there,  for  every  night 
A  fre*h  and  lusty  one ;  I'll  give  thee  a  ticket, 
In  which  my  nam",  Durizzo's  n;ime.  subscribed, 
My  tenants'  nut-brown  daughters,  wholesome  girls, 
At  midnight  fchall  contend  to  do  ihee  service. 
I  have  bred  them  up  to't;  should  their  fathers  mur- 
mur, 

Their  leases  are  void,  for  that  is  a  main  point 
In  my  indentures  ;  and  when  we  make  our  progress, 
There  is  no  entertainment  perfect,  if 
This  last  dish  be  not  offer'd. 

Cutd.  You  make  me  smile. 

Dur.  I'll  make  thee  laugh  outright. — My  horses, 

knaves ! 

'Tis  but  six  short  hours'  riding  :  yet  ere  night 
Thou  shall  be  an  altered  man. 

Cald.  1  wish  I  may,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Severino's  House. 
Enter  IOLANTE,  CALISTA,  CALIP^O,  and  MIRTILLA. 

lol.  I  liad  spies  upon  you,  minion  ;  the  relation 
Of  your  behiiviour  was  at  home  before  you  : 
My  daughter  to  bold  parley,  from  the  church  too, 
With  noted  libertines  !  her  fame  and  favours 
The  quarrel  of  their  swords  ! 

Calis.  '  I  was  not  in  me 
To  help  if,  madam. 

lul.  No  !  ho>v  have  I  lived  ? 

My  neighdour  knows  my  manners  have  been  such, 
That  1  presume  1  may  affirm,  and  boldly, 
In  no  particular  action  of  my  life 
I  can  be  justly  censured 

Caiip.  Censured,  madam! 

•  In  tuch  a  place  flies,']  So  the  old  copy,  and  so,  indeed, 
Coxeter.  Mr.  M.  Mason,  who,  without  ceremony,  alters 
everything  that  he  does  not  comprehend  (which,  by  the 
bye,  is  no  small  matter,) corrupts  it  into  pace:  a  mo-t  injudi- 
cious attempt  at  improvement ;  for  who  ever  heard  of  ihe 
pace  of  a  bird,  except,  perhaps,  of  an  ostrich  !  But  place 
is  the  genuine  word  ;  and  means,  in  falconry,  the  greatest 
elevation  which  a  bird  of  prey  attains  in  its  flight.  "  Ea- 
gles," says  Col.  Thornton  (who,  probahly,  had  no  intention 
of  becou. ing  a  comment  .tor  on  Massinger),  "  can  have  no 
ipeed  except  when  *t  their  place  ;  then,  to  be  sure,  their 
weight  increases  their  velocity,  and  they  aim  with  an  in- 
creilible  swiftness,  seldom  mining  their  qnairy."  Sporting 
Tour.  And  Lord  Cecil,  in  a  letter  to  the  Earl  of  Shrews- 
bury, "  and  so  I  end,  witt)  a  release  to  yon  for  field  hawke, 
if  you  can  help  me  to  a  river  hawke"  (this  is  the  hawk  of 
which  Durazzo  speaks),  "  that  will  fly  in  a  hiyh  place, 
stick  not  lo  give  gold  so  she  fly  high,  but  not  else." 

Lodije's  Illustrations,  V.,1.  III.  187. 

This  too  is  the  meaninz  of  the  exprcs>ioii  in  Macbeth, 
which  has  escaped  the  commentators.  "  A  fanlcon,  tow'r- 
inu  in  hi.»  pride  of  place."  "  Finely  expressed,"  say  War- 
burton,  "  for  confidence  in  its  quality."  "  In  a  place  of 
which  she"  (i.  e.  he;,  M  seemed  proud"— adds  Mr.  Malone. 
It  is,  as  the  reader  now  sees,  a  technical  phrase  for  the 
"  highest  pitch." 

t  To  caucelie.  ]  '  Canceller  is  when  the  high-flown  hawk, 
in  her  itooping, larnetfa  two  or  three  times  on  the  wing,  to 
recover  herself  before  she  seizeth  her  prey."  Gent.  Retire 
Olio*. 


What  lord  or  lady  lives,  'vorthy  to  sit 
A  competent  judge  on  you  ? 

Calis.   Yet  black  detraction 
Will  find  faults  wliere  they  are  not. 

Calip.   Her  foul  mouth 

Is  stopp'd,  you  being  the  object:   give  me  leave 
To  speak  my  thoughts,  yet  still  under  correction; 
And  if  my  young  lady  and  her  woman  hear 
With  reverence,  they  may  be  edified. 
You  are  my  gracious  patroness  and  supportress, 
And  I  your  poor  observer,  nay,  your  creature, 
Fed  by  your  bounties  ;  and  but  that  I  know 
Your  honour  detests  flattery,  I  might  say, 
And  with  an  emphasis,  you  are  tho  lady 
Admired  and  envied  at,  far,  far  above 
All  imitation  of  the  best  of  women 
That  are  or  ever  shall  be.     This  is  truth  : 
I  dare  not  be  obsequious  ;  and  'twould  ill 
Become  my  gravity,  and  wisdom  glean'd 
From  your  oraculous  ladyship,  to  act 
The  part  of  a  she-parasite. 

lot.  If  you  do, 
I  never  shall  acknowledge  you. 

Ciilis.  Admirable ! 
This  is  n.)  flattery  ! 

Mirt.  Do  not  interrupt  her  ; 
'Tis  such  a  pleasing  itch  to  your  lady-mother, 
That  she  may  peradventure  forget  us, 
To  feed  on  her  own  praises. 

lit.    I  am  not 

So  far  in  debt  to  age,  but  if  1  would 
Listen  to  men's  bewitching  sorceries, 
I  could  be  courted. 

Calip.   Rest  secure  of  that. 
All  the  braveries  of  the  city  run  mad  for  you, 
And  yet  your  virtue's  such,  not  one  attempts  you. 

lol.  I  keep  no  mankind  servant  in  my  house, 
In  fear  my  chastity  may  be  suspected  : 
How  is  that  voiced  in  Naples  ? 

Calip.  With  loud  applause, 
I  assure  your  honour. 

Tul   It  confirms  I  can 
Command  my  sensual  appetites. 

Calip.  As  vassals  to 
Your  more  than  masculine  reason,   that  commands 

them  : 

Your  palace  styled  a  nunnery  of  pureness, 
In  which  not  one  lascivious  thought  dares  enter, 
Your  clear  soul  standing  centinel. 

Mirt.  Well  said,  Echo! 

lot    Yet    I  have   tasted   those     delights  which 

women 

So  greedily  long  for,  know  their  titillations  ; 
And  when,  with  danger  of  his  head,  thy  father 
Comes  to  give  comfort  to  my  widow'd  sheets, 
As  soon  as  his  desires  are  satisfied, 
I  can  with  ease  forget  them. 

Calip.  Observe  that 

It  being  indeed  remarkable  :   'tis  nothing 
For  a  simple  maid,  that  never  had  her  hand 
In  the  honey-pot  of  pleasure,  to  forbear  it ; 
But  such    as  have    lick'd  there,   and  lick'd  lber« 

often. 
And  felt  the  sweetness  oft 

Mirt.  How  her  mouth  runs  o'er 
With  rank  imagination  ! 

Calip.  If  such  can, 

As  urged  befoie,  the  kickshaw  being  offer'd, 
Refuse  to  take  it,  like  my  matchless  madam 
They  may  be  sainted. 


414 


THE  Gl'AROIAN. 


[Act 


Tol.  I'll  lose  no  more  breath 
In  fruitless  reprehension  ;  look  to  it  r 
I'll  have  thee  wear  this  habit  of  my  miml, 
As  of  my  body. 

Caap   Seek  no  other  precedent : 
In  all  the  books  of  Amodis  de  Gaul, 
The  Palmerins,  and  that  true  Spanish  story, 
The  Mitrar  </  Knighthood,  which  I  have  read  often, 
Read  feelingly,  nav  mnre,  I  do  believe  in't, 
Mv  hulv  has  no  parallel*. 

lol.   Do  not  provoke  me  : 
If  from  this  minute,  thou  e'er  stir  abroad, 
\Vritp  letter,  or  receive  one  ;  or  presume 
To  look  upon  a  man,  though  from  a  window, 
I'll  chain  thee  like  a  slave  in  some  dark  coiner ; 
Prescribe  thy  daily  labour,  which  omiited, 
Expect  the  usage  of  a  fury  from  me. 
Not  an  indulgent  mother.     Come,  Calipso. 

Culip.  Your  ladvship's  injunctions  are  so  easy, 
That  I  dare  pawn  my  credit  my  young  lady 
And  her  woman  shall  obey  them. 

[Exeunt  lolante  and  Calipso. 

Mirt.  You  shall  fry  first 

For  a  rotten  piece  of  touchwood,  and  give  fire 
To  the  great  fiend's  nostrils,  when  he  smokes  to- 
bacco ! 

Note  the  injustice,  madam  ;  they  would  have  us, 
Being  young  and  hungry,  keep  perpetual  Lent, 
And  the  whole  year  to  them  a  carnival. 
Easy  injunctions,  with  a  mischief  to  you  ! 
Suffer  this  and  suffer  all. 

Calis.  Not  stir  abroad  ! 
The  use  and  pleasure  of  our  eyes  denied  us  ! 

Mirt.  Insufferable. 

Calit.  Nor  write,  nor  yet  receive 
An  amorous  letter ! 

Mirt.  Not  to  be  endured. 

Calit.  Nor  look  upon  a  man  out  of  a  window  ! 

Mirt.   Flat  tyranny,  insupportable  tyranny 
To  a  lady  of  your  blood. 

Calis.  She  is  my  mothert, 
And  how  should  1  decline  it? 

Mirt.  Run  away  from't? 
Take  any  course. 

Calis.   But  without  means,  Mirtilla, 
How  shall  we  live  ? 


•  Calipso  miiht  pass  for  a  pattern  of  perseverance  even  in 
these  novel-reading  days.  Must  of  those  old  romances  would 
outweigh  a  score  of  the  flimsy  productions  of  modern  times  : 
and  that  trut!  .Spanish  story,  The  Mirror  of  Kniyhthood, 
which  she  bait  real  olten,  consists  of  three  ponderous  tomes 
in  quarto ! 

t  She  is  my  mother,  &c.]  The  language  of  this  play  is  sur- 
prisingly beautiful,  even  for  Massingtr:  it  iseveiy  where 
modulated  with  the  nicest  attention  to  rhythm,  and  laboured 
into  an  exactness  m  which  I  know  not  where  to  find  ano- 
ther example :  yet  it  is  in  this  very  play  that  the  modern 
editors  have  chosen  to  evince  their  sovereign  contempt  of 
their  author's  characteristic  excellencies,  and  to  turn  his 
sweetest  metre  into  weak  and  hobbling  prose.  The  reader, 
who  compares  this  with  the  former  editions,  will  see  that  I 
have  reformed  what  has  already  past  of  this  act  in  4  umber- 
less  instances.  A  short  quotation  will  give  those  who  wish 
to  decline  that  ungrateful  trouble,  a  sufficient  specimen  of 
the  disgraceful  negligence  to  which  I  allude. 

Calis.   She  is  my  mothfr,  and  liotii  should  I  decline  it  f 

Mirt  Run  away  from't.  take  any  course. 

Calis.  Ji'ut  without  means,  Mirtilla,  how  shall  we  live  t 


Mirt.  What  n  question's  that !  as  if 
A  buxom  lady  could  want  maintenance 
In  any  place  in  the  world,  where  there  are  men, 
Wine,  meat,  cr  money  stirring. 
Calis.  Be  you  more  modest, 
Or  seek  some  other  mistress  :  rather  than 
In  a  thought  or  drawn  1  will  consent  to  auglit 
That  may  take  from  my  honour,  I'll  endure 
More  than  my  mother  can  impose  upon  me. 

Mirt.   I  grant  your  honour  is  a  specious  dressing 
But  without  conversion  of  men, 
A  kind  of  nothing.      I  will  not  persunde  you 
To  disobediencf  :   yet  my  confessor  told  me 
(And  he,  you  know,  is  held  a  learned  clerk), 
When  parents  do  enjoin  unnatural  thing-;, 
Wise  children  may  evade  them.     She  may  as  well 
Command  when  you  are  hungry,  not  eat, 
Or  drink,  or  sleep  :  and  yet  all  these  are  easy, 
Compared  with  the  not  seeing  of  a  man, 
As  1  persuade  no  further:  but  to  you 
There  is  no  such  necessity  ,  you  have  means 
To  shun  your  mother's  ngour. 
Ciiiis.  Lawful  means  ? 
Mirt.   Lawful,    and     pleasing    too ;    I    will    not 

urge 

Caldoro's  loyal  love,  you  being  averse  to't ; 
Make  trial  of  Adorio. 
Calis    And  give  up 
My  honour  to  his  lust ! 

Mirt.  There's  no  such  thing 
Intended,  madam  ;  in  few  words,  write  to  him 
What  slavish  hours  you  spend  under  your  mother; 
That  you  desire  not  present  marriage  from  him, 
But  as  a  noble  gentleman  to  redeem  you 
From  the  tyranny  you  suffer,     \\ith  your  letter 
Present  him  some  rich  jewel ;  you  have  one. 
In  which  the  rape  of  Proserpine,  in  little 
Is  to  the  life  express'd  :   I'll  be  the  messenger 
With  any  hazard,  and  at  my  return, 
Yield  you  a  good  account  oft. 

Calis.  'Tis  a  business 
To  be  consiiter'd  of. 

Mirt.    Consideration, 

W-hen  the  converse  of  your  lover  is  in  question, 
Is  of  no  moment  :  if  she  would  allow  you 
A  dancer  in  the  morning  to  well  bieathe  you, 
A  songster  in  the  afternoon,  a  servant 
To  air  you  in  the  evening*;  give  you  leave 
To  see  the  theatre  twice  a  week,  to  murk 
How  the  old  actors  decay,  the  young  sprout  up 
(A  fitting  observation),  you  might  bear  it ; 
But  not  to  see,  or  talk,  or  touch  a  man, 
Abominable ! 

Calis.  Do  not  my  blushes  speak 
How  willingly  I  would  ass°nt? 

Mirt.  Sweet  lady, 
Do  something  to  deserve  them,  and  blush  after. 

[  Exeunt. 


To  air  you  in  the  evening  ;  etc.]  It  has  been  already  ob 
served  that  servant  v  as  the  authorised  term  for  a  lover. 
From  a  subsequent  passage  it  appears  that  this  forward 
young  lady  w.i-  barely  sixteen.  Juliet,  however,  still  more 
lorward,  is  still  jounce 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


ACT  11 


SCENE  I. — The  same.    A  Street   wear  Severino's 
House. 

Enter  IOLANTE  and  CALIPSO. 

lot.  And  are  these  Frenchmen,  as  you  say,  such 
gallants? 

Calip.    (iallant  and   active ;  their  free    breeding 

knows  not 

The  Spanish  and  Italian  preciseness 
Practised  among  us  ;  \vh;it  we  call  immodest, 
Wiih  them  is  styleil  bold  courtship  :   they  dare  fight 
Under  a  velvet  ensign  at  fourteen. 

I'i't.  A  petticoat,  you  mean  ? 

Calip.   You  are  in  the  right  ; 
Let  a  mistress  wear  it  under  an  armour  of  proof, 
They  are  not  to  be  beaten  off. 

Jol.   You  are  n>erry,  neighbour* 

Calip.  I  fool  to  make  you  so  ;  pray  you   observe 

them. 

They  are  the  forward's!  monsieurs  :  born  physicians 
For  the  malady  of  young  wenches,  and  ne'er  miss  : 
I  own  my  life  to  one  of  them,  when  1  was 
A  raw  young  thing,  not  worth   the  ground  I  trod 

on, 

And  long'd  to  dip  my  bread  in  tar,  my  lips 
As  blue  as  salt-water,  he  came  up  roundly  to  me, 
And  cured  me  in  an  instant,  Venus  be  praised  for't  ! 

Enter  ALPHONSO,  MONTTESSIFR,  LAVAL,  Captain, 

Attendants. 

lot.  They  come,  leave  prating. 

Calip.  I  am  dumb,  an't  like  your  honour. 

Alph.    We  will  not   break   the  league  confirm'd 

between  us 

And  your  great  master  :  the  passage  of  his  army 
Through  all  our  territories  lies  open  to  him  ; 
Only  we  grieve  that  your  design  for  Rome 
Commands  such  haste,  as  it  denies  us  means 
To  entertain  you  as  your  worth  deserves, 
And  we  would  gladly  tender. 

Mont.  Royal  Alphonso, 
The  king  my  master,  your  confederate, 
Will  pay  the  debt  he  owes,  in  fact  which  I 
Want  words  t'express.     1  must  remove  to  night ; 
And  yet,  that  your  intended  fax  ours  may  not 
Be  lost,  I  leave-  this  gentleman  behind  me, 
To  whom  you  may  vouchsafe  them,  I  dare  say, 
Without  repentance.     I  forbear  to  give 
Your  majesty  his  character  ;  in  France 
He  was  a  precedent  for  arts  and  arms, 
Without  a  rival,  and  may  prove  in  Naples 
Worthy  the  imitation. 

[Introduce*  Laval  to  the  king. 

Calip.  Is  he  not,  madam, 
A  monsieur  in  print  ?    what  a  garb  was  there  !  O 

rare ! 
Then,  how  he  wears  his  clothes  !  and  the  fashion  of 

them  ! 

A  main  assurance  that  he  is  within 
All  excellent :  by  this,  wise  ladies  ever 
M;ike  their  conjectures. 

lot.  Peace,  1  have  observed  him 
From  head  to  foot. 

Calip.  Eye  him  again,  all  over. 

Lot.  It  cannot,  royal  sir,  but  argue  me 
Of  much  presumption,  if  not  impudence,  | 


To  be  a  suitor  to  your  majesty, 

Before  I  have  deserved  a  gracious  grnnf, 

Hy  some  employm  nt  prosperously  achieved. 

Hut  pardon,  gracious  sir:   when  1  left  France 

I  made  a  vow  to  a  bosom  fnenil  of  mine 

(U'liich  my  lord  genera!,  if  lie  |>!e-ise,  c;m  witness) 

With  such  humility  as  well  bei  onies 

A  poor  pei itioner.  to  desire  a  boon 

From  your  magnificence.  \Hedelieers  a  petition. 

Calif).  With  w hiit  punctual  form 
He  does  deliver  it ! 

lol.   I  have  eves  :   no  more. 

Alph.  For  Sieveriuo's  pardon  ! — you  must  excuse 

me, 
I  dare  not  pardon  murder. 

Lav.  His  fact,  sir, 

Ever  submitting  to  your  abler  judgment, 
Merits  a  fairer  mime:   he  was  provoked. 
As  by  unanswerable  proofs  it  is  confirin'd, 
Hy  iMouieclaro's  rashness;  who  repining 
That  "-evei-ino.  without  his  consent, 
Had  married  Jb'lante.  his  sole  sister 
(It  being  com  eald  almost  for  thirteen  years), 
Though  ihe  gentleman,  at  all  parrs,  w;is  his  equal, 
First  ihalleug'd  him,  and,   that   declined,  he  gave 

him 
A  blow  in  public. 

Mont.  Not  to  be  endured, 
But  by  a  slave. 

Lav.  This,  great  sir,  justly  weigh 'd. 
You  may  a  littl.-,  if  you  please,  take  from 
The  rigour  of  your  justice,  and  express 
An  act  of  mercy. 

lot.  I  can  hear  no  more, 

This  opf-ns  an  old  wound,  and  makes  a  new  one. 
Would  it  were  cicatrized  !   wait  me. 
Calip.  As  your  shadow. 

[Exeunt  I'ulunie  and  Culipsn. 

Alph.  We  grant  you  these  are  glorious  pretences, 
Revenge  appearing  in  the  shape  of  valour, 
Which  wise  kings  must  distinguish  :  the  defence 
Of  reputation,  now  made  a  bawd 
To  murder  ;  every  triflle  falsely  styled 
An  injury,  and  not  to  be  determined 
Hut  by  a  bloody  duel :  though  this  vice 
Hath  taken  root  and  growth  beyond  the  mountains 
(As   France,  and,  in  strange  fashions,  her  ape, 
England,  can  dearly  witness  with  the  loss 
Of  more  brave  spirits  thun  would   have   stood  the 

shock 

Of  the  Turk's  army),  while  Alphonso  lives 
It  shall  not  here  be  planted.     Move  me  no  further 
In  this  ;  in  what  else  suiting  you  to  ask, 
And  me  to  giv  ,  expect  a  gracious  answer : 
However,  welcome  to  our  court.     Lord  General, 
I'll  bring  you  out  of  the  ports,  and  then  betake  you 
To  your  good  fortune. 

Mont.  Your  grace  overwhelms  me.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Severino's  House. 

Enter  CAI.IPSO  and  IOLANTE. 
Calip.  You  are  bound  to  favour  him  :  mark  yon 

how  he  pleaded 
For  my  lord's  pardoii. 


416 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


[Acr  II. 


Tol.  That's  indeed  a  tie  ; 
But  I  have  a  stronger  on  me. 

Calip.  Say  you  love 

His  person,  be  not  asham'd  oft ;  he's  a  man, 
For  whose  embraces,  though  Kndymion 
Lay  sleeping  by,  Cynthia  would  leave  her  orb, 
And  exchange  kisses  with  him. 

Ivl.  Do  not  fan 

A  fire  that  burns  already  too  hot  in  me  ; 
I  am  in  my  honour  sick,  sick  to  the  death, 
Never  to  be  recovered. 

Calip.  What  a  coil's  here 
For  loving  a  man  !   It  is  no  Afric  wonder !     . 
If,  like  Pasiphne,  you  doted  on  a  bull, 
Indeed  'twere  monstrous  ;  but  in  this  you  have 
A  thousand  thousand  precedents  to  excuse  you. 
A  seaman's  wife  may  ask  relief  of  her  neighbour, 
When  her  husband's  bound  to  the  Indies,  and  not 

blam'd  for't ; 

And  mnny  more  besides  of  higher  calling, 
Though  1  forbear  to  name  them.     You  have  a  hus- 
band ; 

But,  as  the  case  stands  wrh  my  lord,  he  is 
A  kind  of  no  husband  ;  and  your  ladyship 
As  free  as  a  widow  can  be.     I  confess, 
If  ladies  should  seek  change,  that  have  their  hus- 
bands 

At  board  and  bed,  to  pay  their  marriage  duties, 
(The  surest  bond  of  concord),  'twere  a  fault, 
Indeed  it  were  :  but  for  your  honour,  that 
Do  lie  alone  so  often — body  of  me  ! 
I  am  zealous  in  your  cause — let  me  take  breath. 
Tol.  I  apprehend  what  thou  wouldst  say,  I  want 

all 
As  means  to  quench  the  spurious  fire  that  burns 

here. 
Calip.  Want  means,  while  I,  your  creature,  live ! 

1  dare  not 
Be  so  unthankful. 

KL  Wilt  thou  undertake  it, 
And,  as  an  earnest  of  much  more  to  come, 
Receive   this   jewel,  and    purse     crunnn'd  full   of 

crowns? 

How  dearly  1  am  forced  to  buy  dishonour ! 

Calip.  I  would  do  it  gratis,  but  'twould  ill  become 
My  breeding  to  refuse  your  honour's  bounty  ; 
Nay,  say  no  more,  all  rhetoric  in  this 
Is  comprehended  ;  let  me  alone  to  work  him. 
He  shall  be  yours*;  that's  poor,  he  is  already 
At  your  devotion.     I  will  not  boast 
My  faculties  this  way,  but  suppose  he  were 
Coy  as  Adonis,  or  llippolytus. 
And  your  desires  more  hot  than  Cytherea's, 
Or  wanton  Phaedra's,  I  will  bring  him  chain 'd 
To  your  embraces,    glorying  in  his  fetters  : 
I  have  said  it. 

KL  Go,  and  prosper  ;  and  imagine 
A  salary  beyond  thy  hopes. 
Calip.  Sleep  you 


*  lie  shall  be  yours  ;   that's  poor,  he  is  already 
A*,  ynur  deaoirnn.]  This  is  parodied  with  ioine  humour  from 
a  spirited  p:issaye  in  Hercules  {''nrens  : 

\i  novi  llerculem, 

I.ycus  ('reontl  deb/las  painax  dalnt  : 

Lentum  ett,  dablt ;  dat :  hoc  quoque  lentum  at  ;  dedit 

Ver.  (5M. 
which  Jonson  has  thus  closely  imitated  in  his  Catiline: 

•'  He  shall  die ; 

Shall,  was  too  slowly  said  :  he's  dying  ;  that 
Is  yet  too  slow  :  he  it  dead 


Secure  on  either  ear*;  the  burthen's  ymirs 
To  entertain  him,  mine  to  bring  him  hither.  [t'i«unt 


SCENE  III.  —  A  Room  in  Aoumo's  House. 
Enter  ADORIO,  CAMII.LO,  LKXTULO,  and  DONATO. 

Don.  Your  wrong's  beyond  a  challenge,  and  you 

deal 

Too  fairly  with  him,  if  you  take  that  way 
To  right  yourself. 

Lent.  The  least  that  you  can  do, 
[n  the  terms  of  honour,  is,  when  next  you  meet  him, 
To  sjive  him  the  bastinado. 

Ciiin.  And  that  clone, 
Draw  out  his  sword  to  cut  your  own  throat !  No, 
Be  ruled  by  me,  show  yourself  an  Italian, 
And  having  received  one  injury,  do  not  put  off 
Your  hat  for  a  second  ;  there  are  fellows  that 
For  a  few  crowns  will  make  him  sure,  and  so, 
With  your  revenge,  you  prevent  future  mischief. 

Ador.  I  thank  you,   gentlemen,  for  your  studied 

care 

In  what  concerns  my  honour  ;  but  in  that 
I'll  steer  my  own  course.     Yet,  that  you  may  know 
You  are  still  my  cabinet  counsellors,  my  bosom 
Lies  open  to  you  ;  I  begin  to  feel 
A  weariness,  nay,  satiety  of  looseness, 
And  something  tells  me  here,  I  should  repen 
My  harshness  to  Calista. 

Enter  CARIO  in  haite. 

Camil.  When  you  please, 
You  may  remove  that  scruple. 

Ador.  1  shall  think  on't. 

Cur.  Sir,  sir,  are  you  ready? 

Ador.  To  do  what  ? 
I  am  sure  'tis  not  yet  dinner-time. 

Car.  True ;  but  [  usher 
Such  an  unexpected  dainty  bit  for  breakfast, 
As  yet  I  never  cook'd  :   'tis  not  botargo, 
Fried  frogs,  potatoes  marrow'd,  cavear, 
Carps'  tongu  >s,  the  pith  of  an  English  chine  of  beef, 
Nor  our  Italian  delicate  oil'd  mushrooms, 


•  Calip.  Sleep  you 

Secure  on  eiihei  ear  ;]  Calipso  seems  to  have  joined  the 
classics  to  A  madis  de  Gaul,  Palmerin,  and  The  Mirrour 
of  Knighthood.  To  sleep  nn  either  ear,  is  from  The  Hiau- 
tont,  of  Terence, — in  aurem  utramvis  dormire.—  and  means, 
lo  sleep  soundly,  free  from  care,  &c.  It  is  used  by  Jonson, 
in  his  beautiful  Manque  of  Oberon  : 

"        Sirs,  jo*;  keep 

Proper  watch,  that  thus  do  lie 
Dniu  iiM  in  -loih  ! 

Sat.  I.  They  have  no  eye 
To  wake  wi<hal. 

Sat.  2.  Nor  sense,  I  fear, 
For  they  sleep  on  either  ear." 

In  Acerbi's  Travels  to  the  Korth  of  Europe,  tl  ere  is  an 
extract  from  the  bishop  of  Dronllifiiii's  Account  of  the 
J.aplanders, — "  in  utramvit  dormiunt  aurem,  ni'c  p/umil 
indorrnire  mollibus  mayni  aistimant."  This  Aceibi,  or 
rather  the  knglish  manufacturer  »f  his  work,  translates, 
"  they  sleep  equally  on  both  Miles!"  He  then  remarks,  with 
an  appearance  of  great  sagacity,  "  Some  physicians  recom- 
mend sleeping  on  the  right  si<le,  or  right  ear,  the  good 
bishop  seems,  however,  to  think  that  to  ^leep  casually  on 
either  ear  is  the  most  conducive  to  health."  The  "  good 
bishop"  knew  what  he  was  saying  veiy  well,  though  hii 
flippant  translator  did  not  : — but  thus  it  is  that  \ve  are  rtis- 
graiedinlhe  ejesor'  Euroi.e  by  m-edy  adventurers,  \\ho 
set  up  for  eritics  in  literature  with  no  other  qualification! 
than  ignorance  and  impudence  1 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


-H7 


And  yet  a  drawer-on,  too;  and  if  you  show  not 
An  appetite,  and  a  strong  one,  I'll  not  say 
To  eat  it,  but  devour  it,  without  grace  too, 
For  it  will  not  stay  a  preface,  1  am  shamed, 
And  all  my  past  provocatives  will  be  jeer'd  at. 

Ador.    Art   tbou  in  thy  wits?    what  new-fourd 

rarity 
Hast  them  discover'd? 

Car.  No  such  matter,  sir  ; 
It  grows  in  our  own  country. 

Don.  Serve  it  up, 
I  feel  a  kind  of  stomach. 

Camil.  1  could  feed  too. 

Car.    Not  a  bit  upon  a  march;    there's  other 

lettuce 

For  your  coarse  lips  ;  this  is  peculiar,  only 
For  my   master's  palate ;  I  would  give  my  whole 

year's  wages, 

With  all  my  vails,  and  fees  due  to  the  kitchen, 
But  to  be  his  carver. 

Ador.  Leave  your  fooling,  sirrah, 
And  bring  in  your  dainty. 

Car.  'Twill  brin;;  in  itself, 
It  has  life  and  spirit  in  it ;  and  for  proof. 
Behold  !   Now  (all  to  boldly,  my  life  on't 
It  comes  to  be  tasted. 

Enter  MIRTILLA. 

Camil.  Ha  !   Calista's  woman. 

Lent.  A  handsome  one,  by  Venus. 

Ador.  Pray  you  forbear  : 
You  are  welcome,  fair  one. 

Don.  How  that  blush  becomes  her! 

Ador.   Aim  your  designs  at  me? 

Mirt.  I  am  trusted,  sir, 

With  a  business  of  near  consequence,  which  I  would 
To  your  private  ear  deliver. 

Car.  I  told  you  so. 

Give  her  audience  on  your  couch  ;  it  is  fit  state 
To  a  she-ambassador. 

Ador.  Pray  you,  gentlemen, 

For  awhile  dispose  of  yourselves,  I'll  straight  attend 
you. 

[Exeunt  Camilla,  Lentulo,  anil  Dojiato. 

Car.    Dispatch    her  first   for   your   honour,    the 

quickly  doing 

You  know  what  follows. 

Ador.   Will  you  please  to  vanish  ?         [F.xit  Cario. 
Now,  pretty  one,  your  pleasure  ;  you  shall  find  me 
Headv  to  serve  you  ;  if  you'll  put  me  to 
My  oath,  I'll  take  it  on  this  book. 

Mirt.  O,  sir, 

The  favour  is  too  great,  and  far  above 
My  poor  ambition,  I  must  kiss  your  hand 
In  sisjn  of  humble  thankfulness. 

Ador.  So  modest! 

Mirt.    It  well  becomes  a  maid,  sir.     Spare  those 

blessings 

For  mv  noble  mistress,  upon  whom  with  justice, 
And,  with  your  good  allowance,  I  might  add 
With  a  due  gratitude,  you  may  confer  them  ; 
But  this  will  better  speak  her  chaste  desires, 

[Delivers  a  letter. 

Than  I  can  fancy  what  they  are,  much  less 
With  moving  language,  to  their  fair  deserts. 
Aptly  express  them.     Pray  you  read,  but  with 
Compassion,  I  beseech  you  :  if  you  find 


•   4nd  yet  a  drawer-  on   too  ;]  i.  e.  an  incitement  ID  appe- 
tite .  the  phrase  is  yet  in  use. 


The  paper  blurr'd  with  tears  fallen  from  her  eyes, 
While  she  endeavour'd  to  set  down  that  truth 
Her  soul  did  dictate  to  her,  ic  must  challenge 
A  gracious  answer. 

Ador.  O  the  powerful  charms 
By  that  fair  hand  writ  down  here  !    not  like  those 
Which  dreadfully  pronounced  by  Circe,  changed 
Ulysses'  followers  into  beasts  ;  these  have 
An  opposite  working  :  I  already  feel, 
But  reading  them,  their  saving  operations, 
And  all  those  sensual,  loose,  and  base  desires, 
Which  have  too  long  usurp'd,  and  tyrannized 
Over  my  reason,  of  themselves  fall  off. 
Most  happy  metamorphosis  !  in  which 
The  film  of  error  that  did  blind  my  judgment 
And  seduced  understanding,  is  removed. 
What  sacrifice  of  thanks  can  1  return 
Her  pious  charity,  that  nut  alone 
Redeems  me  from  the  worst  of  slavery, 
The  tyranny  of  my  beastly  appetites, 
To  which  I  long  obsequiously  have  bow'd  ; 
But  adds  a  matchless  favour  to  receive 
A  benefit  from  me,  nay,  puts  her  goodness 
In  my  protection  ? 

Mirt.  Transform'd  !  it  is  [Aside 

A  blessed  metamorphosis,  and  works 
I  knotv  not  how  on  me. 

Ador.  My  joys  are  boundless, 
Curb'd  with  no  limits  ;  for  her  sake,  Mirtilla, 
Instruct  me  how  1  presently  may  seal 
'iv  t)  f^e  strong  bonds  of  loyal  love,  and  service 
Which  never  •ball  be  cancell'd. 

Mir*    She'll  become 

Your  debtor,  sir.  if  you  vouchsafe  to  answer 
Her  pure  affection. 

Ador.  Answer  it,  Mirtilla! 
With  more  than  adoration  I  kneel  to  it 
Tell  her,  I'll  rather  die  a  thoousand  deaths 
Than  fail,  with  punctuality,  to  perform 
All  her  commands. 

Mirt.  I  am  lost  on  this  assurance.  [Aside. 

Which,  if  'twere  made  to  me,  1  should  have  faith  in 't, 
As  in  an  oracle  :  ah  me !     She.  presents  you 
This  jewel,  her  dead  grandsire's  gift,  in  which, 
As  by  a  true  Egyptian  hieroglyphic 
(For  so  I  think  she  call'd  it),  you  may  be 
Instructed  what  her  suit  is  you  should  do, 
And  she  with  joy  will  suffer. 

Ador.   Heaven  be  pleased 
To  qualify  this  excess  of  happiness 
With  some  disaster,  or  I  shall  expire 
With  'a  surfeit  of  felicity.      With  what  art 
The  cunning*  lapidary  hath  here  express'd 
Ihe  rape  6f  Proserpine  !  1  apprehend 
Her  purpose,  rfnd  obey  it ;  yet  not  as 
A  helping  friend,  but  a  husband  :   1  will  meet 
Her  chaste  desires  with  lawful  heat,  and  warm 
Our  Hymeneal  sheets  with  such  delights 
As  leave  no  sting  behind  them. 

Miit.  1  despair  then.  [Aside, 

Ador.  At  the  time  appointed  say,  wench,  I'll  at- 
tend her, 

And  guard  her  from  the  fury  of  her  mother, 
And  all  that  dare  disturb  her. 

Mirt.  You  speak  well, 
And  I  believe  you. 


-ll'ith  what  art 


The  conning  lapidary,  &c.]  Cunning  is  the  Scriptural 
fur  ingenuity  in  (lie  arts. 


418 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


f  ACT  II 


A(\ar.  Would  you  au^ht  else? 

Mitt.  I  would  carry 

Some  love-sign  to  her ;  and  now  I  think  on  it, 
The  kind  salute  you  offer'd  at  my  entrance, 
Hold  it  not  impudence  that  1  desire  it, 
I'll  faithfully  deliver  it. 

Ad*r.  O.  a  kiss  ! 

You  must  excuse  me  ;  I  was  tben  mine  own, 
Now  whollv  hers  :  the  toui-h  of  other  lips 
I  d<>  ahjure  for  ever  :   but  there's  gold 
To  bind  thee  still  my  advocate. 

-  [Exit, 

Mirt.  Not  a  kiss! 

I  was  cov  when  it  was  offered,  and  now  justly 
When  I  beg  one  am  denied.     What  scorching  fires 
My  loose  hopes  kindle  in  me!  shiill  1  be 
False  to  my  lady's  trust,  and  from  a  servant 
Rise  up  her  rival?    His  words  have  hewitch'd  me, 
And  something  1  must  do.  but  what? — 'tis  yet 
An  einbryon.  and  how  to  give  it  form, 
Alas,  I  know  n  >t.     Pardon  me,  Calista, 
I  am  nearest  to  mvself,  and  time  will  teach  me 


To  perfect  that  which  yet  is  undetermined. 


[Exit. 


SCENE  IV.— The  Country.    A  Forest. 

Enter  CLAODIO  and  SEVERING. 

Claud.  You  »re  master  of  yourself;  yet,  if  I  mar 
As  a  tried  frii  rid  in  my  love  and  affeetioit. 
And  a  servant  in  mv  duty,  speak  my  thought.-*, 
Without  offence,  i'the  way  of  counsel  to  yoj  , 
I  could  allege,  and  truly,  that  your  purpose 
For  Naples,  cover'd  with  a  thin  disguise, 
Is  full  of  danger. 

Stv.  Danger,  Claudio  ! 

'Tis  here,  and  every  where,  our  forced  companion; 
The  rising  ami  the  setting  sun  beholds  us 
Environ  a  with  i; ;  our  whole  life  a  journey 
Ending  in  certain  ruin. 

Claud.    Yet  we  should  not, 
Howe'er  besi  ged,  deliver  up  our  fort 
Of  life,  till  it  be  forced. 

Sev.  'Tis  so  indeed 

By  wisest  men  concluded,  which  we  should 
Obey  as  Christians;  but  when  I  consider 
How  different  the  progress  of  our  actions 
Is  from  religion,  nny,  morality, 
I  cannot  find  in  reason,  why  we  should 
Be  scrupulous  that  way  only;  or  like  meteors 
Blaze  forth  prodigious  terrors,  till  our  stuff 
Be  utterly  consumed,  which  once  put  out, 
Would  bring  security  unto  ourselves, 
And  safety  unto  those  we  prey  upon. 
O  Clauilio  !  since  bv  this  fatal  hand 
The  brother  of  my  wife,  bold  Momeclaro, 
Was  left  dead  in  the  field,  and  I  p  oscribed 
After  my  flight,  by  the  justice  of  ihe  king, 
My  being  hath  been  but  a  living  death, 
With  a  continued  torture. 

Claud.  Yet  in  that 
You  do  delude  their  bloody  violence 
That  do  pursue  your  life. 

Sev.  While  1  by  rapines 
Live  terrible  to  others  as  myself. 
What  one  hour  can  we  challenge  as  our  own, 
Unhappy  as  we  are,  yielding  a  beam 
1-1  comfoj  t  to  us  T     Q  met  night,  that  brings 


Rest  to  the  labourer,  is  the  outlaw's  Jay, 

In  which  he  rises  early  to  do  wrong, 

And  when  his  work  is  ended,  dares  not  sle*p; 

Our  time  is  spent  in  walches  to  entrap 

Such  as  would  shun  us,  and  to  hide  ourselves 

Kiom  the  ministers  of  justice,  that  would  bring  us 

To  the  correction  of  the  law.     O.  Claudio, 

Is  this  a  life  to  be  preserved*,  and  at 

So  dear  a  rate?     But  why  hold  1  discourse 

On  this  sad  subject,  since  it  is  a  burthen 

We  are  inark'd  to  be;ir,  and  not  to  be  shook  off 

But  with  our  human  frailty  ?    Jn  the  change 

Of  dangers  there  is  some  delight,  and  therefore 

I  am  res)lved  for  Naples. 

Claud.  May  v»u  meet  there 
All  comforts  that  so  fair  and  chaste  a  wife 
(As  fame  proclaims  her  without  parallel) 
Can  yitld  to  ease  your  sorrows  ! 

Sev.  1  much  thank  you  ; 

Yet  you  may  spare  those  wishes,  which  with  joy 
1  have  proved  certainties,  and  from  their  want 
Her  excellencies  take  lustre. 

Claud.  Ere  you  go  yet, 

Some  charge  unto  your  squires  not  to  fly  out 
Beyond  their  bounds  were  not  impertinent : 
For  though  that  with  a  look  you  CM)  command  them, 
In  your  absence  they'll  be  headstrong. 

Sev.  'Tis  well  thought  on, 

I'll  touch  my  horn, — [Blvws  his  horn.] — they  know 
my  call. 

Claud.  And  will, 

As  soon  as  heard,  make  in  to't  from  all  quarters, 
As  the  flock  to  the  shepherd's  whis'le. 

Enter  Banditti. 

1  Ban.  What's  your  will? 

2  Ran.  Hail,  sovereign  of  these  woods  ! 

3  Ban.  We  lay  our  lives 
At  your  highness'  feet. 

4  Bun.  And  will  confess  no  king, 

Nor  laws  but  what  come  from  }our  mouth;   and 

those 
We  gladly  will  subscribe  to. 

Sev.  Make  this  good, 

In  my  absence,  to  my  substitute,  to  whom 
Pay  all  obedience  as  to  mvself; 
The  breach  of  this  in  one  particular 
I  will  severely  punish :  on  your  lives. 
Remember  upon  whom  with  our  allowance 
You  may  securely  prey,  with  such  as  are 
Exempted  from  your  fury. 

Claud.  'Twere  not  amiss, 
If  you  please,  to  help  their  memory;  besides, 
Here  are  some  newly  initiated. 

Sev.  To  these 

Read  you  the  articles  ;   I  must  be  gone : 
Claudio,  farewell ! 


O,  Claudia, 


1*  thit  a.  life  to  be  preserved,  &c.]  A  state  of  inse— • -'ty 
and  per  pel  ii  il  alarm  was  never  described  with  more  energy 
and  beauty  than  in  lhi»  scene  I  know  n»i  \\hrthi-r  Ma*- 
linger  ever  re.ichrd  Germany  ;  but  ccrtaiulv  many  parts  of 
Charles  The  II obiter  be  T  a  MiiUnit  rwrMMMMe  tu  the  cha- 
racter of  Srvrrino.  There  is  a  fine  passage  in  Mar.itun, 
which  is  nut  altogether  unlike  the  openinc  m'  this  -pi-eon  : 

()  thoii  pale,  sober  night, 

Thou  that  in  xlnggish  fumes  till  sense  do!-t  steep; 
Thou  th.it  giv'st  ail  the  world  full   «MV«-  to  \<\f 
Ui.biMid'ft  the  feeble  veins  of  sweaty  l.ioonr,''   tfti. 

The  Ma/ecoittrnt.  .V  •  111.  oc.  U. 

fotoan  h.ii  laid  'his  scene  under  heavy  cmr.nbJ-i  >a\  U 
his  Battle  of  llexham. 


IV. j 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


419 


Claud.  Afay  your  return  be  speedy  ! 

1  Kan.  Silence;  out  with  your  table-books. 

2  Han.  And  observe. 

Claud,  [reads.]   The  cormorant  that  Hies  in  expec- 
tation 

Of  a  long  viuh'd-far  dearth,  and  smiling  grinds 
The  f:ices  of  the  poor.  »/<"'  woi/  make  spoil  oj  ; 
Even  theft  tn  such  isjnstice. 

3  Ban.   lie's  in  n>y  tables. 

Claud.  The  grand  encloser  of  the  commons,  for 
His  primte  pro/it  or  drliglit.  uilh  nil 
His  herrli  that  graze  upon't,  are  lawful  prize. 

4  Bun.  And  we  will  bring  them  in,  although  the 
devil 

Stood  roaring  by  to  guard  them. 

Claud.  If  it  usurer. 

Greedy,  tit  his  own  price  to  make  a  purchase, 
Taking  advantage  upon  hond  or  mortgage 
FI-IWI  a  prodigal,  pass  through  i>ur  territories, 
In  the  waif  of  custom,  or  of  tribute  to  us, 
You  mn y  ease,  him  of  his  burthen. 

2  Ban.   Wholesome  doctrine. 

Clnud.  Builders  of  iron  mills,  that  grub  up  forests* 
With  timher  trees  J  or  shipping. 

1  Bun.  May  we  not 
Have  a  touch  at  lawyers  ? 

Claud.  By  no  means;  they  may 
Too  soon  have  a  gripe  at  us  ;  they  are  angry  hor- 
nets, 
Not  to  be  jested  with. 

3  Ban.  This  is  not  so  well. 

Claud.    The  owners  of  dark  shops,  that  rent  their 

wares 

With  perjuries  ;  cheating  vintners,  not  contented 
With  half  in  half  in  their  recklings,  uet  c>  u  out, 
When  then  find  their  guests  want  coin,  'Tis  late,  and 

bed-lime. 
These  ransack  at  your  pleasures. 

3  Ban.   How  shall  we  know  them  ? 

Claud.  If  they  walk  ou  foot,  by  their  rat-colour'd 

.stockings. 

And  shining  shoesf  ;  if  horsemen,  by  short  boots, 
And  riding  furniture  of  .several  counties. 

2  Ban.  Not  one  of  the  list  escapes  us. 
Claud.  Butforscholais. 

Whose  wealth  lift  in  their  heads,  and  not  their  pockets, 

Soldiers  that  hare  died  in  their  country's  sen-ice  ; 

The  reut-rach'd farmer  ;  nee<ni  market  folks  ; 

The  mttatti  labourer ;  carriers  thai  transport 

Thegondi  of  other  men.  are  privileged  ; 

But,  ahote  all,  let  none  presume  to  offer 
Violence  lawmen,  Jonntr  king  hath  sworn, 
U'ho  that  wnu's  a  delinquent,  u'ilhout  mercy 

Hangs  fnr't  by  martial  law. 


*  Claud.  Builders  of  irnn  mill*,  that  ymb  up  forntt 
M  ilk  t'linbrr  trees  fur  shiijiiny  •]  Did  this  evil  really  exist 
in  Mar-singer's  d,iys  !  «.r  ditl  tin-  poet,  in  proplu-tic  vision, 
vi-iiliK1  "  well  woodt-.d"  iiii>iiiit,iin>  that  ovi  rliang  ihe  Lakes 
of  Cumberland  and  U'estiiioicl.ind  f  'J  hese  artiv/ei  are  ev- 
treinelv  cuii»us.  as  they  >liow  us  wlmt  wrre  accounted  tlie 
chief  grievances  oi' thr  nation  at  that  fortunate  period. 

t  And  shining  shun;]  Our  old  dr.imaliMs  make  them- 
selves vt-ry  meiry  uiih  these  shin'ny  shoes,  whicli  Appear, in 
thfir  live,  to  liavr  been  one  ol  (lie  cliaracti-ri  tic  in  uks  of  a 
»pr.;:e  citi/.en.  Thus  Ne«cnt,  r  .ill}  ing  1'lotwtll  for  be- 
coming a  merchant,  exclaims  : 

•'  Slid  !  his  ilitifg  th-ne  too  !"  Tlir.  City  JUatck. 

And  Kitrly  tibM-rvi-s  ili.il  \V  el  bred'sarqiiaiiKance 

" mock  him  all  over, 

Fruni  his  flat  cap  unto  lii    sh.nimj  ihoes." 

Every  Man  in  hit  Humour. 


All.  Long  live  Severino, 
And  perish  all  such  cullions  as  repine* 
At  his  new  monarchy  ! 

Claud.  About  your  business, 
That  he  may  find,  at  his  return,  good  cause 
To  praise  your  care  and  discipline. 

All.  We'll  not  fail,  sir.  [Eieunt. 


SCENE  IV.— Naples.    A  Street. 
Enter  LAVAL  and  CALIPSO. 

Lav.  Thou  art  sure  mistaken  ;  'tis  not  possible 
That  I  can  be  the  man  thou  art  employ 'd  to. 

Calip.  Not  you  the  man!    you  are   the   man   of 

men, 

And  such  another,  in  my  lady's  eye, 
Never  to  be  disco ver'd. 

Lav.  A  mere  stranger 
Newly  arrived ! 

Calip.  Still  the  more  probable ; 
Since  ladies,  as  you  know,  affect  strange  dainties, 
And  brought  far  to  themf.     This  is  not  an  age 
In  which  saints  live;  but  women,  knowing  women, 
That  understand  their  summum  bonum  is 
Variety  of  pleasures  in  the  touch, 
Derived  from  several  nations ;  and  if  men  would 
Be  wise  by  their  example — 

Lav.  As  most  are, 
'Tis  a  coupling  age  ! 

Calip.  Why,  sir,  do  gallants  travel? 
Answer  that  question    but,  at  their  return, 
With  wonder  to  the  hearers,  to  discourse  of 
The  garb  and  difference  in  foreign  females, 
As  the  lusty  girl  of  France,  the  sober  German, 
The  plump  Dutch  frow,  the  stately  dame  of  Spain, 
The  Roman  libertine,  and  sprightful  Tuscan, 
The  merry  Greek,  Venetian  courtezan, 
'I 'he    English   fair  companion,   that    learns  some- 
thing 

From  every  nation,  and  will  fly  at  all : 
t  say  again,  the  difference  betwixt  these 
And  their  own  country  gamesters. 

Lav.  Aptly  urged. 

Some  make  that  their  main  end  :  but  may  I  ask, 
Without  offence  to  your  gravity,  by  what  title 
Your  lady,  that  inviies  me  to  her  favours, 
Is  known  in  the  city  ? 

Calip.  If  you  were  a  true-born  monsieur, 
You  would  do  the  business  first,  and  ask  that  after. 
If  you  only  truck  with  her  title,  1  shall  hardly 
Deserve  thanks  for  my  travail ;  she  is,  sir. 
No  single  ducat-trader,  nor  a  beldam 
So  frozen  up,  that  a  fever  cannot  thaw  her; 
No  lioness  by  her  breath. 

Lav.  Leave  these  impertinencies, 
And  come  to  the  matter. 

Calip.  Would  you'd  be  us  forward 
When  you  draw  for  the  upshot !  she  is,  sir,  a  lady, 
A  rich,  fair,  well-con. plexioned,  and  what  is 
Not  frequent  among  Venus'  votaries, 
Upon  my  credit,  which  good  men  have  trusted, 

•  And  p erith  all  ruch   riilliunsi  A  term  taken  from  the 
Italians  ami  strongly  expletive  ol  co   tt-mpt:    n\l  rncti  at>ifi:t 
leretchn      It  fre<]iiriiil>  occin>iii  ihe  old  p<«-i> 
+  fiiru-e  I'tiliei.  as  y..u  know,  affmt  itranee  dainriri. 
And  b'ouyht  far  tothem.    I'hi'*  is  proverbial :  but  it  may, 
peihaps,  allude  to  the  title   of  a  play,  by   Thomas  Hacket, 
"  J-'arrr  l-'etched  and  Dear  Bought  yt  Goodfor  Laditt."   It 
was  entered  at  Slalione'V  Hall,  lit*. 


120 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


FACT  I 


A  sound  and  wholesome  lady,  and  her  name  is 
Madonna  Ib'lante. 

Lav.  Ib'lante ! 

I  have  heard  of  her  ;  for  chastity,  and  beauty, 
The  wonder  of  the  age. 

Calip    Pray  you,  not  too  much 
Of  chastity  ;  fair  and  free  I  do  subscribe  to, 
And  so  you'll  find  her. 

Lav.  Come,  you  are  a  base  creature ; 
And  covering  your  foul  ends  with  her  fair  name, 
Give  me  just  reason  to  suspect  you  have 
A  plot  upon  my  life. 

Calip.  A  plot !  very  fine ! 

Nay,  'tis  a  dangerous  one,  pray  you  beware  oft; 
Tis  cunninglv  contrived  :  I  plot  to  bring  you 
Afoot,  with  the  travel  of  some  forty  piices. 
To  those  delights  which  a  man  not  made  of  snow- 
Would  ride  a  thousand  miles  for.     You  shall  be 
Received  at  a  postern  door,  if  you  be  not  cautious, 
By   one    whose    touch    would    make    old    Nestor 

young, 

And  cure  his  hernia  ;  a  terrible  plot! 
A  kiss  then  ravished  from  you  by  such  lips 
As  flow  with  nectar,  a  juicy  palm  more  precious 
Than  the  famed  Sibylla's  bough,  to  guide  you  safe 
Through  mists  of  perfumes  to  a  glorious  room, 
Where  Jove  might  (east  his  Juno  ;  a  dire  plot 
A  banquet  I'll  not  mention,  that  is  common  : 
But  I  must  not  forget,  to  make  the  plot 
More  horrid  to  you,  the  retiring  bower, 
So  furnished  as  might  force  the  Persian's  envy, 
The  silver  bathing-tub    the  cambric  rubbers, 
The  embroidered  quilt,  the  bed  of  gossamer 
And  damask  roses;   a  mere  powder-plot 
To  blow  you  up !  and  last,  a  bed-fellow, 


To  whose  rare  entertainment  all  these  are 
But  foils  and  s-ettings  off. 

Lav.   No  more;  her  breath 
Would  warm  an  euruch. 

Calip.  I  knew  1  should  heat  you; 
Now  he  begins  to  glow. 

Lav.  I  am  flesh  and  blood, 

And  I  were  not  man  if  I  should  not  run  the  hazard, 
Had  I  no  other  ends  in't.     I  have  considered 
Your  motion,  matron. 

Calip.  My  plot,  sir,  on  your  life, 
For  which  I  am  deservedly  suspected 
For  a  base  and  dangerous  woman !   Fare  you  well, 

sir, 
I'll  be  bold  to  take  my  leave. 

Luv.  I  will  along  too. 
Come,  pardon  my  suspicion,  I  confess 
My  error;  and  eying  you  better,  I  perceive 
There's  nothing  that  is  ill  that  can  flow  from  you  ; 
I  am  serious,  and  for  proof  of  it  I'll  purchase 
Your  good  opinion.  [Gives  her  his  purst. 

Calip.  1  am  gentle  natured, 
And  can  forget  a  greaier  wrong  upon 
Such  terms  of  satisfaction. 

Luv.  What's  the  hour? 

Culip.  Twelve. 

Lai).  I'll  not  miss  a  minute. 

Culip.  I  shall  find  you 
At  your  lodging? 

Lav.  Certainly  ;  return  my  service, 
And  for  me  kiss  your  lady's  hands. 

Calip.  At  twelve 
I'll  be  your  convoy. 

Lav.  1  desire  no  belter. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— The  Country. 
Enter  DURAZZO,   CALDORO,  and  Servant. 

Dur.  the  horses  down  the  bill ;  I  have  a 

Ht  Walk 

To  speak  in  private.  [Exit  Servant. 

Cald.  Good  sir,  no  more  anger. 

Dui .  Love  do  you  call  it !  madness,  wilful  mad- 
ness ; 

And  since  I  cannot  cure  it,  I  would  hare  you 
Exactly  mad.     You  are  a  lover  already, 
Be  a  drunkaid  too,  and  after  turn  small  poet, 
Ar>d  then  you  are  mad,  katexoken  the  madman*. 

Culd.  Such    as  are  safe   on  shore  may  smile  at 

tempests  ; 

But  I,  that  am  embark'd.and  every  minute 
Expect  a  shipwreck,  relish  not  your  mirth ; 
To  me  it  is  unseasonable. 

Dur.  Pieasing  viands 
Are  made  sharp  by  sick  palates.     I  affect 
A  hand.-ome  mistress  in  my  gray  beard,  as  well 
As  any  boy  of  you  all ;  and  on  good  terms 
Will  venture  as  far  i'the  fire,  so  she  be  willing 

*    And    then   you   are    mad,    katexokti)  the    madman.] 
'•  e-  super  eminently  the  madman. 


To  entertain  me  ;  but  ere  I  would  dote, 

As  you  do,  where  there  is  no  nattering  hope 

Ever  t'enjoy  her,  I  would  forswear  wine. 

And  kill  this  letcherous  itch  with  drinking  water, 

Or  live,  like  a  Carthusian,  on  poor  John, 

Then  bathe  myself  nigiit  by  night  in  marble  dew, 

And  use  no  soap  but  camphire-balls. 

Cald.  You  may 

(And  I  must  suffer  it),  like  a  rough  surgeon, 
Apply  these  burning  caustics  to  my  wounds 
Already  gangren'd,  when  soft  unguents  would 
Better  express  an  uncle  with  some  feeling 
Of  his  nephew's  torments. 

Dur.  I  shall  melt,  and  cannot 

Hold  out  if  he  whimper.     O  (bat  this  young  fellow, 
Who,  on  my  knowledge,  is  able  to  beat  a  man, 
Should  be  baffled  by  this  blind  imagined  boy, 
Or  fear  his  bird-bolts*  ! 

jald.  You  have  put  yourself  already 
To  too  much  trouble  in  bringing  me  thus  far  : 
Now,  if  you  please,  with  your  good  wishes,  leave 

me 
To  my  mv  hard  fortunes. 


•  Or  fear  his  bird-bolts  !]  i.  e.  his  blunt,  pointiest,  arrows.} 
for  \\itli  such  birds  were  brought  down. 


III/) 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


Dur.  I'll  for.-ake  myself  first. 
Leave  thee  !     I  cannot,  will  not ;  tliou  shall  have 
No  cause  tc  be  weary  of  my  company, 
For  I'll  be  useful;  arid,  ere  1  see  thee  perish, 
Dispensing  with  my  dignity  and  candour*, 
I  will  do  something  for  thee,  though  it  savour 
Of  the  old  squire  of  Troyt.     As  we  ride,  we  will 
Consult  of  the  means  :  bear  up. 

Cald.  1  cannot  sink. 
Having  your  noble  aids  to  buoy  me  up  ; 
There  was  never  such  a  guardian. 

Dur.  How  is  this  ? 

Stale  compliments  to  me  !   When  my  work's  done, 
Commend  the  artificer,  and  then  be  thankful. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE    II. — Naples.      A    Room   in  Severino's 
House. 

Enter  CALISTA  richly  habited,  and  MIRTILLA  in  the 
gown  which  Calista_/iVst  wore, 

Calit.  How  dost  thou  like  my  gown? 

Mirt.    Tis  rich  and  court  ike. 

Calls.  The  dressings  too  are  suitable 

Mirt.  I  must  say  so, 
Or  you  might  blame  my  want  of  care. 

Co  Hi.  My  mother 

Little  dreams  of  my  intended  flight,  or  that 
These  are  my  nuptial  ornaments. 

Mirt.  I  hope  so. 

Calls.  How  dully  thou  repliest !  thou   dost  not 

envy 

Adorio's  noble  change,  or  the  good  fortune 
That  it  brings  to  me  ? 

Mirt.  My  endeavours  that  way 
Can  answer  for  me. 

Calls.  True  ;  you  have  discharged 
A  faithful  servant's  duty,  and  it  is 
By  me  rewarded  like  a  liberal  mistress  : 
I  speak  it  not  to  upbraid  you  with  mv  bounties, 
Though  they  deserve  more  thanks  and  ceremony 
Than  you  have  yet  express'd. 

Mirt.  The  miseries 

Which,  from  your  happiness,  I  am  sure  to  suffer, 
Restrain  my  forward  tongue  ;  and,  gentle  madam, 
Excuse  my  weakness,  though  I  do  appear 
A  little  daunted  with  the  heavy  burthen 
I  am  to  undergo :  when  you  are  safe, 
My  dangers,  like  to  roaring  torrents,  will 
Gush  in  upon  me  ;  yet  1  would  endure 
Your  mother's  cruelty,  but  how  to  bear 
Your  absence,  in  the  very  thought  confounds  me. 
Since  we  were  children  I  have  loved  and  served 

you  ; 

I  willingly  learn'd  to  obey,  as  you 
Grew  up  to  knowledge,  that  you  might  command 
me  ; 


•  Dispensing  with  my  dignity  ami  candour,]  This  expres- 
sion reconciles  me  to  a  passage  in  The  Parliament  of  Lone, 
of  which,  though  copied  with  my  best  care,  I  was  extremely 
doubtful ; 

"  And  might  I  but  persuade  you  to  dispense 
"  A  little  with  your  candour,  &c."        Act  IV.  sc.  iii. 
It  now  appears  that  UMtiAger  uses  candour  in  both  places 
as  synonymous  with  honour,  or  fairness  of  reputation. 

•f  Of  the  old  squire   of  Troy.]      The    PamUius  of  Shaks- 
peare.     'Ihis   uncle  is  a  most  pleasant   character;    it  is  im- 
possible  not  to  be  delighted  with  him,  notwithstanding  the 
freedom  of  his  language.     As  C..ldoro  justly  observes, 
Time  wot  nener  such  a  Titardian. 

30 


And  now  to  be  divorced  from  all  my  comforts! — 
Can  this  b^  borne  with  patience? 

Catii.  The  necessity 

Of  my  strange  fate  commands  it;  bull  vow 
By  my  Adorio's  love,  I  pity  thee. 

Mirt.  Pitv  me,  madam  !  a  cold  chatity  j 
You  must  do  more,  and  help  me. 

Calls.  Ha  !  what  said  you? 
I  must  !   Is  this  fit  language  for  a  servant? 

Mirt.    For  one  that  would  continue  your  poor 

servant, 

And  cannot  live  that  dav  in  which  she  is 
Denied  to  be  so.     Can  Mirlilla  sit 
Mourning  alone,  imagining  those  pleasures 
Which  you  this  blessed  Hymeneal  night 
Enjoy  in  the  emhraces  of  your  lord, 
And  my  lord  too,  in  being  your's  ?  (already 
As  such  I  love  and  honour  him).      Shall  a  stranger 
Sew  you  in  a  sheet,  to  guard  that  maidenhead 
You  must  pretend  to  keep;  and  'twill  become  you? 
Shall  another  do  those  bridal  offices 
Which  time  will  not  permit  me  to  remember*, 
And  j  pine  here  with  envy  ?  panion  me, 
1  must  and  will  be  pardon'd, — for  my  passions 
Are  in  extremes  ;  and  use  some  speedy  means 
That  1  may  go  along  wish  you,  and  share 
Jn  those  delights,  hut  with  becoming  distance; 
Or  by  his  life,  which  as  a  saint  you  swear  by, 
I  will  discover  all. 

Calls.  Thou  canst  not  be 
So  treacherous  and  cruel,  in  destroying 
The  building  thou  hast  raised. 

Mirt.  Pray  you  do  not  tempt  me, 
For  'tis  resolved. 

Calls.   1  know  not  what  to  think  oft. 
In  the  di.-covery  of  my  secrets  to  her.  [her, 

1  have  made   my  slave  my  mistress  :   I  must  sooth 
There's  no  evasion  else. — Prithee,  Mirtilla, 
Be  not  so  violent,  1  am  strangely  taken 
With  thy  affection  for  me;  'twas  my  purpose 
To  have  thee  sent  for. 

Mirt,  When? 

Calls.  This  very  night ; 
And  1  vow  deeply  1  shall  he  no  sooner 
In  the  desired  possession  of  my  lord 
But  by  some  of  his  servants  1  will  have  thee 
Convey'd  unto  us. 

Mirt.  Should  you  break  ? 

Calls.  I  dare  not. 

Come,  clear  thy  looks,  for  instantly  we'll  prepare 
For  our  departure. 

Mirt.  Pray  you,  forgive  my  boldness, 
Growiug  from  my  excess  of  zeal  to  serve  you. 

Calls.  1  thank  thee  for't. 

Mirt.  You'll  keep  your  word? 

Calis.  Still  doubtful  ? 

Mirt.  ' Twas  tbis  I  aim'd  at,  and  leave  the  rest  to 
fortune.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  Room  in  Adorio's  House. 
Enter  ADORIO,  CAMII.LO,  LENTULO,  DONATO, 

CARIO,  and  Servants- 
Ador.  Haste  you  unto  my  villa,  and  takfi  all 


*  Which  time  will  not  permit  me  to  n-incmbei ,]  i.e  10 
bring  to  your  remembrance,  to  remind  you  of:  Mi  the  word 
is  frequently  used. 

This  scene,  and  indeed  the  whole  of  this  play,  is  scanda- 
lously edited  by  COXCUT  as  well  ->s  Mr.  M.  Mason  ;  in  the 
line  before  us,  tri^  former  omits  me,  and  the  latter,  time, to 
that  the  met-e  halts  miserably  in  both. 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


Provision  along  with  you,  and  for  use 
And  ornament,  tlie  shortness  of  the  time 
Can  furnish  you  ;  let  my  best  plate  be  set  out, 
And  costliest  hangings  ;  and,  if 't  be  possible, 
With  a  merry  dance  to  entertain  the  bride, 
Provide  nn  epithalamium. 

Car.  Trust  me 

For  belly  timber  :  and  for  a  song  I  have 
A  paper-blurrer,  who  on  all  occasions, 
For  nil  times,  and  all  seasons,  hath  such  trinkets 
Ready  in  the  deck*:  it'i.s  but  altering1 
The  names,  and  they  will  serve  for  any  bride 
Or  bridegroom  in  the  kingdom. 
Mi/fur.   Hut  for  the  dance? 

Cor.  I  u-ill  make  one  mvself, and  foot  it  finely; 
And  summoning  your  tenants  at  my'dYesser, 
Which  is,  indeed,  my  drumf.  make  a  rare  choice. 
Of  the  able  youth,  such  as  shall  sweat  sufficiently,. 
And  smell  too,  but  not  of  amber,  which  you  know  is 
The  grace  of  the  country  hall. 

Allot:  About  it,  Cario,      / 
And  look  you  V.e  careful. 

Car.   For  mine  own  credit,  sir. 

[Exeunt  Cario  and  Servants. 
Ador.   Now,   noble  friends,  confirm  your  loves, 

and  think  not 

Of  the  penalty  of  the  Ian-,  that  does  forbid 
The  stealing  away  an  heir :  I  will  secure  you, 
And  pay  the  breach  oft. 

Camil.  Tell  us  what  we  shall  do, 
We'll  talk  of  that  hereafter. 

Ador.  Pray  you  be  careful 
To  keep  the  west  gate  of  the  city  open, 
That  our  passage  may  be  free,  and  bribe  the  watoh 
With  any  sum  ;  this  is  all. 
•  Don.  A  dangerous  business  ! 
Ciiiiiii.  I'll  make  the  constable,  watch,  and  porter 

drunk. 
Under  a  crown. 

Lent.  And  then  you  may  pass  while  they  snore, 
Though  you  had  done  a  murder. 
Camil.  Get  but  your  mistress, 
And  leave  the  rest  to  us, 

Ador.   You  much  engage  me  : 
But  1  forget  myself. 

CamiL  Pray  you  in  what,  sir? 
Ador.  Yielding  too  much  to  my  affection, 
Though  lawful  now,  my  wounded  reputation 
And  honour  suffer  :  the  disgrace  in  taking 
A  blow  in  public  from  Caldoro,  branded 
V\ith  the  infamous  mark  of  coward,  in  delayin" 
To  right  myself,  upon  my  cheek  grows  fresher"- 
That's  first  to  be  consider'd. 
Cuiiiit.  If  you  dare 

•  Hrady in  the  deck.]  Mr.  M.  Mason  reads,  in  the  dttk  • 
and  douht  e«,  applauded  himself  for  the  em,  ndation  •  but 
frck  K  rifelit  ;  H  means  the  heap,  or,  technically  spcakin? 
th.-tfroM  In  our  ..Id  poets,  a  pack  of  cards  lulled  a  deck- 
llms,  in  Xflimui  Emprror  of  the  Turht,  1694; 

"  ^  l''J'  ','  IuclM"ce,b"1  '"»•*•  to  get  the  decA, 

lo  deal  about  and  fhuffle  as  I  would." 
»  And  tummnniny  your  tenant*  at  my  rire*»er 
v!2^t£Xtm'*nm'}    Th"»'""»"vant(io  The 
"  When  the  drenrr,  the  cook'sdrum,  thunders,  come  on  !" 
And  thus  Suckling:  Act  HI.  ,c.  i. 

"  Just  in  the  nick  the  cook  knoch'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summon*  did  obc>  ; 
Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
March 'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train'd  hand, 
Presented,  and  aw»y."  The  Wedding 


Trust  my  opinion  (yet  I  have  h;id 
Some  practice  and  experience  in  duels), 
You  are  too  tender  that  way  :   can  you  answer 
The  debt  you  owe  your  honour  till  you  meet 
Your  enemy  from  whom  you  may  exact  it! 
Hath  he  not  left  the  city,  and  in  fe-ar 
Conceal'd  himself,  for  aught  1  can  imagine? 
What  would  you  more? 

Ador.  I  should  do. 

Camil.   Never  think  on't, 
Till  fi  tcr  time  and  place  invite  you  to  it: 
I  have  read  Caranza*,  and  find  not  in  his  grammar 
Of  quarrels,  that  the  injured  m:in  is  bound 
To  seek  for  reparation  at  an  hour 
But  may,  and  without  loss,  till  he  hath  settlec 
More  serious  occasions  that  import  him, 
For  a  day  or  two  defer  it. 

Ador.  You'll  subscribe 
\rour  hand  to  this? 

tfamil.  And  justify 't  with  my  life, 
Presume  upon't. 
.   Ador.    On,  then  ;  you  shall  o'er-rule  me. 


SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  Severino's  House. 
Enter  IOLANTE  and  CALIPSO. 

lol.  I'll  give  thee  a  golden   tongue,  and   have  it 

hung  up 

Over  thy  tomb  for  a  monument. 
Culip.   1  am  not  prepared  yet 

To  leave  the  world  ;  there  are  mnnv  srnod  pranks 
I  must  dispatch  in  this  kind  bft'ore  1  die: 
And  I  had  rather,  if  }our  honour  please, 
Have  the  crowns  in  mv  purse. 
lol.  Take  that. 
Calip.  Magnificent  lady! 

May  you  live  long,  and  every  moon  love  change, 
That   I   may  have  fresh  employment.     You   know 

what 
Remains  to  be  done. 

lot.  Yes.  yes  ;  I  will  command 
My  daughter  and  Mirtilla  to  their  chamber. 

Calip.  And   lock   them  up:    such   liquorish   kit- 
lings  are  not 
To  be  trusted  with  our  cream.     Ere  I  go,  I'll  help 

you 
To  set  forth  the  banquet,  and  place  the  candied 

eringoes 
Where    he  may  be  sure  to  taste  them  ;  then  undress 

you, 
For  these  things  are  cumbersome,  when  you  shoiJu 

be  active : 

A  thin  night  mantle  to  hide  part  of  your  smock, 
With   your   pearl-embroidered    pantofles   on    your 

feet. 
And   then   you   are   armed    for   service !    nay,   no 

trifling, 


•  /  have  read  Caranza. 1  This  great  man—"  treat  let  me 
call  him,"  for  he  has  obtained  the  prai.se  of  Bobndil,  wrote  a 
MFtematk  treatise  on  duelling,  which  .-eems  to  have  been 
the  *  ade  Mecum  of  the  punctilious  gallant*  ab,>iil  ihe  court 
of  James  I.  He  is  frequently  mentioned  by  Branm.'iit  ami 
Hetcher,  Jonson,  and  our  author,  and  ce'nerallv  wilh  the 
ridicule  which  he  deserves.  From  a  paJ-fMge  in  Thr  AVn-  /nn, 
it  should  seem  that  his  repnt.ition  did  not  lun»  outlive 
their  *arca<in.i  : 

"  {'"*-'•  Tlle-v  liad  tll('ir  «'mes,  and  we  can  say,  then  irrrt . 
oo  had  Caranza  his." 


.] 


THE  GUARDIAN 


\Ve  are  alone,  and  you  know  'tis  a  ppint  of  folly 
To  he  coy  to  eat  when  meat  is  set  before  you. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. — A  Street  before  Severino's  Haute. 
Enter  ADORIO  and  Servant. 

Ador.  'Tis  eleven  by    my  watch,    the  hour   ap- 
pointed. 
Listen  at  the  door — hear'st  thou  any  stirring  ? 

Serv.   No,  sir ; 
All's  silent  here. 

Ador.  Some  cursed  business  keeps 
Her  mother  up.     I'll  walk  a  little  circle, 
And  show  where  you  shall  wait  us  with  the  horses, 
And  then  return.     This  short  delay  afflicts  me, 
And  1  presume  to  her  it  is  not  pleasing.      [Exeunt, 

•     Enter  DURAZZO  ami  CALDORO. 

Dur.  What's  now  to  be  done  ?    prithee  let's  to 

bed,  t  am  sleepy  ; 

And  here's  my  hand  on't,  without  more  ado, 
13  v  (air  or  foul  play  we'll  have  her  to-morrow 
In  thy  possession. 

Cald.  Good  sir,  give  me  leave 
To  taste  a  little  comfort  in  beholding 
The  place  by  her  sweet  presence  sanctified. 
She  may  perhaps,  to  take  air,  ope  the  casement, 
And  looking:  out,  a  new  star  to  be  gazed  on 
By  me  with  adoration,  bless  these  eyes, 
Ne'er  happy  but  when  she  is  made  the  object. 

Dur.  Is  not  here  fine  fooling  ! 

Calil.  Thou  great  queen  of  love, 
Or  real  or  imagined,  be  propitious 
To  me,  thy  faithful  votary !  and  I  vow 
To  erect  a  statue  to  thee,  equal  to 
Thy  picture  by  Apelles'  skilful  hand, 
Left  as  the  great  example  of  his  art: 
And  on  iliy  thigh  I'll  hang  a  golden  Cupid, 
flis  torches  flaming,  and  his  quiver  full, 
For  further  honour! 

Dur.  End  this  waking  dream, 
And  let's  away. 

Enter  C  A  LIST*  and  MIRTILLA. 

C.,lit.  M initial 

Cald.  'Tis  her  voice  ! 

Cults.  You  heard  the  horses'  footing  1 

Miit.  Certainly. 

Catiit.  Speak  low.     My  lord  Adorio. 

Catd.   1  am  dumb. 

Dur.  The  darkness  friend  us  too  !   Most  honour'd 

madam, 
Adorio,  your  servant. 

Culis.  As  you  are  so, 
1  do  command  your  silence  till  we  are 
Further  removed  ;  and  let  this  kiss  assure  you 
(1  thank  the  sable  night  that  hides  my  blushes) 
1  am  wholly  yours. 

Dur.   Forwftrd,  you  micher ! 

Mirt.  Madam, 
Think  on  Mirtilla.  [Etit. 

Dur.  I'll  not  now  enquire 
The  mystery  of  this,  but  bless  kind  fortune 
Favouring  us  beyond  our  hopes:  yet,  now  I  think 

on't, 

I  had  ever  a  lucky  band  in  such  smock  night-work. 

[Exeunt. 


F.titer  ADOIUO  and  Servant. 

Ador.  Tliis  slowness  does  amaze  me  ;    sLe  s  not 

alter'd 
In  her  late  regulation  ! 

Jo/.  [u-ithin.]  (Jet  you  to  bed, 
And  stir  not  on  your  life,  till  1  command  you. 

Ador.  Her  mother's  voice  !  listen. 

Serv.  Here  comes  the  daughter. 

Enter  MIRTII.LA  hastily. 

Mirt.  Whither  shall  I  fly  for  succour7 

Ador.  To  these  arms, 
Yqpr  castle  of  defence,  impregnable, 
AiW  not  to  be  blown  up  :  how  your  heart  beats  ! 
Take  comfort,  dear  Calisla,  you  aie  now 
In  his  protection  that  will  ne'er  forsake  yci 
Adorio,  your  changed  Adorio,  swears 
Hv  your  best  self,  an  oath  he  dares  not  break, 
He  loves  you,  loves  you  in  a  noble  way, 
His  constancy  firm  as  the  poles  of  heaven. 
I  will  urge  no  reply,  silence  becomes  you  ; 
And  I'll  defer  the  music  of  your  voice 
Till  we  are  in  a  place  of  safety. 

Mirt.  O  blest  error  !  [  Exeunt. 

Enter  SF.VERINO. 

Sev.  Tis  midnight:  how  my  fears  of  certain  death, 
Being  surprised,  combat  with  my  strong  hopes 
Raised  on  my  chaste  wife's  goodness  !   1  am  grown 
A  stranger  iii  the  city,  and  no  wonder 
I  have  too  long  been  so  unto  myself: 
Grant  me  a  little  truce,  my  troubled  soul — — 
I  hear  some  footing,  ha! 

Enter  LAVAL  ami  CALIPSO. 

Ciilip.  That  is  the  house. 

And  there's  the  key  :  you'll  find  my  lady  ready 
To  entertain  yon  ;  'tis  not  fit  I  should 
Stand  gaping'  by  while  you  bill :   1   have  brought 

you  on, 
Charge  home,  and  come  off  with  honour.          [Exit. 

Sev.  It  makes  this  way. 

Lav.  I  am  much  troubled,  and  know  not  what 

to  think 
Of  this  design. 

Sev.  It  still  comes  on. 

Lav.  The  watch  ! 
I  am  betray 'd. 

Sev.  Should  I  now  appear  fearful, 
It  would  discover  me:  there's  no  retiring. 
My  confidence  must  protect  me  ;  I'll  appear 
As  if  I  walk'd  the  round*.    Stand ! 

Lav.  I  am  lost. 

Sev.  The  \vord  ! 

Lav.  Pray  you  forbear ;  I  am  a  stranger, 
And  missing,  this  dark  stormy  night,  my  way 
To  my  lodging,  you  shall  do  a  courteous  office 
To  guide  me  to  it. 

Sev.  Do  you  think  I  stand  here 
For  a  page  or  a  porter  ? 

Lav.  Good  sir,  grow  not  so  high  : 
I  can  justify  my  being  abroad  ;  I  am 
No  pilfering  vagabond,  and  what  you  are 
Stands  yet  in  supposition  ;  and  I  (  harge  yow 
If  you  are  an  officer,  bring  me  before  your  captain  ; 
For  if  you  do  assault  me,  though  not  ia  few 


• III  appear  .1,1 

A*   if  I   walk'd   the   r.mivl.]  I.  '•  As  If  I 
watch.     Ste  The  Picture,  \<\  II.  »«.  «• 


444 


THE  GUARDIAN 


[Acr  III. 


Of  what  you  can  do  alone,  I  will  cry  murder, 
And  raise  the  streets. 

Sec.  Before  my  captain,  ha! 
And  bring  my  head  to  the   block.     Would  we  were 

parted, 

I  have  greater  cause  to  fear  the  watch  than  he. 
Law.  Will  you  do  your  duty? 
Sev.   1  must  close  with  him  : — 
Troih,  sir,  whate'er  you  are  (yet  by  your  language 
I  guess  you  a  gentleman),  I'll  not  use  the  rigour 
Of  my  place  upon  you  :  only  quit  this  street, 
For  your  stay  here  will  be  dangerous  ;  and  good 

night! 

Lav.  The  like  to  you,  sir;  I'll  grope  out  my  way 
As  well  as   I  can.     O  daran'd  bawd ! — Fare   you 
well,  sir.  [Exit. 

Sev.  I  am  glad  he's  gone ;  there  is  a  secret  pas- 
sage, 
Unknown  to  my  wife,  through  which  this   key  will 

guide  me 

To  her  desired  embraces,  which  must  be, 
My  presence  being  beyond  her  hopes,  most  wel- 
come. [Exit. 

SCENE  VI.— A  Room  in  Severino's  House. 

IOLANTE  is  heard  speaking  behind  a  curtain, 
lol.  lam  full  of  perplex 'd  thoughts.     Imperious 

blood, 

Thou  only  art  a  tyrant ;  judgment,  reason, 
To  whatsoever  thy  edicts  proclaim 
With  vassal  fear  subscribe  against  themselves. 
I  am  yet  safe  in  the  port,  and  see  before  me, 
If  I  put  off,  a  rough  tempestuous  sea, 
The  raging  winds  of  infamy  from  all  quarters 
Assuring  my  destruction  ;  yer  my  lust 
Swelling  the  wanton  sails  (my  understanding 
Stow'd  under  hatches),  like  a  desperate  pilot, 
Commands  me  to  urge  on.     My  pride,  my  pride, 
Self-love,  and  over-value  of  myself, 
Are  justly  punish 'd:   I,  that  did  deny 
My  daughter's  youth  allow'd  und  lawful  pleasures, 
And  would  not  suffer  in  her  those  desires 
She  suck'd  in  with  my  milk,  now  in  my  waning 
Am  scorch'd  and  burnt  up  with  libidinous  fire, 
That  must  consume  my  fame  ;  yet  still  1  throw 
More  tuel  on  it. 

Enter  SEVERING  before  the  curtain. 
'     Sev.  'Tis  her  voice,  poor  turtle  : 
She's  now  at  her  devotions,  praying  for 
Her  banish'd  mate  ;  alas,  that  tor  my  guilt 
Her  innocence  should  suffer!   But  I  do 
Commit  a  second  sin  in  mv  deferring 
The  ecstacy  of  joy  that  will  transport  her 
Beyond  herself,  when  she  flies  to  my  lips, 
An.l    seals   my    welcome.— [Draws  the  curtain.]  — 
Ib'Iante ! 

lot.  Ha! 
Good  angels  guard  me  ! 

Sev.  What  do  I  behold  ! 

Some  sudden  flash  of  lightning  strike  me  blind, 
Or  cleave  the  centie  of  the  earth,  thut  I 
May  living  find  a  sepulchre  to  swallow 
Me  and  my  shame  together! 

lot.  Guilt  and  horror 

Tnatound  me  in  one  instant ;  thus  surprised, 
The  subtlety  ot  all  wantons,  though  abstracted, 
Can  show  no  seeming  colour  of  excuse, 
To  plead  iu  my  defence. 


Sev.  Is  this  her  mourning  1 

0  killing  object  !   The  imprison'd  vapours 

Of  rage  and  sorrow  make  an  eaithqunke  in  roe  : 

This  little  world,  like  to  a  tottering  tower, 

Not  to  be  underpropp'd  ; — yet  in  my  fall 

I'll  crush  thee  with  my  ruins.          [brutes  a  poiiiard. 

lol.  [kneeling.']  Good  sir,  hold: 
For,  my  defence  unheard,  you  wrong  your  justice, 
If  you  proceed  to  execution, 
And  will  too  late  repent  it. 

Sev.  Thy  defence ! 

To  move  it,  adds  (could  it  receive  addition) 
Ugliness  to  the  loathsome  leprosy 
That,  in  thy  being  a  strumpet,  hath  already 
Infected  every  vein,  and  spreads  itself 
Over  this  carrion,  which  would  poison  vultures 
And  dogs,  sho;ild  they  devour  it.      Yet,  to  stamp 
The  seal  of  reprobation  on  thy  soul, 
I'll  hear  thy  impudent  lies,  borrow'd  from  hell, 
And  prompted  by  the  devil,  thy  tutor,  whore  ! 
Then  send  thee  to  him.     Speak. 

lol.  Your  Gorgon  looks 
Turn  me  to  stone,  and  a  dead  palsy  seizes 
My  silenced  tongue. 

Sea.  O  Fate,  that  the  disease 
Were  general  in  women,  what  a  calm 
Should  wretched  men  enjoy  !  Speak,  and  be  brief. 
Or  thou  shall  suddenly  feel  me. 

lol.  He  appeased,  sir, 
Until  I  have  delivered  reasons  for 
This  solemn  preparation. 

See.  On,  1  hear  thee. 

lol.  With   patience  ask  your  memory;  'twill  in- 
struct you, 
This    very   day    of    the    month,   seventeen    yeara 

since. 
You  married  me. 

Sev.  Grant  it,  what  canst  thou  urge 
From  ibis? 

lol.  That  day,  since  your  proscription,  sir, 
In  the  remembrance  of  it  annually, 
The  garments  of  my  sorrow  laid  aside, 

1  have  with  pomp  observed. 

•vet'.  Alone ! 

lol.  The  thoughts 

Of  my  felicity  then,  my  misery  now, 
Were  the  invited  guests  ;  imugination 
Teaching  me  to  believe  that  you  were  present, 
And  ti  partner  in  it. 

Sev.  Rare  !  this  real  banquet 

To  feast  your  fancy  :  fiend  !  could  fancy  drink  off 
These  flagons  to  my  health,  or  the  idle  thought 
Like  Baal  devour  these  delicates?  the  room 
Perfumed  to  take  his  nostrils  !   this  loose  habit, 
Which  Messalina  would  not  wear,  put  on 
To  fire  his  lustful  eyes!     Wretch,  am  1  grown 
So  weak  in  thy  opinion,  that  it  can 
Flatter  credulity  that  tin  se  gross  tricks 
May   be  foi>ted   on   me?     Where's  my  daughter? 

where 

The  bawd  your  woman?  answer  me. — Calista! 
Mirtilla  !  they  are  disposed  of,  if  not  murdered, 
To  make  all  sure ;  and  yet  methiuks  your  neigh- 
bour, 

Your  whistle,  agent,  parasite,  Calipso, 
Should  be  within  call,  when  you  hem,  to  usher  in 
The  close  adulterer.  [Lays  hands  on  her 

lol.  What  will  you  do? 

Seo.   Not  kill  thee,  do  not  hope  it ;  I  am  not 
So  near  to  reconcilement.     Ha  !   this  scarf 


SCENE  VI.] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


445 


The  intended  favour  to  your  st:illion.  now 

Is    useful:  do    not   strive; — [//«   biiidi    fter.]    thus 

bound,  expect 

All  studied  tortures  my  assurance,  not 
Mv  jealousy,  thou  ait  false,  can  pour  upon  thee. 
In  darkness  howl  thy  mischiefs;  and  if  rankness 
Of  thy  imagination  can  conjure 
The  ribald  [hither*],  glut  thyself  with  him; 
I  will  cry  Aim,  and  in  another  room 
Determine  of  my  vengeance.     Ob,  my  heartstrings  ! 
[Kiit  u-ith  the  tapers. 

lol.  Most  miserable  woman  !  and  yet  sitting 
A  judge  in  mine  own  cause  ujion  myself, 
I  could  not  mitigate  the  heavy  doom 
My  incensed  husband  must  pronounce  upon  me. 
In  my  intents  1  am  guilty,  and  for  them 
Must  suffer  the  same  punishment,  as  if 
I  had  in  fact  offended. 

Calip.  [within.]  Bore  my  eyes  out 
If  you  prove  me  faulty  :   I'll  but  tell  my  lady 
What  caused  your  slay,  and  instantly  present  you. 

Enter  CALIPSO. 
How's  this?  no  lights  !    What  new  device?  will  she 

play 
At  blindraan's-buff?  Madam! 

lot.  Upon  thy  life, 
Speak  in  a  lower  key. 

Catip.  The  mystery 
Of  this,  sweet  lady  ?  where  are  you! 

lol.  Here,  fast  bound. 

Cat'ip.  By  whom? 

lol.  I'll  whisper  thai  into  thine  ear, 
And  then  farewell  for  ever. 

Cattf).  How  !  my  lord  I 

I  am  in  a  fever:  horns  upon  horns  grow  on  Lira ! 
Could  he  pick  no  hour  but  this  to  break  a  bargain 
Almost  made  up? 

Jo!.   What  shall  we  do? 

Culip.  Betray  him ; 
I'll  iiistantly  raise  the  watch. 

lul.  And  so  make  me 
For  ever  infamous. 

Culip.  The  gentleman, 
The  rarest  gentleman,  is  at  the  door, 
Shall  he  lose    his   labour]    Since   that  you    must 

perish, 

Twill  show  a  woman's  spleen  in  you  to  fall 
Deservedly  ;  give  him  his  answer,  madam. 
1  have  on  tho  sudden  in  my  head  a  strange  whim  ; 
But  1  will  first  unbind  you. 

lol.  .Now  what  follows? 

Calip.  1  will  supply  your  place  :  and,  bound,  give 

me 

Your  mantle,  take  my  night-gown  ;  send  away 
The  gentleman  satislied.     1  know  my  lord 
Wants  power  to  hurt  you,  1  perhaps  may  get 
A  kiss  by  the  bargain,  and  all  this  may  prove 
But  some  neat  love-trick  ;  if  he  should  grow  furious, 
And  question  me,  1  am  resolved  to  put  on 
An  obstinate  silence.      Pray  you  dispatch  the  gen- 
tleman, 
His  courage  may  cool. 

lot.   I'll  speak  with  him,  but  if 
To  any  base  or  lustful  end,  may  mercy 
At  my  last  gasp  forsake  me  !     '  [Exit. 


•  Thf.  ribald  [hither,]  glut  thys<  If  with  him  ;]  The 
word  iuclostd  in  brackets,  <>r  ouc  ol  a  similar  meaning,  seems 
necessary  to  complete  the  sense  as  well  as  the  metre. 


Calip.  I  was  too  rash, 
And  have  done  what  1  wish  undone  :  say  ho  should 

kill  me? 

1  have  run  my  head  in  a  fine  noose,  and  I  smell 
The  pickle  I  am  in  !   'las,  how  1  shudder 
Still  more  and  more  !   would  I  were  :i  she  Priapus, 
Stuck  up  in  a  garden  to  fright  awny  the  crows, 
So  I  were  out  of  the  house  !   she's  at  her  pleasure," 
Whate'er  she  said  ;  and  I  must  endure  the  torture — 
He  comes ;  I  cannot  pruv,  my  fears  will  kill  me. 

Re-enter  SEVERING  with  a  knife  in  his  hand,  throwing 
open  the  doors  violent  lit. 

Set:  It  is  a  deed  of  darkness,  and  I  need 
No  light  to  guide  me  ;  there  is  something  tells  me 
1  am  too  slow-paced  in  my  wreak,  and  trifle 
In  my  revenge.     All  hush'd  !  no  sigh  nor  groan 
To  witness  her  compunction  !  can  guilt  sleep, 
And  innocence  be  open-eyed  ?  even  now, 
Perhaps,  she  dreams  of  the  adulterer, 
And  in  her  fancy  hugs  Lim.     Wake,  thou  strumpet, 
Anil  instantly  give  up  unto  my  vengeance 
The  villain  that  defiles  my  bed  ;  discover 
Both  what  and  where  he  is,  and  suddenly, 
That  I  may  bind  you  face  10  face,  then  sew  you 
Into  one  sack,  and  from  some  steep  rock  hurl  you 
Into  the  sea  together  :  do  not  play  with 
The  lightning  of  my  rage  ;  break  stubborn  silence, 
And  answer  my  demands  ;  will  it  not  be? 
I'll  talk  no  longer;  thus  I  mark  t.b«»e  for 
A  common  strumpet      [Strikes  at  her  u-ith  the  knife, 

Calip.  Oh! 

Sev.  Thus  stab  these  arms 

That    have    stretch'd    out    themselves   to   grasp  a 
stranger. 

Calip.  Oh! 

Sev.  This  is  but  an  induction  ;  I  will  draw 
The  curtains  of  the  tragedy  hereafter: 
Howl  on,  'tis  music  tome.  [Erie. 

Calip.  He  is  gone. 

A  kiss,  and  love-tricks  !  he  bath  villanous  teeth, 
May  sublimed  mercury  draw  them  !  if  all  dealers 
In  my  profession  were  paid  thus,  there  would  be 
A  dearth  of  cuckolds.     Oh  my  nose  !  I  had  one  : 
My  arms,  my  arms!  I  dare  not  cry  for  fear ; 
Cursed  desire  of  gold,  how  art  thou  punish 'd ! 

Re-enter  IOLANTE. 

Tvl.  Till  now  I  never  truly  knew  myself, 
Nor  by  all  principles  and  lectures  read 
In  chastity's  cold  school,  was  so  instructed 
As  by  her  contrary,  how  base  and  deform'd 
Loose  appetite  is  ;  as  in  a  few  short  minutes 
This  stranger  hath,  and  feelingly,  deliver'd. 
Oh  !  that  1  could  recal  my  bad  intentions, 
And  be  as  1  was  yesterday,  untainted 
In  my  desires,  as  I  am  still  in  fact, 
1  thank  bis  temperance  !  I  could  look  undaunted 
Upon  my  husband's  rage,  and  smile  at  it, 
So  strong  the  guards  and  sure  defences  are 
Of  armed  innocence;  but  I  will  endure 
The  penance  of  my  sin,  the  only  means 
Is  left  to  purge  it.    The  day-breaks.     Calipso! 

Cnlip.  Here,  madam,  here. 

I'oL  Hath  my  lord  visited  thee  ? 

Calip.  Hell  take  such  visits  !   these  stabb'd.arms, 

and  loss 

Of  my  nose  you  left  fast  on,  may  gire  you  a  relish 
What  a  night  I  have  had  oft,  and  what  you  had 

suffered, 
Had  I  not  supplied  your  place. 


4?6 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


r ACT  111. 


IS'.  I  truly  grieve  for't; 
Did  not  inv  h'ishand  sp_°ak  to  thee? 

Ctilip.   Yes,  I  heard  him, 
And  telt  \tim,eree  signum,  with  a  mischief! 
Hut  he  knew  not  me  ;  like  a  true-bred  Spirtan  boy* 
With  silence  I  endured  it,  he  could  not  get 
One  syllithle  from  me. 

lot.  Something  may  be  fashion'd 
From  this;  invention  help  me  !  I  must  be  sudden. 

[  Unbiinli  her. 
Thou  art  free,  exchange,  quick,  quick  !  now  bind  me 

sure, 
An«l  leave  me  to  mv  fortune. 

C.i///).   I'ray  you  consider 
The  loss  of  my  nose  ;  had  I   been   but  carted  for 

you, 

Though  wasli'd.  with  mire  and  chamber-lie,  I  had 
Examples  'o  excuse  me  ;  but  my  nose, 
My  nose,  dear  ladv  ! 

lot.  (Jet  off,  I'll  send  to  thee.  [Exit  Calipsa. 

If  sJi,  it  may  take  ;  if  it  fail,  I  must 
Sutler  whatever  follows. 

Pe-enter  SEVERING  with  a  taper. 

Sev.  I  have  searched 

In  every  corner  of  the  house,  yet  find  not 
My  daughter,  nor  her  maid  ;  nor  any  print 
Of  a  man's  footing,  which,  this  wet  night,  would 
Be  easily  discern 'd.  (he  ground  being  soft, 
At  his  coming  in  or  going  out. 

Jot.  ' Tis  bef. 

And  within  hearing;  heav'n  forgive  this  feigning!, 
I  being  forced  to't  to  preserve  my  life, 
To  he  better  spent  hereafter ! 

fiev.  1  begin 

To  stagger,  and  my  love,  if  it  knew  how 
(Her  piety  heretofore,  and  fame  remembered), 
Would  plead  in  her  excuse. 

lot.  You  blessed  guardians 
Of  matrimonial  faith,  and  just  revengers 
Of  such  as  do  iu  fact  offend  against 
Your  sacred  rites  and  ceremonies  ;  by  all  titles 
And  holy  attributes  you  do  vouchsafe 
To  be  invoked,  look  down  with  saving  pitj 
Upon  my  matchless  sufferings  ! 

Sev.  At  her  devotions  : 
Affliction  makes  her  repent. 

lol.  Look  down 

Upon  a  wretched  woman,  and  as  1 
Have  kept  the  knot  of  wedlock,  in  the  temple 
By  the  priest  fasten'd,  firm  (though  in  loose  wishes 
I  yield  1  have  offended)  ;  to  stnke  blind 


like  a  true-bred  Spartan  boy.)  The  old  copy 


frVh  . 

read'/ox.    The  amendment  by  Mr.  M.  Mason 
+  161.  'Tit  he, 


-  All 

'Tit  he' 

A  ntt  I'm  within  hearing  ;  heaven,  &c 

The  numetrical  turn  of  the  line  shows  that  »omelhin<r  i, 
wrnnR  ;  ami,  indeed,  what  liilanle  wanted  was,  that  her  hus- 
band •bould  be  within  heating,  that  she  might  begin  her  ad 
junmunt.  "  To  rcina.k,11  as  Joliim-n  says  (on  another  occa- 
won),  «  the  improbability  of  the  fiction,  or  the  absurdity  of 
the  conduct  ••{  this  strange  interlude,  were  to  v"S*teciitici!ra 
npoii  unresisting  imbecility." 


The  eyes  of  jealousy,  that  see  a  crime 
I  never  yet  committed,  arid  to  free  me 
From  the  unjust  suspicion  of  my  lord, 
Restore  my  manyr'd  face  and  wounded  arms 
To  their  late  strength  and  beauty. 

Sev.  Does  she  hope 
To  be  cured  by  miracle  ? 

lot.   This  minute  I 

Perceive  with  joy  my  orisons  heard  and  granted  • 
You  mini-ters  of  mercy,  who  unseen, 
And  by  a  supernatural  means,  have  done 
This  work  of  heavenly  charity,  be  ever 
Canonized  for't ! 

Sn.  I  did  not  dream,  1  heard  her, 
And  I  have  eyes,  too  ;  they  cannot  deceive  me  : 
If  I  have  no  belief  in  their  assurance*, 
I  must  turn  sceptic.     Ma  !   this  is  the  hand, 
And  this  the  fatal  instrument  :  these  drops 
Of  blood,  that  gush'd  forth  from  her  face  and  arms, 
Still  fresh  upon  the  floor.     This  is  something  more 
Than  wonder  or  amazement;   I  profess 
I  am  astonish'd. 

lot.  Be  incredulous  still, 
And  go  on  in  your  barbarous  rage,  led  to  it 
By  your  false  guide,  suspicion;  have  no  faith 
In  my  so  long  tried  loyalty,  nor  believe 
That  which  you  see  ;  and  for  your  satisfaction, 
My  doubted  innocence  clear'd  l;y  miracle. 
Proceed,  these  veins  have  now  new  blood,  if  you 
Resolve  to  let  it  out. 

Sev.  I  would  not  be  fool'd 

With  easiness  of  belief,  and  faintly  give  [Aside, 

Credit  to  this  strange  wonder  :  'tis  now  thought  on  : 
In  a  fitter  place   and  time  I'll  sound  this  further. 

[Unties  her. 

How  can  I  expiate  my  sin  ?  or  hope, 
Though  now  I  write  myself  thy  sluve,  the  service 
Of  my  whole  life  can  win  thee  to  pronounce 
Despair'd-of  pardon  ?     Shall  I  kneel?  that's  poor. 
Thy  mercy  must  urge  more  in  my  defence, 
Than  I  can  fancy  ;  wilt  thou  have  revenge  ? 
My  heart  lies  open  to  t)-ee. 

lot.  This  is  needless 
To  me,  who  in  the  duty  of  a  wife, 
Know  I  must  suffer. 

Sev.  Thou  art  made  up  of  goodness, 
And  from  my  confidence  that  I  am  alone 
The  object  of  thy  pleasures,  until  death 
Divorce  us,  we  will  know  no  separation. 
Without  inquiring  why,  us  sure  thou  wilt  not, 
Such  is  thy  meek  obedience,  thy  jewels 
And  choicest  ornaments  pack'd  up,  thou  shalt 
Along  with  me,  and  as  a  queen  be  honour'd 
By  such  as  style  me  sovereign.     Already 
My  banishment  is  repeal'd,  thou  being  present : 
The  Neapolitan  court  a  place  of  exile 
When  thou  art  absent :  my  stay  here  is  mortal, 
Of  which  thou  art  too  sensible,  I  perceive  it ; 
Come,  dearest  Iblatite,  with  this  breath 
All  jealousy  is  blown  away.  [Embraces  her. 

let.  Be  constant.  [Exeunt. 


have  no  belief  in  their  assurance,]  So  the  qnarto, 
Coxcter  misprinted  it— in  their  ariitance ;  and  Mr.  M.  Ma;on 
ridiculously  followed  him. 


Sovc  I/] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


ACT   IV 


SCENE  I.— The  Country, 


A  Noise  within  ; — then  enter  DURAZZO,  CALDORO, 
and  Servant,  with  CALISTA  in  their  arms. 

Dur.  Hell  take  the  stumbling  jade! 
Cald    Heaven  help  the  lady  ! 
iS>iT.  The  horse  hath  broke  his  neck. 
Dnr.   Would  thine  were  crack'd  too, 
So  the  la<ly  had  no  harm !     Give  her  fresh  air, 
'Tis  hut  a  swoon. 

C't'd.  'Tis  more,  she's  dead. 
Dur.   Examine 
Her  limbs  if  they  be  whole :  not  too  high,  not  too 

hiffb, 

You  ferret :  this  is  no  coney-borough  for  you. 
How  do  you  find  her? 

Cald.  No  breath  of  comfort,  sir:  too  cruel  fate  ! 
H:ul  I  still  pined  away,  and  lingered  under 
The  modesty  of  just  and  honest  hopes, 
After  a  long  consumption,  sleep  and  death 
To  me  had  been  the  same  ;  but  now,  as  'twere, 
Possess'd  of  all  my  wishes,  in  a  moment 
To  have  them  ravish'd  from  me!  suffer  shipwreck 
lii    view    of    the   port !    and,   like    a   half-starved 

beggar, 

No  sooner  in  compassion  clothed,  but  coffiu'd  ! — 
Malevolent  destinies,  too  cunning  in 
Wretched  Caldoro's  tortures  !   O  Calista, 
If  thy  immortal  part  hath  not  already 
Left  this  ftir  palace,  let  a  beam  of  light 
Dawn  from  thine  eye,  in  this  Cimmerian  darkness, 
To  gui  e  my  shaking  hand  to  touch  the  anchor 
Of  hope  in  thy  recovery. 
C,//«.  (Hi  ! 
l)ur.  She  lives  ; 

Disturb  her  not ;  she  is  no  right-bred  woman 
If  she  die  with  one  fall ;  some  of  any  acquaintance 
Have  ta'en  a  thousand  merrily,  and  are  still 
Excellent  wrestlers  at  the  close  hug. 
CulrL  Good  sir — 
Dnr.  Priihee    be    not    angry,    I    should  speak 

thus  if 
My  mother  were  in  her  place. 

C'dil.  But  had  you  heard 
The  music  of  the  language  which  she  used 
To  me,  believed  Adorio,  as  she  rode 
Behind  me  ;  little  thinking  that  she  did 
Embrace  Caldoro — 
Calls.  Ah,  Adorio ! 
Dur.  Leave  talking,  I  conceive  it. 
Cults.  Are  you  safe? 
Culd.  And  raised,  like  you,   from  death  to  life,  to 

hear  you. 
Ca<is.  Hear  my  defence    then,    ere   I  take   my 

veil  off, 

A  simple  maid's  defence,  which,  looking  on  you, 
I  faintly  could  deliver  ;  willingly 
1  am  become  your  prize,  and  therefore  use 
Your  victory  nobly  ;  heaven's  bright  eye,  the  sun, 
Draws  tip  the  grossest  vapours,  and  I  hope 
]  ne'er  shall  prove  an  envious  cloud  to  darken 
The  splendour  of  your  merits.     I  could  urge 
With  what  disdain,  liny  scorn,  I  have  declined 
The  shadows  of  insinuating  pleasures 
Tendered  by  all  men  else,  you  only  being 


The  object  of  my  hopes:  that  cruel  prince 

To  whom  the  olive-branch  of  peace  is  offered, 

Is  not  a  conqueror,  but  a  bloody  tyrant, 

If  be  refuse  it ;  nor  should  you  wish  a  triumph, 

Because  Calista's  humble  :  I  have  said, 

And  now  expect  your  sentence. 

Diir.   Wrhat  a  throng 

Of  clients  would  be  in  the  court  of  Love, 
Were   there   many  such    she-advocates !    art  Uioo 

dumb  ? 
Canst  thou  say  nothing  for  thyself? 

Cald.  Dear  lady, 

Open  your  eyes,  and  look  upon  the  man, 
The  man  you  have  elected  for  your  judge, 
Kneeling  to  you  for  mercy. 

Calis.  1  should  know 

This  voice,  and  something  more  than  fear  I  am 
Deceived ;  but  now  I  look  upon  his  face, 
I  am  assured  I  am  wrc tched. 

Dnr.  Why,  good  lady  ? 

Hold  her  up,  she'll  fall  again  before  her  time  else  ( 
The   youth's    a    well- timbered  youth,  look  on  hit 

making  ; 

His  hair  curled  naturally  ;  he's  whole-chested  too, 
And  will  do  his  work  as  well,  and  go  through-stitch 

with't, 

As  any  Adorio  in  the  world,  my  state  on't ! 
A  chicken  of  the  right  kind  ;    and   if    he   prove 

not 

A  cock  of  the  game,  cuckold  him  first,  and  after 
Make  a  capon  of  him. 

Calis.  I'll  cry  out  a  rape, 
If  thou  unhand  me  not :  would  I  had  died 
In  my  late  trance,  and  never  lived  to  know 
I  am  betray'd  ! 

Dur.  To  a  young  and  active  husband  ! 
Call  you  that  treachery  ?  there  are  a  shoal  of 
Young  \\enches  i'the  city,  would  vow  a  pilgrimage 
Beyond  Jerusalem,  to  be  so  cheated. — 
To  her  again,  you  milk-sop  !  violent  storms 
Are  soon  blown  over. 

Calls.  How  could 'st  thou,  Caldoro, 
With  such  a  frontless  impudence  arm  thy  hopes 
So  far,  as  to  believe  I  might  consent 
To  this  lewd  practice?  have  I  not  often  told  thee 
Howe'er  I  pitied  thy  misplaced  affection, 
I  could  not  answer  it ;  and  that  there  was 
A  strong  antipathy  between  our  passions, 
Not  to  be  reconciled? 

Cald.  Vouchsafe  to  hear  me 
With  an  impartial  ear,  and  it  will  take  from 
The  rigour  of  your  censure.     Man  was  mark'd 
A  friend  in  his  creation  to  himself, 
And  may  with  fit  ambition  conceive 
The  greatest  blessings,  and  the  highest  honours 
Appointed  for  him,  if  he  can  achieve  them 
The  right  and  noble  way  :  I  grant  you  were 
The  end  of  my  design,  but  still  pursued 
With  a  becoming  modesty,  heaven  at  length 
Being  pleased,  and  not  my  arts,  to  further  it. 

Dur.  Now  he  comes  to  her:  on,  hoy. 

Cald.  I  have  served  you 
With  a  religious  zeal,  and  borne  the  bu:then 
Of  your  neglect,  if  1  may  call  it  so, 
Beyond  the  patience  of  a  man  :  to  prove  this.. 


488 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


[Acr  IV. 


I  have  seen  those  eye's  with  pleasant  glances  play* 

Upon  Adorio's,  like  Phoebe's  shine, 

tiilding  r.  crystal  river  ;  and  your  lip 

Rise  uj>  in  civil  courtship  to  meet  his. 

While  I  hit  mine  with  envy  :   yet  these  favours, 

Howe'er  my  passions  raged,  could  not  provoke  me 

To  one  net  of  rebellion  against 

My  loyalty  to  you   the  sovereign 

To  whom  I  owe  obedience. 

Calis.    My  blushes 
Confess  this  for  a  truth. 

Dnr.  A  flug  of  truce  is 
Hung  out  in  this  acknowledgment. 

CM.  I  could  add, 

Hut  that  vou  may  interpret  what  I  speak 
The  malice  of  a  iival,  rather  than 
Mv  due  respect  to  your  deserts,  how  faintly 
Adorio  hath  return 'd  thanks  to  the  bounty 
Of  your  HtTVction,  ascribing  it 
As  a  tribute  to  his  worth,  and  not  in  you 
An  act  of  mercy  :   coulJ  he  else,  invited 
(As  by  your  words  I  understood)  to  take  you 
To  his  protection,  grossly  neglect 
So  gracious  an  offer,  or  give  power 
To  fate  itself  to  cross  him  ?  O,  dt-ar  madam, 
We  are  all  the  balls  of  time,  toss'd  to  and  fro, 
From    the    plough    unto    the     throne,    arid    back 

again  : 

Under  the  swing  of  destiny  mankind  suffers, 
And  it  appears,  by  an  unchanged  decree. 
You  were  appointed  mine ;  wise  nature  always 
Aiming  at  due  proportion  :  and  if  so, 
I  may  believe  wMi  confidence,  heaven,  in  pity 
Of  my  sincere  affection,  and  long  patience, 
Directed  you,  by  a  most  blessed  error, 
To  your  vow'd  servant's  bosom. 

Dnr.  By  mv  holidam, 
Tickling  philosophy  ! 

C<ili'.  1  am.  sir,  too  weak 
To  argue  with  you  ;  but  my  stars  have  better, 
I  hope,  provided  for  me. 

Catd.  If  there  be 

Disparity  between  us,  'tis  in  your 
Compassion  to  level  it. 

Dur.  Give  fire 
To  the  mine,  and  blow  her  up. 

Calii.  I  ;im  sensible 

Of  what  you  have  endured  ;  but  on  the  sudden, 
With  my  unusual  travel,  and  late  bruise, 
I  am  exceeding  weary  ;  in  yon  grove, 
While  I  repose  myself,  be  you  my  guard  ; 
My  spirits  with  some  little  rest  revived, 
We  will  consider  further :  for  my  part 
You  shall  receive  modest  and  gentle  answers 
To  your  demands,  though   short,  perhaps,  to  make 

you 
Full  satisfaction. 


•     /  have  if  en  thote  ryes  with  pleasant  glances  play 
Upon    Adnri<>'t,  &c.]    This  it   a  most   beautiful  rimile ; 
In    'the    II  inter'*    Tale    we    have    one    very   much    like 
ft  r- 

" He  say!1,  he  loves  my  daughter; 

I  think  so  too:  fur  never  gaz'd  llie  moon 
Upon  the  water,  as  he'll  stand,  and  read, 
As  'twere,  my  daughter's  eyes  "      COXETER. 
I  would  not  deprive  the  reader  of  these  pretty  lines  ;  though 
1  cannot  avoid  i.b.-ervins;,  that  llu-y  present  an  image  totally 
di.'tinct  I'rom  that  which  they  are  cited  to  exemplify.     One 
Is  the  picture  of  complacent  affection,  the  othor  of  rapturous 
delight:  the  language  of  both  is  singularly  happy. 


Calil.   I  am  exalted 

In  the  employment  ;  sleep  secure,  I'll  be 
Your  vigilant  centinel. 

Calls.    ISut  I  command  you, 
And  as  you  hope  for  future  t;race,  obey  me, 
Presume  not  with  one  stolen  kiss  to  disturb 
The  quiet  of  my  slumbers  ;  let  your  temperance, 
And  not  your  lust,  watch  o'er  me, 

C'il'1.   My  desires 
Are  frozen,  till  your  pity  shall  dissolve  them. 

Dur.    Frozen  !  think  not  of  frost,  fool,  in  the  dog 

days. 

Remember  the  old  adage,  and  make  use  oft, 
Occasion's  bald  behind. 

Calis.  Is  this  your  uncle? 

Cald.  And    guardian,    madam;    at   your   better 

leisure, 

When  I  have  deserved  it,  you  may  give  him  thanks 
For  his  many  favours  to  me. 

Cnlin.   He  appears 
A  pleasant  gentleman. 

[E.ietmt  Caldtrro and  Calista. 

Dur.  You  should  find  me  so. 
But  that  I  do  hate  incest.     I  grow  heavy  ; 
Sirrah,  provide  fresh  horses;  I'll  seek  out 
Some  hollow  tree,  and  dream  till  you  return, 
Which  I  charge  you  to  hasten. 

Serv.  With  all  care,  sir.  [Eifunt. 


SCENE  II.— The  Country.     A  Rwm  in  Adorio's 
House. 

Enter  CAIUO  tcith  several  Villu<>ers. 

Car.  Let  your  eyes  be  rivetted  to  my  heels,  and 

miss  not 

A  hair's  breadth  of  my  footing  ;  our  dance  has 
A  most  melodious  note,  and  I  command  you 
To  have   ears  like  hares  this  night,  for  my  lord's 

honour, 

And  something  for  my  worship :  your  reward  is 
To  be  drunk-blind  like  moles,  in  the  wine-cellar; 
And  though  you  ne'er  see  alter,  'tis  the  better  ; 
You  were  bom  for  this  night's  service.  And  do  you 

hear, 
Wire-string  and  cat-gut   men,  and  strong-breath'd 

hoboys, 

For  the  credit  of  your  calling,  have  not  your  instru- 
ments 
To  tune  when  you  should  strike  np  ;  but  twang  it 

perfectly, 
As  you  would   read  your  neck-verse :    and  you, 

warbler, 
Keep  your  wind-pipe  moist,  that  you  may  not  spit 

and  hem, 

When  you  should  make  division.     How  I  sweat! 
Authority  is  troublesome  : — [A  horn  u-ithin.] — they 

are  come, 

I  know  it  by  the  cornet  that  I  placed 
On  the  hill  to  give  me  notice  :  marshal  yourselves 
I'the  rear,  the  van  is  yours. 

Enter  ADORIO,  MIRTILLA,  CAMILLO,  LEXTULO,  and 
DONATO. 

Now  chant  it  sprightly. 


*  See  this  SONG,  with  that  in  Act  V.  sc.  i.,  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  play. 


I  I.I 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


Ador.  A  well-penn'd  ditty. 
Camil.   Not  ill  sung. 
Ador.  What  follows? 

Cur.  Use  your  eyes  ;  if  ever,  now  your  master- 
piece. 

A  DANCE. 

Ador.  Tis  well   perform'd :    take  that,  but  not 

from  me, 

'Tis  your  new  lady's  bounty,  thank  her  for  it  j 
All  that  I  have  is  her's. 

Car.  I  must  have  three  shares 
For  my  pains  and  properties,  the  rest  shall  be 
Divided  equally.  [E.reitn(  Curio  and  Villagers. 

Miit.  My  real  fears 

Begin,  and  soon  my  painted  comforts  vanish 
In  my  discovery. 

Ador.  Welcome  to  your  own  ! 
You  have  (a  wonder  i'n  a  woman)  kept 
Three  long  hours'  silence  ;  and  the  greater,  holding 
Your  own  choice  in  your  arms,  a  blessing  for  which 
I  will  be  thankful  to  you:  nay,  unmask, 
And  let  mine  e)C  and  ears  together  feast, 
Too  long  by  you  kept  empty.     <»h.  you  want 
Your  woman's  help,  I'll  do  her  office  for  you. 

[Takes  off  her  mask. 

Mirtilla! 

C-imil.  It  is  she,  and  wears  the  habit 
In  which  Calista  three  days  since  appeared 
As  she  came  from  the  temple. 

Lent.  All  this  trouble 
For  a  poor  waiting  maid  ! 
Don.  \\'e  are  grossly  gull'd. 
Ador.  Thou  child  of  impudence,  answer  me,  and 

truly, 

Or,  though  the  tongues  of  angels  pleaded  mercy, 
Tortures  shall  force  it  from  tliee. 

Mirt.  Innocence 

Is  free  and  open-breasted  ;  of  what  crime 
Stand  I  accused,  my  lord  ? 

Ador.  What  crime  !  no  language 
Can  speak  it  to  the  height ;  1  shall  become 
Discourse  for  fools  and  <irunkanls.     How  was  this 
Contrived?  who  l.elp'd  thee  in  the  plot  ?  discover: 
Were  not  Calista's  aids  in't? 

Mirt.  No,  on  my  life  j 
Nor  am  1  faulty. 

Ad"r.  No!  what  May-game's  this? 
Didst  thou  treat  with  me  for  thy  tuistresss'  favours, 
To  make  sale  of  thine  own  ? 

Mirt.   With  her  and  you 
I  have  dealt  faithfully*:  you  had  her  letter 
"With  the  jewel  1  presented  :  she  received 
Your  courteous  answer,  and  prepared  herself 
To  be  removed  by  you  :  and  howsoever 
You  take  delight  to  hear  what  you  have  done, 
From  mv  simplicity,  and  make  my  weakness 
The  subject  of  your  minh,  as  it  suits  well 
With  my  condition,  1  know  you  have  her 
In  your  possession. 

Ad»r.  How  !  has  she  left 
Her  mother's  house? 

Mirt.  You  drive  this  nail  too  far. 
Indeed  she  deeply  vow'd  at  her  departure 
To  send  some  of  your  lordship's  servants  for  me 
(Though  you  were  pleased  to  take  the  pains  your- 
self), 


«  /  /line  dealt  faithfully  :]  So  the  old  copy.  Coxcter  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  read  j'alihful,  which  utteily  destroys  the 
metre  :  but  there  i>  no  end  of  these  blunders. 


That  I  might  sr.ill  be  near  her.  as  a  shadow 
To  follow  her,  the  suhstance. 

'Ador.  She  is  gone  then  ? 

Mirt.  This  is  too  much  ;  but,  good  my  lord,  for- 
give me, 

I  come  a  virgin  hither  to  attend 
My  noble  mi.-tress,  though  1  must  confess 
I  look  with  sore  eyes  upon  lit-r  good  fortune, 
And  wisli  it  were  mine  own. 

Adur.  Then,  as  it  seems, 
You  do  yourself  affect  me  ? 

Mirt.  Should  she  hear  me, 
And  in  her  sudden  fury  kill  me  for't, 
I  durst  not,  sir,  deny  it ;  since  you  r.re 
A  man  so  form'd,  that  not  poor  1  alone, 
But  all  our  sex,  like  me,  1  think,  sta..d  bound 
To  be  enamour'd  of  you. 

A  dor.  O  my  fate ! 

How  justly  am  I  punish 'd,  in  thee  punish'J. 
For  my  defended  wantonness*!  I,  that  scorn'd 
The  mistress  when  she  sought  me,  now  1  would 
Upon  my  knees  receive  her,  am  become 
A  prey  unto  her  bondwoman,  my  honour  too 
Neglected  for  this  purchase.     Art  thou  one  of  thos4 
Ambitious  serving  women,  who  contemning 
The  embraces  of  their  equals,  aim  to  be 
The  wrong  way  ladyfied  by  a  lord?  was  there 
No  forward  page  or  footman  in  the  city 
To  do  the  feat,  that  in  thy  lust  I  am  chosen 
To  be  the  executioner?  Dar'st  thou  hope 
1  car.  descend  so  low  ? 

Mirt.  (.treat  lords  sometimes 

For  change  leave  calver'd  salmon,  and  eat  spratsf  : 
In  modesty  I  dare  speak  no  more. 

Camil.    If 'twere 

A  fish-day,  though  you  like  it  not,  I  could  say 
I  have  a  stomach,  and  would  content  myself 
With  this  pretty  whiting-mopj. 

Ador.  Discover  yet 
How  thou  cam'st  to  my  hands. 

Miit.  My  lady  gone, 

Fear  of  her  mother's  rage,  she  being  found  absent, 
Moved  me  to  fly  ;  and  quitting  of  the  house, 
You  were  pleas'd,  unask'd,  to  comfort  me  (I  used 
No  sorceries  to  bewitch  you)  ,  then  vouchsafed 
(Thanks  ever  to  the  darkness  of  the  night  !) 
To  hug  me  in  your  arms  ;  and  1  had  wiong'd 
My  breeding  near  the  court,  had  1  retused  it. 

Ador.  This  is  still  more  bitter ;  canst  thou  guess 

to  whom 
Thy  lady  did  commit  herself? 

Mirt.  They  were 
Horsemen,  as  you  are. 

Ador.  In  the  name  of  wonder, 


•  For  my  defended   wantonness .'  [  i.  fc.  foi  bidden,  intei- 
dicted. 

t  Mirt.  Great  lords  sometimes 

For  change  leave  calver'd  salmon,  and  eat  sprat*:]  See 
Maid  of  Honour,  Act  lll.sc.  i. 

j —  and  would  content  mytelf 

Ifith  this  pretty  whiting-wop.]  This  word  occurs  in  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  in  the  sublime  stiains  of  Bnstopha : 
"  The  wandering  seas,  who-e  watery  fire 

VV  ashes  the  whiting-mop*."    Maid  in  the  M 'II- 
"A  whiting  mop,"  says  their  editor,  "is  mart  ojfih  fo 
called!"  but  \vhelheritisaseal  or  asoland-g«.o»e,  he  does  not 
determine.     Ami  ?o  notes  are  written !     A  whittnjf-miip  is  a 


U-W»|    IIMW      "  " '  ~         lf    ~ 

moppet;  as,  whiting  moppet,  gurnard-;no^pe«,  £c.    p. 


430 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


[Acr  V. 


How  could  they  pass  the  port,  where  you  expected 
My  coming  ! 

Camil.  Now  I  think  upon't,  there  came 
Three  mounted  bv,  and  behind  one  a  woman 
Kmhrat-ing  fast  tin-  m.in  that  rode  before  her. 

Lent.   1  knew  the  men,  but  she  was  veil'd. 

Ador.   What  were  they  ? 

I^ent.  The  first  tlie  lord  Durazzo,  and  the  second 
Your  rival,  young  Caldoro  ;  it  was  he 
That  carried  the  wench  behind  him. 

Don    The  last  a  servant, 
Tliiit  spurr'd  last  after  them. 

Ador.   Worse  and  worse  !   'twas  she! 
Too  much  assurance  of  her  love  undid  me. 
Why  did  you  not  stay  them? 

Don.  We  had  no  such  commission. 

Camil.  Or  say  we  had,  who  durst  lay  fingers  on 
The  angry  old  ruffian  ? 

Lent.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather 
Take  a  baited  bull  by  the  horns. 

Ador.  You  are  sure  friends 
For  a  man  to  build  on  ! 

Camil.  They  are  not  far  off. 
Their  horses  appear'd  spent  too ;  let's  take  fresh 

ones 
And  coast  the  country,  ten  to  one  we  find  them. 

Ador.  I  will  not  e»t  nor  sleep,  until  I  have  them  : 
Moppet,  you  shall  along  too. 

Alii  t.  So  you  please 

I  may  keep  my  place  behind  you,  I'll  sit  fast, 
And  ride  with  you  aJl  the  world  o'er. 

Camil.  A  good  yirl.  ['Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Naples.     A  Street. 
Enter  LAVAL  and  CALIPSO. 

Lav.  Her  husbnnd  ?  J-everiuo  ? 

Calip.  You  may  see 

His  handiwork  by  my  flat  face  ;  no  bridge 
Left  to  support  my  organ,  if  1  had  one  : 
The  comfort  is.  1  am  now  secure  from  tliecrincomes, 
I  can  lose  nothing  that  way  *. 

Lav.  Dost  thou  not  know 
What  became  of  the  lady? 

Calip.  A  nose  was  enough  to  part  with, 
I  think,  in  the  service  ;  I  durst  stay  no  longer, 
But  1  am  full  assured  the  house  is  empty, 
Neither  poor  lady,  daughter,  servant,  left  there. 
I  only  guess  he  hath  forced  them  to  go  with  him 
To  the  dangerous  forest,  where  he  lives  like  a  kino- 
Among  the  banditti,  and  how  there  he  hath  used  them", 
Is  more  than  to  be  fear'd. 


Lav.  I  have  played  the  fool, 

And    kept  myself  too    long  concealed,  sans   ques- 
tion, 

With   the  danger   of  her  life.     Leave  me. Th» 

king  ! 

Enter  AU'HONSO  and  Captain. 

Calip.  The  surgeon  must  be  paid. 

Lav.  Take  that. 

Calip.   I  thank  you  ; 

I  have  got  eaougu  by  my  trade,  and  I  will  build 
An  hospital  only  for  noseless  bawds 
(Twill  speak  my  charity),  and  be  myself 
The  governess  of  the  sisterhood.  [Eiit. 

A I  ph.  I  may 

Forget  this  in  your  vigilance  hereafter  ; 
But  as  I.  am  a  king,  if  you  provoke  me 
The  second  time  with  negligence  of  this  kind, 
You  shall  deeply  smart  for't. 

Lav.  The  kind's  moved. 

Alph.  To  suffer 

A  murderer,  by  us  proscribed,  at  his  pleasure 
To  pass  and  repass  through  our  guards  ! 

Capt.  Your  pardon 

For  this,  my  gr  cious  lord,  binds  me  to  be 
More  circumspect  hereafter. 

Atph.  Look  vou  be  so. 
Monsieur  I  aval,  you  were  a  suitor  to  me 
For  Severino's  pardon. 

Lav.  I  was  so,  my  good  lord. 

Alph.  You   might    have   met   him   here,  to  have 

thanked  you  for't, 
As  now  1  understand. 

Lav.  So  it  is  rumoured  ; 
And  hearing  in  the  city  of  his  boldness, 
I  would  not  say  contempt  of  your  decrees, 
As  then  I  pleaded  mercy,  under  pardon, 
I  now  as  much  admire  the  slowness  of 
Your  justice  (though  it  force  you  to  some  trouble) 
In  fetching  him  in. 

Alph.  I  have  considered  it. 

Lav.  He  hath  of  late,  as  'tis  suspected,  done 
An  outrage  on  his  wife,  forgetting  nature 
To  his  own  daughter,  in  whom,  sir,  I  have 
Some  nearer  interest  than  1  stand  bound  to 
In  my  humanity,  which  I  gladly  would 
Make  known  unto  your  highness. 

Alph.  Go  along, 

You  shall  have  opportunity  as  we  walk  : 
See  you  what  I  committed  to  your  charge 
In  readiness,  and  without  noise. 

Capt.  1  shall,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— The  Country.     A  Forest. 
Enter  CLAUDIO  and  all  the  Banditti,  making  a  guard  • 
SEVEP.INO  and  IOLANTE  with  oaken-leaved  garlands'- 
Singers. 

A   SONG. 

Sev.  Here,  as  a  queen,  share  in  my  sovereignty. 
The  iron  toils  pitch'd  by  the  law  to  take 
The  forfeiture  of  my  life,  1  have  broke  through 

* 1  am  now  secure  from  the  crincomes, 

J  can  lose  nothing  that  way  ]    This  passage  scarcely 


And  secure  in  the  guards  of  these  few  subjects, 
Smile  at  Alphonso's  fury  ;  though  I  grieve  for 
The  fatal  cause,  in  your  good  brother's  loss, 
That  does  compel  me  to  this  course. 

Jot.  Revive  not 

A  sorrow  long  since  dead,  and  so  diminish 
The  full  fruition  of  those  joys,  which  now 

deserves  a  note  :  but  Calipso's  meaning;  is,  that,  by  (he  pr« 
vious  loss  of  her  nose,  she  is  secured  from  one  of  the  evili 
attendant  on  the  disease,  yet  known  among  the  vulgar  Uv 
the  nau.e  which  sue  assigns  to  it. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


431 


I  stand  possess'd  of:  womanish  fear  of  danger 
'I  bat  may  pursue  tins,  1  shake  off,  aud  with 
A  masculine  spirit. 

Sev.  "1  is  well  said. 

Tul.   In  you,  sir, 

I  live  ;  and  when,  or  by  the  course  of  nature, 
Or  violence,  you  must  fall,  the  end  of  my 
Devotions  is,  that  one  and  the  same  Lour 
May  make  us  fit  for  heaven. 

btu.    1  join  with  you 

In  my  votes  that  way*  :  but  how,  lolante, 
You  that  have  spent  vour  pa»t  days,  slumbering  ia 
The  down  of  quiet,  can  endure  the  hardness 
And  rough  condition  of  our  present  being, 
Does  much  disturb  me. 

lot.  These  woods,  Severino, 
Shall  more  than  seem  to  me  a  populous  city, 
You  being  present  ;  here  are  no  allurements 
To  tempt  mv  frailly,  nor  the  conversation 
Of  such  whose  choice  behaviour  or  discourse 
May  nourish  jealous  thoughts. 

See.  T'tie,  Jolante, 

Nor  shall  suspected  chastity  stand  in  need  here 
To  be  clear'd  by  miracle. 

lot.  Still  on  that  string. 
It  yields  har-h  discord. 

Sev.  1  had  forgot  myself. 
And  wish  I  might  no  mor<-  remember  it. 
The  day  wears,  sirs,  without  one  prize  brought  in 
As  tribute  to  your  queen  :  Claudio,  divide 
Our  squadron  in  small  parlies,  let  them  watch 
All  passages,  that  none  escape  without 
The  payment  of  our  customs. 

Claud,  Shiill  we  bring  in 
The  persons  with  the  pillage  1 

Sev.  By  all  means  . 

Without  reply,  about  it:   we'll  retire 

[Exeunt  Claudia  and  the  rest. 
Into  my  cave,  and  there  at  large  uiscourse 
Our  fortunes  past,  and  study  some  apt  means 
To  find  our  daughter ;  since,  she  well  disposed  of, 
Our  happiness  were  perfect. 

I'til.  We  must  wait 
With  patience  heaven's  pleasure. 

Sev   Tis  my  purpose.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  LENTULO  and  CASJILLO. 

Lent.  Tet  the  horses  graze,  they  are  spent. 

Camil.  I  am  sure  I'm  sleepv, 
And  nodded  as  1  rode;   here  was  a  jaunt 
I'  the  dark  through   thick  and  thin,  aud   all  to  no 

purpose  ! 
What  a  d illness  grows  upon  me  ! 

Lent.  1  can  hardly 

Hold  ope  mine  eyes  to  say  so.      How  did  we  lose 
Aciorio  .'  [They  tit  d,,wn. 

Camil.   He,  Donato,  and  the  wonch, 
That  cleaves  to  him  like   birdlime,    took  the  right 

hand ; 
But  this  place  is  our  rendezvous. 

Lent.  i\o  matter, 
We'll  talk  of  that  anon heigh  ho  !      [Falti  iislee}!. 

•  In  my  vol<s/Aa/  way*  i.  «•.  in  my  prayers;  I  know  not 
who  led  Uic  w.,y  u.  this  u.<l,iniic  «<!,.  tiinu.f  the  Uliu  \vuid, 
tutum,  fmt  1  rind  it  in  Juiison,  and  uilu-i-*. 


Camil.  He's  fa*t  already. 
Lentulo  !  I'll  tal^e  a  nap  too.  [Fails  a^le^p. 

Enter  ADOIIIO,  MIRTILLA,  and  DONATO. 

Adirr.   Was  ever  man  so  crost ? 

Mirt.   So  blest  ;  this  is 
The  finest  wild  goose  chase! 

Ador    What's  that  you  nritter  ? 

Mirt.  A  short   piayer,  that  you  may  fin  1   your 

wish'd-for  love. 
Though  I  am  lost  for  ever. 

Don.   Pretty  fool ! 
Who  have  we  here? 

Ailor.  This  is  Camilla. 

Mi'-t.  This  signior  Lentulo. 

Adur.   Wake  ilifin. 

Von.  They'll  not  siir. 
Their  eyelids  are  glued,  and   mine    too  ;  by  your 

favour, 
I'll  follow  tin  ir  example.  [Lies  damn. 

Ador.   Are  you  not  weary? 

Mirt.  1  know  not  what  the  word  means,   while 

travel 
To  do  you  service. 

Ador.    You  expect  to  reap 
The  harvest  of  your  fliitierv  ;  but  vour  hopes 
Will  be  blasted,  1  assure  you. 

Mirl.  So  you  irive  leave 
To  sow  it,  as  in  me  a  sign  of  duty. 
Though  you  deny  your  beams  "f  gracious  favour 
To  ripen  it,  with  patience  1  shall  >utt«-r. 

A'ter.   \o  more;  mv  resolution  to  find 
Calista,  by  what  accident  h»si  I  know  not, 
Binds  me  not  to  deny  myself  wh  it  nature 
Exiicteih  from  me  :  to  walk  alone  afoot 
(  For  in v  horse  is  tired)  were  madness,  I  must  sleep. 
You  could  iia  down  too  ? 

Min.   Willingly  ;  so  you  please 
To  use  me — 

Ador.  Use  thee ! 

Mirt.  As  your  pillow,  sir; 
I  dare  presume  no  further.     Noble  sir, 
Do  not  too  much  contemn  me ;  generous  ieel 
Spurn  not  a  fawning  spaniel. 

Ador.   Well  ;  sit  down. 

JUi'rt.  I  am  ready,  sir. 

Ador.  So  nimble ! 

Mirt.  Love  is  active, 

Nor  would  I  be  a  slow  thirg  :  rest  secure,  sir; 
On  my  maidenhead,  I'll  not  ravish  you. 

Ad<>r.  For  once, 
So  far  I'll  trust  you.  [Lays  his  head  on  her  lap. 

Mirt.  All  the  joys  of  rest 
Dwell  on  your  eyelids  ;  let  no  dream  disturb 
Your  soft  and  gentle  slumbers  !   I  cannot  sing. 
But  I'll  talk  you  asleep;  and  1  beseech  you 
Be  not  offended,  tlmu  .  !i  I  glory  in 
My  being  thus  employ 'd;  a  happiness 
That  stands  for  more  than  ample  satisfaction 
For  all  1  have,  or  can  endure. —  He  snores, 
And  does  int  hear  me  ;  would  his  sense  of  feeling 

Woie  bound  up  too  !   1  should I  am  all  fire. 

Such  heaps  of  treasure  offer'd  as  a  prev 
Would  tempt  a  modest  t  ief ;  I  can  no  longer 
Forbear — I'll  pently  touch  his  lips,  and  leave 
I^'o  print  of  mine  : — [/\i»j>es  /u«i.]  ah  ! — 1  have  heard 

of  nectar, 

But  till  now  never  tnsted  it :  these  rubies 
Are  not  clouded  by  my  breath  :  if  once  agaia 
1  steal  Irom  such  a  full  exchequer,  trifles 


452 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


[Acr.  V. 


Will  not  be  miss'd; — [Kisses   him  again.'] — I   am   J 

entranced :  our  fancy, 
Some  say,  in  sleep  works  stronger;  I  will  prove 

How  far'  my [*«"*  "sleep. 

Enter  DUKAZZO. 

Dur.  My  bones  ac-he, 
I  am  exceeding  cold  too,  I  must  seek  out 
A  more  convenient  truckle-bed.     Ha!  do  I  dream  ? 
No,  no,  1  wake.     Camillo,  Lentulo, 
Donato  this,  and,  as  1  live,  Adorio 
In  a  handsome  wench's  lap!  a  whoreson;  you  are 
The  best  accommodated.     1  will  call 
My  nephew  and  his  mistress  to  this  pageant ; 
The  object  may  perhaps  do  more  upon  her, 
Than  all  (Jaldoro's  rhetoric.     With  what 
Securiiy  they  sleep  !  sure  Mercury 
Hath  traveled  this  way  with  his  charming-rod. 
Nephew!  Cuiista!  Madam! 

Enter  CALDORO  and  CALISTA. 

Cald.  Here,  sir  ;  is 
Your  man  return'd  with  horses? 

Dur.  No,  boy,  no; 
But  here  are  some  you  thought  not  of. 

Calls.  Adorio ! 

Dur.  The  idol  that  you  worshipped. 

Calls.  This  Mirtilla! 
I  am  made  a  stale. 

Dur.  1  knew  'twould  take. 

Calis.  False  man  ! 

But  much  more  treacherous  woman  !  ' Tis  apparent 
They  jointly  did  conspire  against  my  weakness, 
And  credulous  simplicity,  and  have 
Prevail'd  against  it. 

Cald.  1'ii  not  kill  them  sleeping  ; 
But  it' you  ple-.ise,  I'll  wsike  them  first,  and  after 
Offer  them  as  a  fatal  sacrihce 
To-your  just  anger. 

Dur.  You  are  a  fool ;  reserve 
Your  bio  d  for  better  uses. 

Cuds.  My  fond  love 
Is  changed  to  an  extremity  of  Late  ; 
His  very  sight  is  odious. 

Dur.   1  have  thought  of 

A  pretty  punishment  for  him  and  his  comrades, 
Then  leave  him  to  his  harlotry  ;  if  she  prove  not 
Torture  enough,  hold  me  an  ass.     Their  horses 
Are  not  fnr  off,  I'll  cut  the  girts  and  bridles, 
Then  turn  thrm  into  the  wood  ;  it'  they  can  run, 
Let  them  follow  us  as  footmen.     Wilt  them  fight 
For  what's  thine  own  already ! 

Calis.  in  his  bat 

He  wears  a  jewel*,  which  this  faithless  strumpet, 
As  a  salary  of  her  lust,  deceived  me  of; 
He  shall  not  keep't  to  my  disgrace,  nor  will  I 
Stir  till  1  have  it. 

Dur.  1  am  not  good  at  nimmingf  ; 
And  yet  that  shall  not  hinder  us:  by  your  leave, 


In  hit  hat 


Hetcfarta  jewel.)  This  is  in  Conformity  to  the  cnstom 
fchich  then  prevaili-d  <  I  «t..riiu  bn.oclius  (gems  s«t  in  «old 
or  silver)  in  the  hal.  <>»r  ancestors  gave  the  name  «(jgun-l, 
HIM  so  much  to  a  single  «loue,  as  to  a  clutter  oi  ilieni  M.-I  in 
order  b>  tin-  lapidary,  and,  in  general,  lo  any  little  trinket 
or  ornaiueui  of  gold  ami  prrcimi*  .-tones. 

t  Dnrai.  /  am  tint  ynnd  at  Dimming;]  i.  e.  stealing.  The 
word  is  pure  Sivou.anil  nic.tiis  to  lake,  to  seize.  It  is  found 
in  all  our  olil  wiiters;  ami,  indeed,  is  still  in  use,  as  a  cant 
term  fur  Mealing. 


'Tis  restitution  :  pray  you  all  bear  witness 
I  do  not  steal  it ;  here  'tis. 

[Takes  fljf  his  hnt,  and  removes  thejeuxL 

Calit.  Take  it,  not 

Asa  mistress'  favour,  but  a  strong  assurance 
I  am  your  wife. 

Cald.  O  heaven  ! 

Dur.  Pray  in  the  church. 

Let  us  away,  \ephew.  a  word  ;  have  you  not 
Been  billing  in  the  brakes,  ha  !  and  so  deserved 
This  unexpected  favour? 

Cald.  You  are  pleasant 

[Eieunl  Durazzo,  Caldoro,  and  Cal'nta. 

Ail  fir.  As    thou    art    a    gentleman,    kill  me  not 
basely  ;  [.Start*  up  ;    ihe  rest  ateakt. 

Give  me  leave  to  draw  my  sword. 

Camil.  Ha!  whai's  the  matter? 

Lent.  He  talk'd  ofs  sword. 

Don.  I  see  no  enemy  near  us, 
That  threatens  danger. 

Mirt.  Sure  'twas  but  a  dream. 

A-iy.    A    fearful    one.       Methought    Caldoro's 

sword 

Was  at  my  throat,  Calista  frowning  by, 
Commanding  him,  as  he  desired  her  favour, 
To  strike  my  head  off. 

Camil.  Mere  imagination 
Of  a  disturbed  fancy. 

Mirt.  Here's  your  hat,  sir. 

Ador.  But  where 's  my  jewel  ? 

Camil.  By  all  likelihood  lost 
This  troublesome  night. 

Don.  I  saw  it  when  wo  came 
Unto  this  phice. 

Mirt.  I  looked  upon't  myself, 
When  you  reposed. 

Adar.   What  is  become  of  it? 
Restore  it,  for  thou  hast  it;  do  not  put  me 
To  the  trouble  to  search  you, 

JUirt.  Search  me ! 

Adar.  You  have  been, 
Before  your  lady  gave  you  entertainment, 
A  night-walker  in  the  streets. 

Mi<t.  How,  my  good  lord  ! 

Adnr.  Traded   in    picking    pockets,  wfaen   tame 

gulls, 

Charmed  witb  your  prostituted  flatteries. 
Deigned  to  embrace  you. 

Mirf.  Love,  give  place  to  anger. 
Charge  me  with  thett,  and  prostituted  baseness  ! 
Were  you  a  judge,  nay  more,  the  king,  thus  urged. 
To  your  teeth  1  would  say,  'tis  faUe. 

Ador.  This  will  not  do. 

Camil.  Deliver  it  in  private. 

Mirt.  You  shall  be 

In  public  hanged  first,  and  the  whole  gang  of  you. 
I  steal  what  I  presented  ! 

Lent.  Do  not  ftrive. 

Aiior.  Though  thou  hast  swallowed    it,  I'll  rip 

thy  entrails, 
But  I'll  recover  it. 

Mirt.  Help,  help! 

Ador.  A  new  plot. 

CLAUDIO  and  two  Banditti  rush  upon  them  wiA 
pistols. 

Claud.  Forbear,  libidinous  monsters  !  if  you  offer 
Tl'e  least  resistance,  you  sire  dead.     Ii'one 
But  lay  his  hand  upon  his  sword,  shoot  all. 


tfCSNE  IV.] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


433 


Ador.  Let  us  fight  for  what  we  hare,  and  if  you 

can 
Win  it,  enjoy  it. 

Claud.    We  come  not  to  try 
Your  valour,  but  for  your  money ;  throw  down  your 

sword, 

Or  I'll  begin  with  you  :  so  !  if  you  will 
Walk  quietly  without  bonds,  you  may,  if  not 
We'll  force'you. — [Fear  not,]   thou'shalt  have  no 

wrong*, 
But  justice  against  these.  [To  Mirtilla. 

1  Ban.  We'll  teach  you,  sir, 

To  med'lle  with  wenches  in  our  walks. 

2  Ban,  It  being 
Against  our  canons. 

Catnil.  Whither  will  you  lead  us? 
Claud.    You  shall  know   that  hereafter. — Guard 
them  sure.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  ALPIIONSO  disguised  as  an  old  Man,  LAVAL, 
and  Captain. 

Alph.  Are  all  the  passages  stopp'd  ? 

Copt.  And  strongly  mann'd  ; 
They  must  use  wings,  and  fly,  if  they  escape  us. 

Lav.  But  why,  great  sir,  you  should  expose  your 

person 

To  such  apparent  danger,  when  you  may 
Have  them  brought  buuud  before  you,  is  beyond 
Bly  apprehension. 

Alph.  1  am  better  arm'd 
Than  you  suppose  :  besides,  it  is  confirm'd 
By  all  that  have  been  robb'd,  since  Severino 
Commanded  these  banditti  (though  it  be 
Unusuiil  in  Italy),  imitating 
The    courteous  English    thieves,   for  so  they   call 

them, 

They  have  not  done  one  murder:  I  must  add  too. 
That,  from  a  strange  relation  I  have  heard 
Of  Severino's  justice,  in  disposing 
The  preys  brought  in,  I  would  be  an  eye-witness 
Of  what  1  take  up  now  but  on  report : 
And  therefore  'tis  my  pleasure  that  we  should, 
As  soon  as  they  encounter  us,  without 
A  show  of  opposition  yield. 

Lav.  Your  will 
Is  not  to  be  disputed. 

Al}>h.   You  have  placed 
Your  ambush  so,  that,  if  there  be  occasion, 
They  suddenly  may  break  in? 

Capt.  My  life  upon't. 

Alph.  We  cannot  travel  far,  but  we  shall  meet 
With  some  of  these  good  fellows  ;  and  be  sure 
You  do  as  I  command  you. 

Lav.  Without  fear,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.—  Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  SEVERING  and  IOLANTK. 
Sev.  Tis  true ;  1  did  command  Calista  should  not 


•   We'll  force  you.— (Fear   not]    than   slialt   have    no 

ffrony,\  I  have  added  lite  words  in  brackets  to  supply  afoot 

kith  was  probably  lost  at  the  press. 


Vithout  my  knowledge  and  consent,  MaUted 
By  your  ad  vice,  be  married;  but  your 
Restraint,  as  you  deliver  it,  denying 
A  »rown-up  maid  the  modest  conversation 
Of  men,  and  warrantable  pleasures,  relish'd 
Of  too  much  rigour,  which,  no  doubt,  hath   drivem 

her 
To  take  some  desperate  course. 

lot.   What,  then  I  did 
Wras  in  my  care  thought  best. 

Sea.  So  1  conceive  it ; 
But  where  was  your  discretion  to  forbid 
Access,  and  fit  approaches,  when  you  knew 
Her  suitors  noble,  either  of  which  I  would 
Have  wish'd  my  son-in-law  ?     Adorio, 
However  wild,  a  young  man  of  yood  parts, 
But  better  fortunes  :  his  competitor, 
C'aldoro,  for  his  sweetness  ot  behaviour, 
Staidness.  and  temperance,  holding  the  first  place 
Among  the  gallants  most  observed  in  Naples; 
His  own  revenues  of  a  large  extent, 
But  in  the  expectation  of  his  uncle 
And  guardian's  entradas',  by  the  course 
Of  nature  to  descend  on  him,  a  match 
For  the  best  subject's  blood,  I  except  none 
Of  eminence  in  Italy. 
lol.  Your  wishes, 

Howe'er  awhile  delay 'd,  are  not,  I  hope, 
Impossibilities. 

Sev.  Though  it  prove  so, 
Yet  'tis  not  good  to  give  a  check  to  fortune 
When  she  comes  smiling  to  us.     Hark  !  this  cornet 

[Cornet  within. 

Assures  us  of  a  prize  ;  there  sit  in  state, 
'Tis  thy  first  tribute. 

lol.  Would  we  might  enjoy 
Our  own  as  subjects  ! 

Sev.  What's  got  bv  the  sword, 
Is  better  than  inheritance  :  all  those  kingdoms 
Of  Alexander  were  by  force  extortedf, 
Though   gilded   o'er   with   glorious  styles  of  con- 
quest : 

His  victories  but  royal  robberies, 
And  his  true  definition  a  thief, 
When  circled  with  huge  navies,  to  the  terror 
Of  such  as  plough'd  the  ocean,  as  the  pirate, 
Who,  from  a  narrow  cveek.  puts  oft'  for  prey 
lu   a  small  pinnace: — [Cornet  witliin] — fium  a  se- 
cond place 
New    spoil    brought  in! — [Garnet  within.]    from  a 

third  party  !  brave  ! 

This  shall  be  register'd  a  day  of  triumph 
Design'd  by  fate  to  honour  tbee.- 


Good  booty,  ha? 


Enter  CL AUDIO. 

Welcome,  Claudio ! 


*  And  guardian's  entradas,]  So  the  old  copy.  Coxcter 
(not  understanding  the  word,  perhaps.)  discarded  it  lor 
estates,  which  utterly  destroys  Hie  metre.  Mr.  M.  Mason 
implicitly  relies  on  his  giiid.mce,  sequiturque  patrtm,  as 
usual.  Entradas  .ire  rents,  revenues. 

t  <>f  Alexander  were  by  force  extorted,}  As  this  line 
stands  in  the  ol<l  copy,  it  i-  evidently  conupt: 

Subdued  by  A  le xander,  were  by  force  extorted. 
This  dues  not  read  to  me  like  Massingi-r's:  the  small  change 
which  I  have  hazarded  restores  it.  at  least  to  metre.  The  remark 
which  follow*  is  taken  from  history,  and  is  said  to  have 
been  actually  made  to  thU  prince,  by  a  pirate  whom  In 
was  about  to  execute. 


434 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


i  V 


Enter,  a'  t'ijf'ermt  sides,  various  pnriifs  nflhe  Banditti ; 
cue  with  AoORIO,  Li-.vii't.o,  DONA'IO,  CA.MII.I.O, 
Mimii.L*  ;  uimther . ir/'i/i  DTHA/ZO,  CAI.DORO,  CA- 
M-IT A  ;  anil  the  rest  icilli  ALPIIONSO,  LAVAL,  and 
Captain. 

Claud.  Their  oufsides  promise  so; 
But  vet  they  hnve  not  made  discovery 
Of  what  they  stand  possest  of. 

Sec.  Welcome  "11  ; 

Good  hoys;  you  Imve  done  bravely,  if  no  blood 
Be  shed  in  tlie  service. 

1  Bun.  On  our  lives,  no  drop,  sir, 

See.  Tin  to  my  wish. 

let.  My  lord  ! 

Stv.  No  more  ;  I  know  them. 

1'iil.  My  daughter,  and  her  woman  too ! 

Sev.  Conceal 
Your  joys. 

Dnr,   Fallen  in  the  devil's  mouth  ! 

Calis.  Mv  (ill her, 
And  mother!  to  what  fate  am  1  reserved?    N 

Culd.  Continue  mask'd  ;    or    grant   that  you  be 

known, 

From  whom  can  you  expect  a  gentle  sentence, 
If  you  despair  a  lather's? 

Adirr.  1  perceive  now 
\Vh  ch  w»v  I  lost  my  jewel. 

Mirt.  I  rejoice 
I'm  clear'd  I  rim  theft;  you  have  done  me  wrong 

hu»  1, 
Unask'd,  forgive  you. 

Dur.  'Tis  some  conifort  yet, 
The  rivals,  men  and  women,  friends  and  foes,  are 
Together  in  one  t<  il. 

on.  You  all  look  pale. 

And  by  vi-ur  | ritsite  w  hisperings  and  soft  murmurs 
Express  a  -;eiienil  fe«r  :  pray  you  shake  it  off; 
For  uiiclerVHiic!  yr.u  are  not  fallen  into 
The  hiiiids  of  a  lUisiris  or  »  Cacus, 
Delighted  more  in  blood  thun  s|i  il,  but  given  up 
To  the  power  .-••  an  unfortunate  gentleman 
Noi  born  to  these  low  cour.--es,  howsoever 
My  fate,  and  just  displeasure  of  the  king, 
Design  VI  me  to  ir :  you  need  not.  'o  doubt 
A  sad  captivity  here,  and  much  less  fear 
For  profii  to  he  sold  lor  slaves,  then  shipp'd 
Into  another  countiy  :  in  a  word, 
You  know  the  proscribed  Severino,  be, 
Not  DBBiqirainted,  but  familiar  with 
The  most  of  you. — Want  in  mvself  I  know  not, 
But  for  the  pay  of  these,  mv  Mjuin-s,  who  eat 
Their  bread  with  danger  purch.is'd,  arid  must  be 
With  others'  fleeces  clothed,  or  live  exposed 
To  the  summer's  scorching  heat  and  winter's  cold  ; 
To  these,  before  you  be  compt-11'd  (a  word 
I  speak  with  much  unwillingness),  deliver 
Such  coin  as  you  »re  fiirnish'd  with. 

Dur.  A  tine  method  ! 

This  is  neither  begging,  borrowing,  nor  robbery, 
Yet  it  bath   a  twang  of  all  of  them  :  but  one  word, 

sir. 
Sev.  Your  pleasure. 

Dur.  When  we  have  thrown  down  our  muck 
What  follows? 

Sev.  Liberty,  with  a  safe  convoy. 
To  any  place,  you  choose. 

Dur.  By  this  hand  you  are 
A  fair  fraternity  ;  for  once  I'll  be 
The  first  example  to  relieve  your  convent. 


There's  a  thousand   crowns,  my   vintage,  harvest 

profits. 

Arising  from  my  herds,  bound  in  one  bag ; 
SLare  it  air.ong  you. 

Sen.  You  are  still  the  jovial 
Ami  good  Duraz/.o. 

Din:    1  o  the  offering  ;  nay, 
No  bunging  an  a — ,  this  is  their  wedding-day  : 
What  you  must  do  spite  of  your  hearts,  do  Ireely 
For  your  own  sakes. 

Camil.  There's  mine. 

Lent.   Mine. 

Don.  All  that  I  have. 

Culd.    I  his  to  |ire.-erve  my  jewel. 

Adi>r.   Which  1  challenge: 
Let  me  have  justice,  for  mv  coin  1  care  not. 

Lav.  I  will  not  wee])  for  mine. 

Cupt.   Would  it  were  more. 

[Tlifii  all  tltraw  down  their  piirtei. 

Set'.  Nay,  you  are  privileged  ;  but  v\  by,  old  father, 
Art  thou  so  slow?  thou  hast  one  foot  in  the  grave, 
And,  if  desire  of  gold  do  not  increase 
With  thy  expiring  lease  of  life,  thou  should'st 
Be  forwardest. 

Aljth.  In  what  concerns  myself, 
I  do  acknowledge  it ;  and  1  should  lie, 
A  vice  1  have  detested  from  mv  youth, 
If  I  denied  my  present  store,  since  what 
I  hate  about  me  now  weighs  down  in  value, 
Almost  a  hundred  iol.l,  whatever  these 
Have  laid  before  you  :  see  !   I  <io  groan  under 

[77i»-«ci  j  down  three  bags, 
The  burthen  of  my  treasure  ;  nay,  'tis  gold  ; 
And  if  your  hunger  of  it  be  not  sated 
With  what  already  1  have  shown  unto  you, 
Here's  that  sb.ill  glut  it.     In  this  casket  ure 
Inestimable  jewels,  diamonds 
Of  such  a  piercing  lustre  as  struck  blind 
The  amazed  lapidary,  while  he  lubour'd 

j  Opens  the  eatkttt 

To  honour  his  own  art  in  setting  them  : 
SOIIIH  orient  pearls  too,  v>  Inch  the  Queen  of  Spain 
Might  wear  as  ear-rings,  in  remembrance  of 
The  day  that  she  was  crown'd. 

Sev.  'I  !-*e  t-poils,  I  think, 
Of  both  the  Indies! 

Dur.  The  great  sultan's  poor, 
Ifparallel'd  with  this  Cricsus. 

Sev.   Why  dost  thou  weep? 

Alph.  Fiom  a  most  fit  consideration  of 
My  poverty  ;  this,  though  restored,  will  not 
Serve  my  occasions. 

Sev.  Impossible  ! 

Dur.  Maybe  he  would  buy  his  passport  up  to 

heaven, 

And  then  this  is  too  little,, though  in  the  journey 
It  were  a  good  viaticum. 

A  l/ili.  1  would  make  it 

A  means  to  help  me  thither  :  not  to  wrong  you 
With  tedious  expectation,  I'll  discover 
What  mv    wants   are,  and  yield   my  reasons  for 

them: 

I  have  two  sons,  twins,  the  true  images 
Of  w  hat  I  was  at  their  years  ;  never  lather 
Had  fairer  or  more  promising  hopes  in  his 
Posterity  :  but,  alas  !  these  sons,  ambitious 
Of  glittering  honour,  and  an  a:ier-name, 
Achieved  by  glorious,  and  \et  pious  actions 
(For  such  were  their  intentions),  put  to  sea. 
They  had  a  well-rigg'd  bottom,  fully  manned, 


SCENE  IV.] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


435 


An  old  experienced  master,  lusty  sailors, 

Stout  landsmen,  and  what's   something   more   than 

rare, 

They  did  agree,  had  one  design,  and  that  was 
In  charity  to  redeem  the  Christian  slaves 
Chained  in  the  Turkish  servitude. 
s>i'.  A  hrave  aim  ! 

Dur.  A  most  heroic  enterprise  ;  I  languish 
To  hear  how  they  succeeded. 

Alp1!.  Prosperously, 

At  first,  and  to  their  wishes:  divers  Dallies 
They  boarded,  and  some  strong  forts  near  the 

shore 

They  suddenly  surprised  ;  a  thousand  captives, 
Redeemed  from  the    oar,    paid  their  glad  vows  and 

prayers 

For  their  deliverance  :  their  ends  acquired, 
And  making  homeward  in  triumphant  manner, 
For  sure  the  cause  deserved  it — 

Dur.  Pray  you  end  here  ; 

The  best.  I  fear,  is  told,  and  that  which  follows 
Must  conclude  ill. 

Alph.   Your  fears  are  true,  and  yet 
I  must  with  grief  relate  it.     Prodigal  fame. 
In  every  place,  with  her  loud  trump,  proclaiming 
The  greatness  of  the  action,  the  pi-ates 
Of  Tunis  and  Algiers  laid  wait  for  them 
At  their  return  :  to  tell  you  what  resistance 
They  made,  and  how  my  poor  sons  fought,  would 

"but 

Increase  my  sorrow,  and,  perhaps,  grieve  you 
To  hear  it  passionately  described  unto  you. 
In  brief,  they  were  taken,  and  for  the  great  loss 
The  enemy  did  siixiain,  their  victory 
Being  with  much  blood  bought,  they  do  endure 
The  heaviest  captivity  wretched  men 
Did  ever  suffer.     O  my  sons  !  my  sons! 
To  me  forever  lost !  lost,  lost  for  ever  ! 

See.  Will    not    these   heaps   of  gold,    added  to 

thine, 
Suffice  fonansom  ? 

Alph.  For  my  sons  it  would  : 
But  they  refuse  iheir  liberty  if  all 
That    were   engaged  with    them,   have   not    their 

irons 
With    theirs    struck    off,  and    set  at  liberty   with 

them  ; 
Which  these  heaps  cnnnot  purchase. 

Sev.  Ha  !  the  toughness 

Of  my  heart  melts,     lie  comforted,  old  father; 
1  have  tome  hidden  treasure,  and  if  all 
1  and  my  squires  these  three  years  have  laid  up, 
Can  make  the  sum  up,  freely  take't. 

Dur.  I'll  sell 

Myself  to  my  shirt,  lands,  moveables,  and  thou 
Shalt  part  with  thine  too.  nephew,  rather  than 
Such  brave  men  shall  live  slaves. 

2  Han.  We  will  not  yield  to't. 

3  Bun.  Nor  lose  our  parts. 
Sev.  I  low's  this! 

2  Ban.    You  are  fitter  far 
Tube  a  churchman,  than  to  have  command 
Over  good  fellows*. 

Sei\  Thus  I  ever  use  [Strikes  them  daun. 

Such  saucy  rascals  ;  second  me,  Claudio. — 
Hebellious!  do  you  grumble  ?  I'll  not  leave 
One  rogue  of  them  alive. 


•  fherfm<d  fellows.]  \  rant  name  by  which  highwaymen 
and  iluuvui   have  been  long   pleased   to  denominate  them- 


Alph.  Hold; — give  the  sign.       [Dittoters  himulf 

All.  The  king! 
Sev    Then  I  am  lost. 
Claud.  The  woods  are  full 
Of  armed  men. 

Alph.  No  hope  of  your  escape 
Can  flatter  you. 

Sen.  Mercy,  dread  sir  !  [Kneels. 

Alph.  Thy  carriage 

In  this  unlawful  course  appears  so  noble, 
Especially  in  this  last  trial,  which 
I  put  upon  you,  that  1  wish  the  mercy 
You  kneel  in  vain  for  might  fall  gently  on  you  : 
But  when  the  holy  oil  was  poured  upon 
My  head,  and  I  anointed  king,  I  swore 
Never  to  pardon  murder.     I  could  wink  at 
Your  robberies,  though  our  laws  call  them  death, 
But  to  dispense  with   Monteclaro's  blood 
Would  ill  become  a  king  ;  in  him  I  lost 
A  worthy  subject,  and  must  take  from  you 
A  strict  account  oft.     'Tis  in  vain  to  move ; 
My  doom's  irrevocable. 

Lav.  Not,  dread  sir, 
If  Monteclaro  live. 

Alph.  If!  good  Laval. 

Lav.  He   lives   in   him,  sir,  that   you    thought 
Laval.  [Discovers  himself 

Three  years  have  not  so  altered  me  but  you   may 
Remember  Monteclaro. 

Dur.  Flow  ! 

1'dl.  .My  brother  ! 

Calls.  Uncle! 

Mont.  Give  me  leave  ;  I  was 
Left   dead  in  the    field,   but. by   the  duke    Moi 

pensier. 

Now  General  at  Milan,  taken  up, 
And  with  much  care  recovered. 

Alph.  Why  lived  you 
So  long  concealed? 

Mont.  Confounded  with  the  wrong 
I  did  my  brother,  in  provoking  him 
To  fight,  I  spent  the  time  in  France  that  I 
Was  absent  from  the  court,  making  my  exile 
The  punishment  imposed  upon  myself 
For  my  offence. 

I'dl.  Now,  sir,  I  dare  confess  all; 
This  was  the  »uest  invited  to  the  banquet 
That  drew  on  your  suspicion. 

Sev.  Your  intent, 

Though  it  was  ill  in  you,  I  do  forgive  ; 
The  rest  I'll  hear  at  leisure.     Sir,  your  sentence. 

Alph.  It  is  a  general  pardon  uuto  all, 
Upon  my  hopes,  in  your  fair  lives  hereafter, 
You  will  deserve  it. 

Sev.    Claud,    and    the    rest.  Long  live  great  Al- 
phonso  ! 

Dur.  Your  mercy  shown    in   this,  now,   if  you 

please. 
Decide  these  lovers'  difference. 

Alph.  That  is  easy  ; 

I'll  put  it  to  the  women's  choice,  the  men 
Consenting  to  it. 


selves  ;  and  whif  h  has  been  given  them,  in  conrte«y,   by 
others.    Thin  Heywond 

King    1 1  thou  be  a  yoott  fellow,  let  m<-  borrow  a  word. 
JJnhbt.  I  «m  no  good  fellow,  and  I  pray  heaven  Ihou  be'st 

nut  one. 

King.     Why  >  di.st  thou  not  |,.ve  good  fellows  t 
Uubbs.   No     'lis  a  b)«-*ord  :  yoodfelloirt  be  thine* 

Edward  I K.  Part  7. 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


[AcrV 


Calis.  Here  1  fix,  then,  never 
To  be  reni'ived. 

CaU.  'I'ls  my  nil  ultra,  sir. 

Mirt.  O  I  hat  I  liad  the  happiness  to  say 
So  much  to  you  !   I  dare  maintain  my  love 
Is  equal  to  my  Indy's. 
•Iditr.  Hut  mv  mind 

A  pitch  above  yours  :  marry  with  a  servant 
Ot  no  descent  or  fortune! 

Sev.  You  are  deceived  . 

Howe'er  she  IMS  been  train'd  up  as  a  servant, 
She  is  the  daughter  of  a  noble  captain, 
Who,  in  his  voyage  to  the  Persian  gulf, 

erish'd  by  shipwreck  ;  one  I  dearly  loved. 
He  to  mv  care  entrusted  her,  having  taken 
My  word,  if  he  return'd  not  like  himself, 
I  never  should  discover  what  she  was ; 
But  it  being  for  her  good,  I  will  dispense  with't. 
So  much,  sir,  for  her  blood  ;  now  for  her  portion : 
So  dear  1  hold  the  memory  of  my  friend, 
It  shall  rank  with  my  daughter's. 

Ad'ir.    I  his  made  good, 
£  will  not  be  perverse. 

Dur.  With  a  kiss  comfirm  it. 

Ador.  I  sign  all  concord  here;  but  must  (o  you, 

sir, 

For  reparation  of  my  wounded  honour, 
Th   justice  of  the  king  consenting  to  it, 
Denounce  a  lawful  war. 

Aljth.  This  in  our  presence  ! 

Adi>r.  The  cause,  dread  sir,  commands  it ;  though 

your  edicts 

Call  private  combats,  murders ;  rather  than 
Sit  down  with  a  disgrace,  arising  from 
A  blow,  the  bonds  of  my  obedience  shook  off, 
I'll  right  myself. 

Culti.  i  do  confess  the  wrong, 
Forgetting  the  occasion,  and  desire 
Remission  from  you,  und  upon  such  terms 
As  by  his  sacred  majesty  shall  be  judged 
Equal  on  both  parts. 

Ador.  1  desire  no  more. 

Alph.  All  then  are  pleased  ;  it  is  the  glory  of 
A  king  to  make  and  keep  his  subjects  happy  : 
For  us,  we  do  approve  the  Roman  maxim, 
To  save  one  citizen  is  a  greater  prize 
Tnan  to  have  kill'd  iu  war  ten  enemies.        [Exeunt. 

SONG,  between  JUNO  and  HYMEN. 

JUNO  to  the  BIUDE. 
Enter  a  maid  ;  but  made  a  bride, 

Be  bold,  a  nd  freely  taste 
The  marriage  Ixinquet,  ne'er  denied 

To  such  as  sit  down  chaste. 
Though  he  tinliws:  thy  virgin  zone, 

Presumed  against  thu  will, 
Those  joys  rese-  ved  to  him  alone, 

Thou  art  a  vi-gin  still. 

HYMEN  to  the  BniDEcnooM. 

Hail,  bridegroom,  hail',   thy  choice  thus  made, 

As  thnu  icoutdst  hace  her  true, 
Thou  must  gite  o'er  thy  wanton  trade, 

And  bid  Imne  fires  adieu. 
That  hii.-htii.d  who  would  have  his  wife 

T»  him  continue  chaste, 
In  her  embraces  sjiends  his  life, 

And  makes  abroad  no  waste. 


HYMEN  and  JUNO. 

Sp*rt  then  tike  turtlrs.  and  bring  forth 

Such  plrdges  m  may  be 
Assurance  of  the  father's  worth, 

And  mother's  purity*. 
Juno  dotlt  ItUiS  the  nuptial  bed  ; 

Thus  Hitmen's  torches  burn. 
Live  long,  and  may,  when  bo'.h  are  dead, 

Your  ashes  Jill  one  urn'. 

SONG,  Entertainment  of  the  FOREST'S  QUEEN. 

Welcome,  thrice  u-flcome  t»  this  shadi/  green, 
Our  long-U'ish'd  Cynthia,  ihr  forest'*  queen, 
The  tre»s  begin  to  bud,  the  glad  birds  sing 
In  winter,  changed  by  her  into  the  spring. 

We  know  no  night, 

Perpetual  light 

Dawns  from  your  eye. 

You  being  n&ir, 

We  cannot  fear, 

Tlii'iigh  De«th  stood  bit. 

From  vow  our  suords  take  edge,  our  heurts  grow  bold; 
From  yon  in  fee  their  lives  your  liegemen  hold. 
These  g-oi~es  your  kingdom,  and  our  law  your  uill . 
Smile,  and  we  spare  ;  but  ifyoufrvwn,  vx  kill. 

Bless  then  the  hour 

That  giies  the  power 
In  which  uou  may, 

At  bed  and  board, 

Embrace  your  lord 

Both  night  and  day. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome  to  this  shady  green, 
Our  long-wish'd  Cyuthia,  the  forest's  queen! 

EPILOGUE. 

I  AM  left  to  enquire,  then  to  relate 

To  the  still-doubtful  author,  at  what  rate 

His  merchandise  are  valued.     If  they  prove 

Staple  commodities,  in  your  grace  and  love, 

To  this  last  birth  of  his  Minerva,  he 

Vows  (and  we  do  believe  him)  seriously. 

Sloth  cast  off,  and  all  pleasures  else  declined, 

He'll  search  with  his  best  care,  until  he  find 

New  ways,  and  make  good  in  some  labour'd  song-. 

Though  he  grow  old,  Apollo  still  is  young. 

Cherish  his  good  intentions,  and  declare 

By  any  signs  of  favour,  that  you  are 

Well  pleased,  and  with  a  general  consent; 

And  he  desires  no  more  encouragement!- 


•  Assurance  of. he  father's  worth, 

And  mother's  purity.]    M  calling,    like   their  parents:   the 
thought  is  I'roin  Catullus: 

Sit  ruo  similig  patri 

Manila,  ft  facile  insr.iis 

Noscitetur  ab  omnibus, 

F.t  pudicitiam  HUE 

Jtfairit  indicet  ore. 

There  is  little  to  be  said  for  this  long,  fnliich  is  to  be  re 
ferred  to  Act  IV.  sc.  ii.)  or  loi  that  immediately  fnlli.«  ini;  it: 
they  are,  however,  among  the  best  sc.,lterrd  through  the 
plays  of  Masi-inger,  who,  as  Mr.  M.  M.i-on  justly  observed, 
isa  wretched  ballad-maker. 

t  It  is  not  improbable  that,  after  a  temporary  suspension 
of  his  unsuccessful  labours  for  the  s-t<i«e.  Malinger  might 
hope  to  secure  himself  ag.<in»t  future  di.-appointim.-n!  by 
writing  for  the  taste  of  Ihc  public  rather  than  his  o«n. 
Whatever  be  the  cause,  this  comedy  is  <1i?tini;iii»lie:l  by  a  few 
new  features,  which  show  themselves  *oineliiiic>  in  an  execs, 
of  his  usual  manner,  anil  sometimes  in  a  d<-p;itnre  from  it. 
An  InaUnee  or  two  of  each  will  be  surticienl.  In  general, 
when  he  determine*  to  introduce  an>  change  n..t  y«-t  ma 
tureil  by  circumstance  s,  be  endeavours  to  reconcile  us  through 


SCENE  IV.] 


THE  GUARDIAN. 


437 


with  that  remembrance  of  the  claims  of  virtue  for  which  ht 
elsewhere  assumes  a  proper  credit. 

These  improprieties  may,  perhaps,  be  attributed  to  the 
ciicumstances  under  which  the  Play  was  written.  Yet  it 
contains  scattered  beauties  of  no  ordinary  value.  The  style 
of  it,  indeed,  is  almost  every  where  flowing  ami  harmonious, 
and  there  *re  occasional  scenes  which  will  charm  the  imagi- 
nation and  touch  the  heart.  Durazzo's  description  of  his 
rural  sports  is  highly  beautiful  and  enlivening,  and  has  been 
commended  by  others.  I  do  not  know  tlut  proper  praise 
has  been  bestowed  ">n  another  scene,  at  which  the  reader  of 
sensibility  wilt  certainly  stop  with  delight.  There  is  a  moral 
melancholy  in  Severino's  appearance,  Act  II.  sc.  iv.,  which 
U  extremely  touching.  In  The  Picturr,  Massinger  has  made 
Mathiaa  express  some  just  sentiments  agairst  too  great  a 
fondness  for  perishable  life.  Hcrr  we  see  a  weariness  of  ex- 
istence, and  a  contempt  of  danger,  heightened  by  the  pecu- 
liar situation  of  Severino,  yet  mixed  with  tenderness  and 
compunction.  In  other  pans  of  the  Play,  we  find  maxims 
justly  conceived  and  beautifully  expressed.  They  may  be 
easily  separated  from  the  incidents  which  give  rise  to  them, 
and  be  advantageously  remembered  for  our  prudential  or 
moral  guiihnce.  Da  IRS*.  NO. 


A  VERY  WOMAN, 


A  VERY  WOMAN.]  This  Tragi- Comedy,  as  it  is  called,  was  licensed  for  the  stage  June  6th,  1634. 
From  the  prologue  it  appears  to  be  a  revision  of  a  former  play,  which  had  been  well  received,  and  which 
/he  author  modestly  insinuates  that  he  was  induced  to  review  by  the  command  of  his  patron.  If  this  patron 
ivas,  as  it  has  been  supposed,  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  we  are  indebted  to  him  for  one  of  the  most  delightful 
compositions  in  the  English  language. 

We  learn  from  the  office-book  of  Sir  Henry  Herbert,  that  a  play  of  Massinger's  called  The  Spanish  Viceroy, 
was  acted  in  1624:  this  was  not  improbably  the  piece  alluded  to  in  the  prologue.  But  this  is  not  all.  In 
the  MS.  Register  of  Lord  Stanhope  of  Harrington,  the  ^lay  of  Cardenes,  or  Cardenio,  is  said  to  have  been 
performed  at  court,  in  1613.  Mr.  Malone,  who  furnishes  me  with  this  notice,  conjectures  that  this  might 
have  been  the  first  sketch  of  what  Massinger  improved  and  brought  out  in  1624,  anil  finally  completed  as 
we  now  have  it.  Change  of  name  is  no  argument  against  this  conclusion;  for,  besides  that  nothing  was 
more  common  upon  the  revival  of  plays,  it  should  be  recollected,  that  thosn  who  spoke  of  them,  seldom 
concerned  themselves  with  the  author's  titles;  but  gave  them  SMC!J  names  as  pleased  themselves,  and  which 
were  generally  assumed  from  one  or  other  of  the  more  prominent  characters. 

However  this  may  be,  the  present  play  was  most  favourably  received,  and  often  acted,  the  old  title-page 
says,  "  at  tLe  private  house  in  I31ackfriars,  by  his  late  Majesty's  servants,  with  great  applause."  Its  popu- 
larity seems  to  have  tempted  the  author's  good  friend,  Sir  Aston  Cockaine,  to  venture  on  an  imitation  of  it, 
which  he  has  executed,  not  very  happily,  in  his  comedy  of  The  Obstinate  Lady. 


PROLOGUE. 

To  such,  and  some  there  are,  no  question,  here, 
\Yho,  bappv  in  their  memories,  do  bear 
This  subject,  long  since  acted,  and  can  say, 
Truly,  we  have  seen  something  like  this  play, 
Our  author,  with  becoming  modesty 
(For  in  this  kind  he  ne'er  was  bold),  by  me, 
In  his  defence  thus  answers,  By  command 
lie  undertook  this  task,  nor  could  it  stand 
With  his  low  fortune  to  refuse  to  do 


What  by  his  patron  he  was  call'd  unto  : 

For  whose  delight  and  yours,  we  hope,  with  care 

He  hath  review'd  it ;  and  with  him  we  dare 

Maintain  to  any  man,  that  did  allow 

'Tvvas  good  before,  it  is  much  bettered  now : 

Nor  is  it,  sure,  against  the  proclamation 

To  raise  new  piles  upon  an  old  foundation*. 

So  much  to  them  deliver'd  ;  to  the  rest, 

To  whom  each  scene  is  fresh,  he  doth  protest, 

Should  his  muse  fail  now  a  fair  flight  to  make, 

He  cannot  fancy  what  will  please  or  take. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Viceroy  of  SICILY. 

Don  PEDRO  his  son. 

Duke  i)/' MESSINA. 

Don    MARTINO  CARDENES,  his  son. 

Dim  JOHN  ANTONIO,  prince  of  TARENT. 

Cnjitiiin  of  the  castle  of  PALERMO. 

I'AULO,  a  physician. 

CUCULO,  the  Viceroy's  steward. 

Two  Surgeons, 

Apothecary. 

Citizens. 

S  Live-merchant. 

Servant. 


Page. 

An  English  Slave. 

blaret. 

Moors. 

Pirates. 

Sailort. 

AI.MIRA,  the  Viceroy's  daughter. 

LEONORA,  dukeof  MESSINA'S  niece. 

BORACHIA,  wife  to  Cuculo,  governess  of  Leonora 

and  Almira. 
Two  Waiting  Women. 
A  good  and  evil  Genius,  Servants,    Guard,  Attend* 

ants,  §r. 
SCENE,  Palermo. 


•  This  seems  to  allude  to  King  James's   Proclamation,  to  forbid  (he  increase  of  buiUlinp  of  London.— DAVJK»- 


SCENE  I.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


43 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Viceroy's  Palace. 

Enter  PEDRO  and  LEONORA. 

Pedrn.  My  worthiest  mistress !  this  day  cannot  end 
But  prospeious  to  Pedro,  that  begins 
With  this  so  wish'd  encounter. 

Leon.  (July,  servant, 

To  give  you  ihanks  in  your  own  courtly  language 
Would  argue  me  more  ceremonious 
Than  heartily  affected  ;  and  you  are 
Two  well  assured,  or  I  am  miserable, 
Our  equal  loves  have  kept  one  rank  too  long 
To  stand  at  distance  now. 

Pedro.  You  make  me  happy 
In  this  so  wise  reproof,  which  I  receive 
As  a  chaste  favour  from  you,  and  will  ever 
Jlold  such  a  strong  command  o'er  my  desires, 
That  though  my  blood  turn  rebel  to  my  reason, 
I  never  shall  presume  to  seek  aught  from  you, 
13ut  what  (your  honour  sate)  you  well  may  grant  me, 
And  virtue  sign  the  warrant. 

Leon.   Your  love  to  me 
So  limited,  will  still  preserve  your  mistress 
Worthy  her  servant,  and  in  your  restraint 
Of  loose  affections,  bind  me  faster  to  you  ; 
But  there  will  be  a  time  when  we  may  welcome 
Those  wish'd    for   pleasures,  as   heaven's  greatest 

blessings, 

AVhen  that  the  viceroy,  your  most  noble  father. 
And  the  duke  my  uncle,  and  to  that,  my  guardian, 
Shall  by  their  free  consent,  confirm  them  lawful. 
Pedro.  You  ever  shall  direct,  and  1  obey  you  : 
Is  my  sister  stirring  yet  ? 
Leon.  Long  since. 
Pedro.  Some  business 

With  her,  join'd  to  my  service  to  yourself, 
Hath  brought  me  hither ;  pray  you  vouchsafe  the 

favour 

To  acquaint  her  with  so  much. 
Leon.  I  am  prevented. 

Enter  ALMIRA  and  two  Waiting  Women. 

Aim.  Do  the  rest  here,  my  cabinet  is  too  hot ; 
This  room  is  cooler.     Brother  ! 

Pedro.  'Morrow  sister ; 
Do  I  not  come  unseasonably  ? 

Aim.   Why,  good  brother? 

Pedro.    Because  you  are  not  yet  fully  made  up, 
Nor  fit  for  visitation.     There  are  ladies, 
And  great  ones,  that  will  hardly  grant  access, 
On  any  terms,  to  their  own  lathers,  as 
They  are  themselves,  nor  willingly  be  seen 
Before  they  have  ask'd  counsel  of  their  doctor 
How  the  ceruse  will  appear,  newly  laid  on, 
When  they  ask  blessing. 

Aim.  Such,  indeed,  there  are 
That  would  be  still  young,  in  despite  of  time; 
That  in  the  wrinkled  winter  of  their  age 
Would  force  a  seeming  April  of  fresh  beauty, 
As  if  it  were  within  the  power  of  art 
To  fiame  a  second  nature  :   but  for  me, 
And  for  your  mistress  1  dare  say  as  much, 
The  faces,  and  the  teeth  you  see,  we  slept  with. 


Pedro.  Which   is  not  frequent,  sister,  with  soit€ 

ladies. 

Atm.  You  spy  no  sign  of  any  night-mask  here 
(Tie  on  my  carcanet*),  nor  does  your  nostril 
Take  in  the  scent  of  strong  perfumes,  to  stifle 
The  sourness  of  our  breaths  as  we  are  fasting : 
You're  in  a  lady's  chamber,  gentle  brother, 
And  not  in  your  apothecary  s  shop. 
We  use  the  women,  you  perceive,  that  serve  us, 
Like  servants,  not  like  such  as  do  create  us  : — 
Faith  search  our  pockets,  and,  if  you  find  there 
Comfits  of  ambergris  to  help  our  kisses, 
Conclude  us  faulty. 

Pedro.  You  are  pleasant,  sister, 
And  1  am  glad  to  find  you  so  disposed; 
You  will  the  better  hear  me. 

Aim.   What  you  please,  sir. 

Pedro.  I  am  entreated  by  the  prince  of  Tareut 
Don  John  Antonio — 

Aim.  Would  you  would  choose 
Some  other  subject. 

Pedro.  Pray  you,  give  me  leave, 
For  his  desires  are  fit  for  jou  to  hear, 
As  for  me  to  prefer.     This  prince  of  Tarcnf. 
(Let  it  not  wrong  him  that  I  call  him  frieiiJ) 
Finding  your  choice  of  don  Currents  liked  o( 
By  both  your  fathers  un'l  li/i  hopes  cut  off, 
Resolvt-s  to:  eave  Palermo. 

Aim.   He  does  we'i  ; 
That  I  hear  gla.Hy. 

Pedro.   How  this  prince  came  hither, 
How  bravely  furnished,  how  attended  on, 
How  he  hath  borne  himself  here,  with  what  cha»-g» 
He  hath  continued  ;  his  magnificence 
In  costly  banquets,  curious  masks,  rare  presents, 
And  of  all  sorts,  you  cannot  but  remember. 

Aim.  Give  me  my  gloves. 

Pedro.  Now,  for  reward  of  all 
His  cost,  his  travel,  and  Lis  duteous  service, 
lie  does  entreat  that  you  will  please  he  may 
Take  his  leave  of  you,  and  receive  the  favour 
Of  kissing  of  your  hands. 

A  I. 'ii.  You  are  his  friend, 

And  shall  discharge  the  part  of  one  to  tell  him 
That  he  may  spare  the  trouble  ;  I  desire  not 
To  see  or  hear  moie  of  him. 

Pedro.  Yet  grant  this, 

Which  a  mere  stranger,  in  the  way  of  courtshipf, 
Might  challenge  from  you. 

Aim.  And  obtain  it  sooner. 

Pedro.  One  reason  for  this  would  do  well. 

Aim.  My  will 
Shall  now  stand  for  a  thousand.     Shall  I  lose 


•  Tie  on  my  cairanct,]  Carcanet  (diniin.  of  carcan,  a 
chain}  is  a  necklace,  in  which  sense  it  occurs  in  most  of  our 
old  writers: 

"  I'll  clti-p  \\ixlneclt,  where  should  beset 
A  rich  and  orient  carcanet  : — 
Hut  swains  aie  po.T,  .clmit  of  then,      n 
More  natural  chains,  the  arm*  of  m.-n. 

Randolph' >  Potm*. 

I In  tlttwuy  of  conitship,]  i  <••  as  has  beea 

more  than   once    obseived,  lu  the  way  ol  govd  breeding,  of 
civiliU  ,  &.C 


440 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[Acrl. 


The  privilege  of  my  sex,  which  is  my  will, 
To  yield  a  reason  like  a  man?  or  you, 
Deny  your  sister  that  which  all  true  women 
Claim  as  their  first  prerogative,  which  nature 
Gave  to  them  for  a  law,  and  should  I  break  it, 
1  were  no  more  a  woman  1 

Pedro.  Sure,  a  good  one 
You  cannot  be,  if  you  put  off  that  virtue 
Which  best  adorns  a  good  one,  courtesy 
And  affable  behaviour.     Do  not  flatter 
Yourself  with  the  opinion  that  your  birth, 
Your  beauty,  or  whatever  false  ground  else 
You  raise  your  pride  upon,  will  stand  against 
The  censure  of  just  men. 

Aim.  Why,  let  it  fall  then  ; 
I  still  shall  be  unmoved. 

Leon.  And,  pray  you,  be  you  so. 

Aim.  What  jewel'1  s  that  ? 

1  Worn.  '1  hat  which  the  prince  of  Tarent 

Aim.  Left  here,    and  you    received   without   my 

knowledge : 

1  have  use  oft  now.     Does  the  page  wait  without, 
My  lord  Cardenes  sent  to  inquire  my  health? 

1  Worn.  Yes,  madam. 

Aim.  Give  it  him,  and  with  it  (ray  him 
To  return  my  service  to  his  lord,  and  mine. 

Pedro.  Will  you  so  undervalue  one  thut  has 
So  truly  loved  you,  to  bestow  the  pledge 
Of  his  affection,  being  a  prince,  upon 
The  servant  of  his  rival  ? 

Leon.  "J'is  not  well. 

Faith,  wear  it,  lady  :  send  gold  to  the  boy, 
'Twill  please  him  better. 

Aim.  Do  as  I  command  you. 
I  will  keep  nothing  that  may  put  me  in  mind 
Don  John  Antonio  ever  loved,  or  was  ; 
Being  wholly  now  Cardenes'. 

Pedro.  In  another 

This  were  mere  barbarism,  sister ;  and  in  you 
(For  I'll  not  sooth  you),  at  the  best  'tis  rudeness. 

Aim.  Rudeness ! 

Pedro.  Yes,  rudeness;  and  what's  worse,  the  want 
Of  civil  manners;  nav,  ingratitude 
Unto  the  many  and  so  fair  deservings 
Ot  don  Antonio.     Does  tbis  express 
Your  breeding  in  the  court,  or  that  you  call 
The  viceroy  father?  A  poor  peasant's  daughter, 
That  ne'er  had  conversation  but  with  beasts, 
Or  men  bred  like  them,  would  not  so  far  shame 
Her  education. 

Aim.  Pray  you,  leave  my  chamber ; 
I  know  you  lor  a  brother,  not  a  tutor. 

Leon.  You  are  too  violent,  madam. 

Aim.  Were  my  father 

Here  to  command  m*  (as  you  take  upon  you 
Almost  to  play  his  pan),  I  would  refuse  it. 
Where  I  love,  I  proless  it ;  where  I  hate, 
In  every  circumstance  I  dare  pioclaim  it': 
Of  all  that  wear  the  shapes  of  men,  1  loath 
That  prince  you  plead  for ,  no  antipathy 
Between  things  most  aveise  in  nature,  holds 
A  stronger  enmity  than  his  with, mine; 
With  which  rest  satisfied : — if  not,  your  ano-er 
May  wrong  yourself,  not  me. 

Leon.  My  lord  Cardenes  ! 

Pedro.  Go;  in  soft  terms   if  you  persist  thus,  you 
Will  be  one 

Enter  CARDENES. 
Aim.  W:hat  one  ?  pray  you,  out  with  it. 


j       Pedro.   Why,  one  that  I  shall  wish  a  stranger  to 

me, 
Tb<it  1  might  curse  you  ;   hut 

Car.   Whence  grows  this  heat? 

Pedro.  Be  yet  advised,  and  entertain  him  fairly, 
For  I  will  send  him  to  you,  or  no  more 
Know  me  a  brother. 

Aim.  As  you  please. 

Pedro.  Good  morrow.  [L'xit. 

Car.  Good  morrow,  and    part  thus !    you  seem, 

moved  too : 

What  desperate  fool  durst  raise  a  tempest  here, 
To  sink  himself? 

Aim.  Good  sir,  have  patience  ; 
7'he  cause,  though  I  confess  I  am  not  pleased, 
No  way  deserves  your  auger. 

Car.  Not  mine,  madam  ! 
As  if  the  least  offence  could  point  at  you, 
And  I  not  feel  it :  as  you  have  vouchsafed  me 
The  promise  of  your  heart,  conceal  it  not, 
Whomsoever  it  concerns. 

Aim.  Jt  is  not  worth 
So  serious  an  enquiry  :  my  kind  brother 
Hud  a  desire  to  learn  me  some  new  courtship, 
Which  1  distasted  ;  that  was  all. 

Car.  Your  brother ! 
In  being  yours,  with  more  security 
He  might  provoke  you;  yet,  if  he  hath  past 
A  brother's  bounds 

Leon.   What  then,  my  lord? 

Cur.  Believe  it, 
I'll  call  him  to  account  for't. 

Leon.  Tell  him  so. 

Aim.  No  more. 

Leon.  Yes,  thus  much  ;   though  my  modesty 
Be  cnll'd  in  question  fur  it,  in  his  absence 
I  will  defend  him  :  he  hath  said  nor  done 
But  what  Don  Pedro  well  might  say  or  do; 
Mark  me,  Don  Pedro  !  in  which  understand 
As  worthy,  and  as  well  as  can  be  hoped  for 
Of  those  that  love  him  best — from  Don  Cardenes. 

Car.  This  to  me,  cousin  ! 

Aim.  You  forget  yourself. 

Leon.  No,  nor  the  cause  in  which  you  did  so,  lady 
Which  is  so  just  that  it  needs  no  concealing 
On  Pedro's  part. 

Aim.  What  mean  you? 

Leo 7i.  1  dare  speak  it, 
If  you  dare  hear  it,  sir :  he  did  persuade 
Almira,  your  Almira,  to  vouchsafe 
Some  little  conference  with  the  Prince  of  Tarent, 
Before  be  left  the  court ;  and,  that  the  world 
Might  take  some  notice,  though  he  prosper'd  not 
In  his  so  loved  design,  he  was  not  scorn'd, 
He  did  desire  the  kissing  of  her  hand, 
And  then  to  leave  her : — this  was  much  ! 

Cur.  'Twas  more 

Than  should  have  been  urged  by  him ;  well  denied 
On  your  part,  m;idam,  and  1  thank  you  for't. 
Antonio  had  his  answer,  I  your  grant ; 
And  why  )our  brother  should  prepare  for  him 
An  after-interview,  or  private  favour, 
I  can  find  little  reason. 

Leon.  None  at  all 
Why  you  should  be  displeased  with't. 

Car.  His  respect 
To  me,  as  things   now  are,   should   have   weigh'd 

down 

His  former  friendship  :  'twas  done  indiscreetly, 
I  would  be  loath  to  say,  maliciously, 


SCKNE  I.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


441 


To  build  up  the  demolish'd  hopes  of  him 
That  was  my  rival.     What  bad  he  to  do, 
If  he  view  not  my  happiness  in  your  favour 
With  wounded  eyes,  to  take  upon  himself 
An  office  so  distasteful  ? 

Leon.  You  may  ask 

As  well,  what  any  gentleman  has  to  do 
With  civil  courtesy. 

Aim.  Or  you,  with  that 

Which  at  no  part  concerns  you.     Good  my  lord, 
Rest  satisfied,  that  I  saw  him  not,  nor  will ; 
And  that  nor  father,  brother,  nor  the  world 
Can  work  me  unto  any  thing  but  what 
You  give  allowance  to — in  which  assurance, 
With  this,  I  leave  you, 

Leon.  Nay,  take  me  along ; 
YOU  are  not  angry  too  ? 

Aim.  Presume  on  that. 

[Exit, followed  by  Leonora. 

Car.  Am  I  assured  of  her,  and  shall  again 
Be  tortured  with  suspicion  to  lose  her, 
Before  1  have  enjoyed  her  !  the  next  sun 
Shall  see  her  mine;  why  should  I  doubt,  then?  yet, 
To  doubt  is  safer  than  to  be  secure*. 
But  one  short  day  !  Great  empires  in  less  time 
Have    suffer'd    change:    she's     constant — but     a 

woman  ; 

And  what  a  lover's  vows,  persuasions,  tears, 
Way,  in  a  minute,  work  upon  such  frailty, 
There  are  too  many  and  too  sad  examples. 
The  prince  of  Tarent  gone,  all  were  in  safety  ; 
Or  not  admitted  to  solicit  her, 
My  fears  would  quit  me :  'tis  my  fault,  if  I 
(Jive  way  to  that  ;  and  let  him,  ne'er  desire 
To  own  what's  hard  [to  win},]  that  dares  not  guard 

Who  waits  there? 

Enter  Servants  and  Page. 

Serv.  Would  your  lordship  aught  1 

Car.  'Tis  well 
You  are  so  near. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  a  Servant. 

Ant.  Take  care  all  things  be  ready 
For  my  remove. 

Serv.  They  are.  [Exit. 

Car.  We  meet  like  friends, 
No  more  like  rivals  now:  my  emulation 
Puts  on  tl'e  shape  of  love  and  service  to  you. 

Ant.  It  is  return 'd. 

Cur.  T was  rumour'd  in  the  court 
You  were  to  leave  the  city,  and  that  wan  me 
To  find  you  out.     Your  excellence  may  wonder 
That  I,  that  never  saw  you  till  this  hour 
But  that  I  wish'd  you  dead,  so  willingly 
Should  come  to  wait  upon  you  to  the  ports, 
And  there,  with  hope  you  never  will  look  back, 
Take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 

Ant.  Never  look  back! 

Car.  I  said  so  ;  neither  is  it  fit  you  should ; 
And  may  I  prevail  with  you  as  a  friend, 


'  To  doubt  ig  infer  than  to  be  secure,  &c.]  This  speech 
is  so  arranged,  and  so  pointed  by  Mr.  M.  Mason,  wh»  has 
improved  upon  the  errors  of  Coxeter,  as  to  be  little  belter 
than  nousense. 

t  To  own  what's  hard  [to  win,]  that  dares  nut  guard  it.] 
A  foot  i«  lost  here,  which  1  h.ive  endeavoured  to  supply,  by 
In*  addition  of  the  words  in  brackets.  The  delect  was  noticed 
by  Mr.  ,M.  Mason,  who  proposed  to  complete  the  line  by 
reading,  to  keep. 


You  never  shall,  nor,  while  you  live,  hereafter 
Think  of  the  viceroy's  court,  or  of  Palermo, 
But  as  a  grave,  in  which  the  prince  of  Tarent 
Buried  his  honour. 

Ant.  You  speak  in  a  language 
I  do  not  understand.  I 

Cur.  No  !  I'll  be  plainer. 

What  madman,  that  came  hither  with  that  pomp 
Don  John  Antonio  did,  that  exact  courtier 
Don  John  Antonio,  with  whose  brave  fame  only, 
Great  princesses  have  fall'n  in  love,  and  died  ; 
That  came  with  such  assurance  as  young  Paris 
Did  to  fetch  Helen,  being  sent  back,  contemn'd, 
Digraced,  and  scorn 'd,  his  large  expense  laugh'd  at, 
His  bravery  scofTd,  the  lady  that  he  courted 
Left  quietly  in  possession  of  another 
(Not  to  be  named  that  day  a  courtier 
Where  he  was  mentioned),  the  scarce-known  Car- 
denes, 

And  he  to  bear  her  from  him  ! — that  would  ever 
Be  seen  again  (having  got  fairly  off) 
By  such  as  will  live  ready  witnesses 
Of  his  repulse,  and  scandal? 

Ant.  The  grief  of  it, 

Believe  me,  will  not  kill  me  ;  all  man's  honour 
Depends  not  on  the  most  uncertain  favour 
Of  a  fair  mistress. 

Car.  Troth,  you  bear  it  well. 
You  should  have  seen  some  that  were  sensible 
Of  a  disgrace,  that  would  have  raged,  and  sought 
To  cure  their  honour  with  some  strange  revenge : 
But  you  are  better  temper'd  ;  and  they  wrong 
The  Neapolitans  in  their  report. 
That  say  they  are  fiery  S|iints,  uncapable 
Of  the  least  injury,  dangerous  to  be  talk'd  with 
After  a  loss  ;  where  nothing  can  move  you*, 
But,  like  a  stoic,  with  a  constancy 
Words  nor  affronts  can  shake,  you  still  go  on, 
And  smile  when  men  abuse  you. 

Ant.  If  they  wrong 

Themselves,  1  can  ;  yet,  I  would  have  you  know, 
I  dare  be  angry. 

Car.  'Tis  not  possible. 

A  taste  oft  would  do  well ;  and  I'd  make  trial 
What  may  be  done.     Come  hither,  boy. — You  have 

seen 
This  jewel,  as  I  take  it? 

Ant.  Yes ;  'tis  that 
I  gave  Almirn. 

Car.  And  in  what  esteem 
She  held  it,  coining  from  your  worthy  self, 
You  may  perceive,  that  freely  hath  bestow'd  it 
Upon  my  page. 

Ant.  When  I  presented  it, 
I  did  not  indent  with  her,  to  what  use 
She  should  employ  it. 

Car.  See  the  kindness  of 
A  loving  soul !  who  after  this  neglect, 
Nay,  gross  contempt,  will  look  again  upon  her, 
And  not  be  frighted  from  it. 

Ant.  No,  indeed,  sir  ; 

Nor  give  way  longer — give  way,  do  you  mark, 
To  your  loose  wit  to  run  the  wild-goose  chase 

*  After  a  lott ;  -where  nothing  can  move  you,]  H'tiere,(or 
whereas,  occurs  so  freqiu-utl^  in  these  Plajs,  that  it  stemi 
scarcely  possible  to  escape  the  notice  of  the  mott  incurious 
reader ;  yet  the  last  editor  lias  overlooked  it,  and,  in  his  at- 
tempt to  make  the  author  speak  English,  inoductd  a  line  of 
unparalleled  harmony : — 

After  a  lott ;  for  whereas  noth'ny  can  move  you  t 


447 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[ACT  I. 


Six  syllables  further.     I  will  see  the  Indy, 
1  bat  "lady  that  dotes  on  you,  from  whose  hate 
My  love  increases,  though  you  stand  elected 
Her  porter  to  deny  me. 

Cur.  Sure  you  will  not. 

Ant.  Yes,  instantly  :  your  prosperous  success 
Hath  made  you  insolent ;  and  tor  her  sake 
I  have  thus  long  forborne  you, and  can  yet 
Forget  it  and  forgive  it,  ever  provided, 
That  you  end  here;   and,  for  what's  past  recalling, 
That  she  make  intercession  for  your  pardon. 
Which,  at  her  suit,  I'll  giant. 

Car.  I  am  much  unwilling 

To  move  her  for  a  trifle — bear  that  too,  [Sin/ces  him. 
And  then  she  shall  speak  to  you. 

Ant.  Men  and  angel.s, 
Take  witness  for  me,  that  I  have  endured 
More  than  a  man  ! —         [Theyjight ;  Curtlenes  fulls. 

O  do  not  fall  so  soon, 

Stand  up — take  my  hand — so!  when  1  have  printed, 
For  every  contumelious  word,  a  wound  here, 
Then  sink  for  ever. 

Car.  Oh,  I  suffer  justly  ! 

1  Serv.  Murder!  murder!  murder!  [Exit. 

2  Serv.  Apprehend  him. 

3  Sere.  We'll  all  join  with  you. 
Ant.  I  do  wish  you  more ; 

My  fury  will  be  lost  else,  if  it  meet  not 
Matter  to  work  on;  one  liie  is  too  litlie 
For  so  much  injury. 

Re-enter  ALMIRA,  LEONORA,  and  Servant. 

Aim.  O  my  Cardenes  ! 

Though  dead,  still  my  Cardenes!   Villains. cowards. 
What  do  ye  check  at  ?  can  one  arm,  and  that 
A  murderer's,  so  long  guard  the  curs'd  master, 
Against  so  many  swords  made  sharp  with  justice? 

1  Serv.  Sure  he  will  kill  us  all ;  he  is  a  devil. 

2  Serv.  He  is  invulnerable. 
Aim.  Your  base  fears 

Beget  such  fancies  in  you.      Give  me  a  sword, 

[Snatches  a  ward  from  the  Servant. 
This  my  weak  arm,  made  strong  in  my  revenge, 
Shall  force  a  way  to't.  [Wounds  Antonio. 

Ant.  Would  it  were  deeper,  madam  ! 
The  thrust,  which  I  would  not  put  by.  being  yours, 
Of  greater  force,  to  have  pierced  through  that  heart 
Which  still  retains  your  figure  ! — weep  still,  lady; 
For  every  tear  that  flows  from  those  grieved  eyes, 
Some  part  of  that  which  maintains  life,  goes  from 

me ; 

And  so  to  die  were  in  a  gentle  slumber 
To  pass  to  paradise  :  but  you  envy  me 
So  quiet  a  departure  from  my  world, 
My  world  of  miseries  ;  therefore,  take  my  sword, 
And,  having  kill'd  me  with  it,  cure  the  wounds 
It  gave  Cardenes. 

He-enter  PEDRO. 

Pedro.  '  Tis  too  true  :  was  ever 
Valour  so  ill  employed  ! 

Ant.  Why  stay  you,  lady  ? 
Let  not  soft  pity  work  on  your  hard  nature  ; 
You  cannot  do  a  better  office  to 
The  dead  Cardenes,  and  I  willingly  ' 
Shall  fall  a  ready  sacrifice  to  appease  him, 
Your  fair  hand  offering  it. 

Aim.  Thou  couldst  ask  nothing 
But  this,  which  I  would  grant. 


Lemi.  Flint-hearted  lady ! 

Pedro.   Aieyoua  woman,  sister  ! 

[Takes  the  sword  from  her 

Aim.  Thou  art  not 

A  brother,  1  renounce  that  title  to  thee  ; 
Thy  hand  is  in  this  bloody  act,  'twas  this 
Kor  winch  that  savage  homicide  was  sent  hither 
Thou  equal  Judge  of  all  things*  !  if  that  blood, 
And  innocent  blood 

Pedio.  [Best  sister.] 

Aim.  Oil,  Cardenes  ! 

How  is  my  soul  rent  between  rage  and  sorrow, 
That  it  can  be  that  such  an  upright  cedar 
Should  violently  be  torn  up  by  the  roots, 
Without  iin  earthquake  in  that  very  moment 
To  swallow  them  that  did  it! 

Ant.   The  hurt's  nothingf  ; 

But  the  de?p  wound  is  in  my  conscience,  friend, 
Which  sorrow  in  death  only  can  lecover. 

Pedro.  Have  better  hopes. 

Enter  VICEROY,  Duke  of  MESSINA,  Captain,  Guards, 
and  Servants. 

Duke.  My  son,  is  this  the  marriage 
I  came  to  celebrate '(  false  hopes  of  man  ' 
1  come  to  tind  a  grave  here. 

Aim.  1  have  wasted 

My  stock  of  tear>,  and  now  just  anger  help  me 
To  pay,  in  mv  revenge,  the  other  part 
Of  duty  which  1  owe  thee.     O  great  sir, 
Not  us  a  daughter  now,  but  a  poor  widow", 
Made  so  before  she  was  a  bride,  I  fly 
To  your  impartial  justice  :  the  offince 
Is  death,  and  death  in  his  most  horrid  form ; 
Let  not,  then,  title,  or  a  prince's  name 
(Since  a  ^reat  crime  is,  in  a  great  man,  greater^). 
Secure  the  offender. 

Duke.  Give  me  life  for  life, 
As  thou  wilt  answer  it  to  the  great  king, 
Whose  deputy  thou  art  here. 

Aim.  And  speeuv  justice. 

Duke.  Put  the  damn'd  wretch  to  torture. 

Aim.  Force  him  to 

Reveal  his  curs'd  confederates,  which  spare  not. 
Although  you  find  a  son  among  them. 

Vice.  How' 

Duke.  Why  bring  you  not  the  rack  forth  ? 

Aim.    Wherefore  stands 
The  murdeier  unbound? 


•   Thou  equal  jndye  of  all  thiny*!  (f  that  blood 
And  innocent  blood — 


Pedro.  [  ilent  titter.] 
Aim.  Oh,  Cardimet! 
How 


,  g 

like  nature  apparently  once  stood  there  :  at  any  rat»-, 
confident   of  having  done   well  in    lollowing  !he  old 
copy  and  re-toring  the  »pce<h  to  Alniira. 

t  Ant.  The  hurl's  nothing  ;  &c,]  From  this  it  appears 
that,  (luring  Aiming  impa.vioned  speech,  don  Pedro  had 
been  condoling  with  his  iiieml  on  his  wound  ;  another  proof 
of  the  in.itteuiion  of  tin-  modern  edilors. 

I  (Since  a  grt-at  crime,  in  a  great  man,  is  greater,)] 
Omiie  animi  vitium  tunto  conspectint  in  te 
Crimtn  habe:,  quanta  major  qui  yeccat,  habetwr. 


, 
Juv.  Sat.  viii.  V.  140. 


SCENE  I.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


449 


Vice.  Sball  I  have  hearing? 
Duke.  Excellent  lady,  in  this  you  express 
Your  true  love  to  the  dead. 
Aim.   All  love  to  mankind 
From  me,  ends  with  him. 

Vice.  Will  you  hear  me  yet? 
And  first  to  you  :  you  do  confess  the  fact 
With  which  you  stand  charged? 

Ant.  I   will  not  make  worse 
What  is  already  ill,  with  vain  denial. 

Vice.  Then  understand,  though  you  are  prince  of 

Tarent, 

Yet,  being  a  subject  to  the  king  of  Spain, 
Xc>  privilege  of  Sicily  can  tree  you 
(  Being  convict  bv  a  just  f  rm  of  law) 
From  the  municipal  statutes  of  that  kingdom, 
But  us  a  common  man,  being  found  guilty, 
Must  suffer  for  it. 

Ant.  1  prize  not  my  life 
So  much,  as  (o  appeal  from  anything 
You  shall  determine  of  me. 

Vice.  Yet  despair  not 
To  have  an  equal  hearing  ;  the  exclaims 
Of  this  grieved  father,  nor  my  daughter's  tears, 
Shall  sway  me  from  myself ;  and,  where  they  urge 
To  have  you  tortured,  or  led  bound  to  prison, 
I  must  not  grant  it. 
Duke.  No  ! 
Vice.  I  cannot,  sir  ; 
For  men  of  his  rank  are  to  be  distinguish 'd 


From  other  men,  before  they  are  condemn'd, 
From  wLich  (his  cause  not  heard)  he  yet  stands  free: 
So  take  him  to  your  charge,  and,  as  your  life, 
See  he  be  safe. 

Capt.   Let  me  die  for  him  else. 

[Exeunt  Pedro  and  Capt.  and  guard  with  Ant, 
Dt,ke.  The  guard  of  him  should  have  been  given 

to  me. 

Aim.  Or  unto  me. 

Duke.  Bribes  may  corrupt  the  captain. 
Aim.  And  our  just  wreak,  by  force,  or  cunning 

practice, 

With  scorn  prevented. 
Car.  Oh  ! 

Aim.  What  groan  is  that? 

Vice.  There  are  apparent  signs  of  life  yet  in  him, 
Aim.  Oh  that  there  were !  that  I  could  pour  my 

blood 

Into  his  veins ! 
Car.   Oh,  oh  ! 
Vice.  Take  him  up  gently. 
Duke.  Run  for  physicians. 
Aim.  Surgeons. 
Dnke.  All  helps  else. 

Vice.  This  care  of  his  recovery,  timely  practised, 
Would  have,  express'd  more  of  a  father  in  you, 
Than  your  impetuous  clamours  for  revenge. 
But  I  shall  find  fit  time  to  urge  that  further, 
Hereafter,  to  you  ;  'tis  not  fit  for  me 
To  add  weight  to  oppress'd  calamity.  [Exeunt 


ACT  IL 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  cattle. 
Enter  PEDRO,  ANTONIO,  and  Captain. 

Ant.  Why  should  your  love  to  me,  having  already 
So  oft  endured  the  test,  be  put  unto 
A  needless  trial  ?  have  you  not,  long  since, 
In  every  circumstance  and  rite  to  friendship, 
Outgone  all  precedents  the  ancients  boast  of, 
And  will  you  yet  move  further? 

Pedro.  Hitherto 

I  have  done  nothing  (howsoe'er  you  value 
My  weak  endeavours)  that  may  justly  claim 
A  title  to  your  friendship,  and  much  less 
Laid  down  the  debt,  which,  as  a  tribute  due 
To  your  deservings,  not  I,  but  all  mankind 
Stands  bound  to  tender. 

Ant.   Do  not  make  an  idol 
Of  him  that  should,  and  without  superstition, 
To  you  build  up  an  altar.     O  my  Pedro ! 
When  I  am  to  expire,  to  call  you  mine. 
Assures  a  future  happiness  :   give  me  leave 
To  argue  with  you,  and,  the  fondness  of 
Affection  struck  blind,  with  justice  hear  me: 
Why  should  you,  being  innocent,  fling  your  life 
Into  the  furnace  of  your  father's  anger 
For  my  offence  ?  or,  take  it  granted  (yet 
'Tis  more  than  supposition)  you  prefer 
My  safety  'fore  your  own,  so  prodigally 


You  waste  your  favours,  wherefore  should  this  cap. 

tain, 

His  blood  and  sweat  rewarded  in  the  favour 
Of  his  great  master,  falsify  the  trust 
Which,  from  true  judgment,  he  reposes  in  him, 
For  me,  a  stranger? 

Pedro.  Let  him  answer  that, 

He  needs  no  prompter :  speak  your  thoughts,  and 
freely. 

Capt.  1  ever  loved  to  do  so,  and  it  shames  not 
The  bluntness  of  my  breeding  :  from  my  youth 
I  was  train'd  up  a  soldier,  one  of  those 
That  in  their  natures  love  the  dangers  more 
Than  the  rewards  of  danger.     I  could  add, 
My  life,  when  forfeited,  the  viceroy  pardon'd 
But  by  his  intercession  ;  and  therefore. 
It  being  lent  by  him,  I  were  ungrateful, 
Which  I  will  never  be,  if  I  refused 
To  pay  that  debt  at  any  time  demanded. 

Pedro.  I  hope,  friend,  this  will  satisfy  you. 

Ant,  No,  it  raises 

More  d'-ubts  within  me.     Shall  I,  from  the  schoc* 
Of  gratitude,  in  which  this  captain  reads 
The  text  so  plainly,  learn  to  be  unthankful  ? 
Or,  viewing  in  \ouractions  the  idea 
Of  perfect  friendship,  when  it  does  point  to  me 
How  brave  a  thins  it  is  to  be  a  friend, 
Turn  from  the  object?     Had  I  never  loved 
The  fair  Almira  for  her  outward  features, 


444 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[Acr  II, 


Nay,  were  the  beauties  of  her  mind  suspected, 
And  her  contempt  and  scorn  painted  before  me, 
The  being  your  sister  would  anew  inflame  me 
With  much  more  impotence*  to  dote  upon  her: 
No,  dear  friend,  let  me  in  my  death  confirm 
(Though  you  in  all  things  else  have  the  precedence) 
I'll  die  ten  times,  ere  one  of  Pedro's  hairs 
Shall  suffer  in  my  cause. 

Pedro.  If  you  so  love  me, 
In  love  to  that  part  of  my  soul  dwells  in  you 
(For  though  two  bodies,  friends  have  but  one  soul), 
Lose  not  both  life  and  me. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  The  prince  is  dead.  [Exit. 

Ant.  If  so,  shall  I  leave  Pedro  here  to  answer 
For  my  escape  ?  as  thus  I  clasp  tbee,  let 
The  viceroy's  sentence  find  me. 

Pedro.  Fly,  for  heaven's  sake  ! 
Consider  the  necessity  ;  though  now 
We  part,  Antonio,  we  may  meet  again, 
liut  death's  division  is  for  ever,  friend. 

Enter  another  Servant. 

Serv.  The  rumour  spread,  sir,  of  Martino's  death, 
Is  check 'd  ;  there's  hope  of  his  recovery.         [Exit. 

Ant.  Why  should  I  fly,  then,  when  I  may  enjoy, 
With  mine  own  life,  my  friend  ? 

Pedro.  That's  still  uncertain, 
He  may  have  a  relapse  ;  for  once  be  ruled,  friend  : 
He's  a  good  debtor  that  pays  when  'tis  due  ; 
A  prodigal,  that,  before  it  is  required. 
Makes  tender  of  it. 

Enter  Sailors. 

1  Sail.  The  bark,  sir,  is  ready. 

2  Sail.  The  wind  sits  fair. 

3  Sail.  Heaven  favours  your  escape. 

[Whistle  ti-ithin, 

Capt.  Hark,  how    the    boatswain   whistles  you 

aboard  ! 
Will  nothing  move  you? 

Ant.  Can  1  leave  my  friend  ? 

Pedro.  1  must  delay  no  longer  :  force  him  hence. 

Capt.  I'll  run  the  hazard  of  my  fortunes  with  you. 

Ant.  What  violence  is  this? — hear  but  my  rea- 
sons. 

Pedro.  Poor  friendship  that  is  cool'd  with  argu- 
ments ! 
Away,  away ! 

Capt.  For  Malta. 

Pedro.  You  shall  hear 
All  our  events. 

Ant.  1  may  sail  round  the  world, 
But  never  meet  thy  like.     Pedro  ! 

Pedro.  Antonio  ! 

Ant.  1  breathe  my  soul  back  to  thee. 

Pedro.  In  exchange 
Bear  mine  along  with  thee. 

Capt.  Cheerly  my  hearts  !  [Exeunt. 

Pedro.  He's  gone :  may  pitying  heaven  bis  pilot 

be, 
And  then  I  weigh  not  what  becomes  of  me.     [Exit. 


•  With  much  more  impotence  in  dote  upon  her;]  So  the 
old  copy.  Coxeicr  dislikes  impotence,  for  which  he  would 
read  impatience  ;  and  Mr.  M.  Mason,  I  know  not  for  what 
reason,  omits  much,  which  destroys  the  metre.  It  requires 
DO  words  to  prov  the  text  to  be  genuine. 


SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  the  Viceroy's  Palace. 
Enter  VICEROY,  Duke  of  MESSINA,  and  Attendant* 

Vice.  I  tell  you  right,  sir. 

Duke.  Yes,  like  a  rough  surgeon, 
Without  a  feeling  in  yourself  you  search 
My  wounds  unto  the  quick,  then  pre-declare 
The  tecliousness  and  danger  of  the  cure, 
Never  remembering  what  the  patient  suffers. 
But  you  preach  this  philosophy  to  a  man 
That  does  partake  of  passion,  and  not 
To  a  dull  stoic. 

Vice.  I  confess  you  have 

Just  cause  to  mourn  your  son  ;  and  yet,  if  reason 
Cannot  yield  comfort,  let  example  cure. 
I  am  a  father  too,  my  only  daughter 
As  dear  in  my  esteem,  perhaps  as  worthy, 
As  your  Martino,  in  her  love  to  him 
As  desperately  ill,  either's  loss  equal ; 
And  yet  I  bear  it  with  a  better  temper : 

Enter  PEDRO. 

Which  if  you  please  to  imitate,  'twill  not  wrong 
Your  piety,  nor  your  judgment. 

Duke.  We  were  fashioned 
In  different  moulds.       I  weep  with  mine  own  eyes, 

sir, 

Pursue  my  ends  too  ;  pity  to  you's  a  cordial, 
Revenge  to  me  ;  and  that  I  must  and  will  have, 
If  my  Martino  die. 

Pedro.  Your  must  and  will, 
Shall  in  your  full-sailed  confidence  deceive  you. 

[AtU*. 
Here's  doctor  Paulo,  sir. 

Enter  PAULO  and  two  Surgeons. 

Duke.  My  hand  !  you  rather 
Deservo  my  knee,  and  it  shall  bend  as  to 
A  second  father,  if  your  saving  aids 
Restore  my  son. 

Vice.  Rise,  thou  bright  star  of  knowledge, 
Thou  honour  of  thy  art,  thou  help  of  nature, 
Thou  glory  of  our  academies  ! 

Paul.  If  I  blush,  sir, 
To  hear  these  attributes  ill-placed  on  me 
It  is  excusable.     I  am  no  god,  sir, 
Nor  holy  saint  that  can  do  miracles, 
But  a  weak,  sinful  man  :  yet,  that  I  may 
In  some  proportion  deserve  these  favours 
Your  excellencies  please  to  grace  me  with, 
I  promise  all  the  skill  I  have  acquired 
In  simples,  or  the  careful  observation 
Of  the  superior  bodies,  with  my  judgment 
Derived  from  long  experience,  stand  ready 
To  do  you  service. 

Duke.  Modestly  replied. 

Vice.  How  is  it  with  your  princely  patient  ? 

Duke.  Speak, 
But  speak  some  comfort,  sir. 

Paul.  I  must  speak  truth  : 
His  wounds  though  many,  heaven  so  guided  yet 
Antonio's  sword,  it  pierced  no  part  was  mortal. 
These  gentlemen,  who  worthily  deserve 
The  names  of  surgeons,  have  done  their  duties  : 
The  means  they  practised,  not  ridiculous  charma 
To  stop  the  blood  ;  no  oils,  nor  balsams  bought 
Of  cheating  quack-salvers,  or  mountebanks, 
By  them  applied  :  the  rules  by  Chiron  taught, 
And  .rEsculapius,  which  drew  upon  him 


nr.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


443 


The  tbunderer's  envy,  they  with  care  pursued, 
Heaven  prospering:  their  endeavours. 

Duke.    I  here  is  hope,  then, 
Of  his  recovery? 

Paul.  But  no  assurance  ; 
I  must  not  flatter  you.     That  little  air 
Of  comfort  that  breathes  towards  us  (for  I  dare  not 
Rob  these  t'enrich  myself)  you  owe  their  care  ; 
For,  yet,  I  have  done  nothing. 

Duke.  Still  more  modest ; 
I  will  begin  with  them  :  to  either  give 
Three  thousand  crowns. 

Viet.  I'll  double  jour  reward;  ^ 

See  them  paid  presently. 

1  Surg.  This  magnificence 

With  equity  cannot  be  conferred  on  us; 
'Tis  u'ue  unto  the  doctor. 

2  Surg.  True  ;  we  were 

But  his  subordinate  ministers,  and  did  only 
Follow  his  grave  directions. 

Paul.  Tisyour  own  ; 
I  challenge  no  part  in  it. 

Vice.  Hrave  on  both  sides. 

PauL  Deserve   this,  with  the    honour  that   will 

follow, 
In  your  attendance. 

5>  Surg.  If  both  sleep  at  once, 
Tis  justice  both  should  die.  [Exeunt  Surgeons. 

Duke.  For  you,  grave  doctor, 
We  will  not  in  such  petty  sums  consider 
Your  high  destyts  ;  our  treasury  lies  open, 
Command  it  as  your  own. 

Vice.  Choose  any  castle, 
Nay,  city,  in  our  government,  and  be  lord  oft. 

Paul.  Of  neither,  sir,  1  am  not  so  ambitious  ; 
Nor  would  1  have  your  highnesses  secure. 
We  have  but  faintly  yet  begun  our  journey  ; 
A  thousand  difficulties  and  dangers  must  be 
Kncounter'd,  ere  we  end  it :  though  his  hurts, 
I  mean  his  outward  ones,  do  promise  lair, 
There  is  a  deeper  one,  and  in  his  mind, 
Must  be  with  care  provided  for  :  melancholy, 
And  at  the  height,  too  near  akin  to  madness, 
Possesses  him  ;  his  senses  are  distracted, 
Mot  one,  hut  all ;  and,  if  I  can  collect  them 
With  all  the  various  ways  invention 
Or  industrv  e'er  practised,  1  shall  write  it 
My  masterpiece. 

"Duke.  You  more  and  more  engage  me. 

Vice.  May  we  not  visit  him  ? 

Paul,  by  no  means,  sir  ; 
As  he  is  now,  such  courtesies  come  untimely: 
1'U  yield  you  reasun  for't.     Should  he  look  on  you, 
It  will  renew  the  memory  of  that 
Which  1  would  have  forgotten  ;  your  good  prayers, 
And  those  1  do  presume  shall  not  be  wanting, 
To  my  endeavours  are  the  utmost  aids 
1  yet  desire  your  excellencies  should  grant  me. 
So,  with  my  humblest  service 

Duke.  Go,  and  prosper.  [Exit  Paulo. 

Vice.  Observe  his  piety  ! — I  have  heard,  how  true 
J1.  know  not,  most  physicians,  as  they  grow 
Greater  in  skill,  grow  less  in  their  religion  ; 
Attributing  so  much  to  natur.il  causes. 
That  they  have  little  faith  in  that  they  cannot 
Deliver  reason  for*  :  this  doctor  steers 


« 1  have  heard,  how  true 

I  know  not,  most  physicians,  at  they  yiow 


Another  course— but  let  this  puss  ;  if  you  please, 
Your  company  to  my  daughter. 

Duke.  1  wait  on  you.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  LEONORA  and  Waiting  Women. 

Leon.  Took  she  no  rest  to  niglit? 

1  (Tom.  Nut  any,  madam  ; 

I  am  sure  she  slept  not.     If  she  slumber'd,  straight, 
As  if  souse  dreadful  vision  had  appear'd, 
She  started  up,  her  hair  unbound,  and,  with 
Distracted  looks  staring  about  the  chamber, 
She  asks  aloud    Where  is  Martina"!  n-here 
Haie  you  conceal'd  him?  Sometimes  names  Antonio, 
Trembling  in  every  joint,  her  brows  contracted. 
Her  fair  face  as  'twere  changed  into  a  curse, 
Her  hands  held  up  thus;  and,  as  if  her  words 
Were  too  big  to  find  passage  through  her  mouth, 
She  groans,  then  throws  herself  upon  her  bed. 
Beating  her  breast. 

Le<m.  '  1'is  wonderous  strange. 

2  Warn.  Nay,  more  ; 

She  that  of  late  vouchsafed  not  to  be  seen. 
But  so  adorn'd  as  if  she  were  to  rival 
Nero's  Poppara,  or  the  Egyptian  queen, 
Now,  careless  of  her  beauties,  when  we  offer 
Our  service,  she  contemns  it. 

Lean.  Does  she  not 
Sometimes  forsake  her  chamber? 

'2  Worn.  Much  about 

This  hour ;  then  with  a  strange  unsettled  gait 
She  measures  twice  or  thrice  the  gallery, 
Silent,  and  frowning  (we  dare  not  speak  to  her), 
And  then  returns. — She's  come  :  pray  you,  now  ob- 
serve her. 

Enter  ALMIRA  in  black,  carelessly  habited. 

Aim.  Why  are  my  eyes  fix'd  on  the  ground,  and 

not 
Bent  upwards?  ha  !  that  which  was  mortal  of 


Greater  in  skill,  grow  lest  in  their  relit/ion  ; 
Attributing  so  much  to  natural  causes, 
That  they  hare  little  faith  in  that  they  cannot 
Deliver  rt-ason  for :]  The  history  of  mankind  unfortunately 
furnishes  too   many    instances  of    this   melancholy  fact,    to 
permit  a  doubt  on  the  subject.     Let  it  be   added,  however, 
that  they  chiefly  occur  among  the  half-informed  of  the  pro- 
fession: several  of  whom,  as  they  have  grotin  yet  yreater 
in  thill,   have,  to   (heir   praUe,  renounced    their   tceplicisra 
with  their  confidence,  and   increased   no  1<  ss  in  piety    than 
in  knowledge.     Ben  Jonson  observes,  \vith   his   usual  force 
and  perspicuity  : 

"  RUT  is  a  young  physician  to  the  family, 
That,  letting  God  alone,  ascribes  to  nature 
More  than  her  share  ;  licentious  in  discourse, 
And  in  his  life  a  protect  voluptuary  ; 
The  slave  of  money,  a  linrt'-oii  in  manners, 
Obscene  in  language,  which  he  vent>  for  wit, 
And  saucy  in  his  logics  and  disputing  " 

Magnetic  Lady. 

I  have  no  propensity  to  personal  satire,  nor  do  1  tliink  it 
just  to  convert  an  ancient  author  into  a  libellist,  by  an 
appropriation  of  his  descriptions  to  modern  characters  :  yet 
I  must,  for  once,  be  induced  with  saying,  that  almost  every 
woid  here  delivered  applies  so  'orcibly  to  a  late  physician, 
that  it  requires  some  evidence  to  believe  the  lines  were 
written  nearly  two  centuries  a£o.  To  lessen  the  wonder, 
however,  it  may  be  observed  that,  Irom  the  days  of  Dr. 

Rut  to  those  of  Ur.  D n,  that  description  of  men  who, 

letting  God  alone,  ascribe  to  nature  morr  than  her  share, 
have  been  commonly  licentious,  petulant,  and  obsceat 
buffoons. 


446 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[Acrll 


My  dear  Martino,  as  a  debt  to  nature, 
1  know  this  mother  earth  had  sepulchred  ; 
But  his  diviner  part,  his  soul,  o'er  which 
The  tyrant  Death,  nor  yet  the  fatal  sword 
Of  curs 'd  Antonio,  his  instrument. 
Had  the  least  power,  borne  apon  angels'  wings 
Appointed  to  that  office,  mounted  far 
Above  the  firmament. 

Leon.  Strange  imagination  ! 
Dear  cousin,  your  Martino  lives. 

Aim.  I  know  you, 

And  that  in  this  you  flatter  me;  he's  dead, 
As  much  as  could  die  of  him  : — but  look  yonder  ! 
Amongst  a  million  of  glorious  lights 
That  deck  the  heavenly  canopy,  I  have 
Discern'd  his  soul,  transform'd  into  a  star. 
Do  you  not  see  it  ? 

Leon.  Lady! 

Aim.  Look  with  my  eyes. 

What  splendour  circles  it !  the  heavenly  archer. 
Not  far  off  distant,  appears  dim  with  envy, 
Viewing  himself  outshin'd.     Bright  constellation, 
Dart  down  thy  beams  of  pity  on  Almira, 
And,  since  thou  find'st  such  grace  where  now  thou 

art, 

As  I  did  truly  love  thee  on  the  earth, 
Like  a  kind  harbinger,  prepare  my  lodging, 
And  place  me  near  thee  ! 

Leon.  1  much  more  than  fear 
She'll  grow  into  a  frenzy. 

Aim.  How!  what's  this? 
A  dismal  sound  !  come  nearer,  cousin  ;  lay 
Your  ear  close  to  the  ground, — closer,  I  pray  you. 
Do  you  howl?  are  you  there,  Antonio? 

Leon.  Where,  sweet  lady  ? 

Aim.  In  the  vault,  in  hell,  on  the  infernal  rack, 
Where    murderers     are     tormented; — yerk    him 

soundly, 
'Twas   Rhadamanth's    sentence;     do    your  office, 

furies. 
How  he  roars !    What !  plead  to  me  to  mediate  for 

you  ! 
I'm  deaf,  I  cannot  hear  you. 

Leon.  'Tis  but  fancy  ; 
Collect  yourself. 

Aim.  Leave  babbling  ;  'tis  rare  music  ! 
Rhainnusia  plays  on  a  pair  of  tongs 
Red  hot,  and  Proserpine  dances  to  the  consort; 
I'luto  sits  laughing  by  too*.     So!  enough: 
I  do  begin  to  pity  him. 

Leon.  I  wish,  madam, 
You  would  show  it  to  yourself. 

2  Worn.  Her  fit  begins 
To  leave  her. 

Aim    Oh  my  brains !  are  you  there,  cousin  ? 

Leon.  Now  she  speaks  temperately.     I  am  ever 

ready 
To  do  you  service  :  how  do  you? 

Aim.  Wry  much  troubled. 
I  have  had  the  strangest  waking  dream  of  hell 
And  heaven — I  know  not  what. 

Leon.  My  lord  your  father 

Is  come  to  visit  you  ;  as  you  would  not  grieve  him 
That  is  so  tender  of  you,  entertain  him 
With  a  becoming  duty. 


•  Thi*  is  not  madness  but  light-headedness :  but  such,  in- 
deed, is  the  malady  of  Almira.  Later  writers  have  mistaken 
its  characteristics,  and  copied  then:  (a  wonderfully  easy  mat- 
ter) for  madness. 


Enter  VICEROY,   Duke  of  MESSINA,  PEDRO,  and 

Attendants. 
Vice.  Still  forlorn ! 
No  comfort,  my  Almira? 

Duke.   In  your  sorrow, 

For  my  Martino,  madam,  you  have  express'd 
All  possible  love  and  tenderness  ;  too  much  of  it 
Will  wrong  yourself,  and  him.     He  may  live,  lady 
CFor  we  are  not  past  hope),  with  his  future  service, 
In  some  part  to  deserve  it. 

Aim.  If  heaven  please 
To  be  so  gracious  to  me,  I  will  serve  him 
With  such  obedience,  love,  and  humbleness, 
That  I  will  rise  up  an  example  for 
Good  wives  to  follow  :  but  until  I  have 
Assurance  what  fate  will  determine  of  me, 
Thus   like  a  desolate  widow,  give  me  leave, 
To  weep  for  him  ;  for  should  he  die,  I  have  vow'd 
Not  to  outlive  him  ;  and  my  humble  suit  is, 
One  monument  may  cover  us,  and  Antonio 
(Injustice  you  must  grant  me  that)  be  offer'd 
A  sacrifice  to  our  ashes. 

Vice.  Prithee  put  off 

These  sad  thoughts ;  both  shall  live,  I  doubt  it  not, 
A  happy  pair. 

Enter  CUCULO,  and  BORACHIA. 

Cue.  O  sir,  the  foulest  treason 
That  ever  was  disco  ver'd  ! 

Vice.  Speak  it,  that 
We  may  prevent  it. 

Cue.  Nay, 'tis  past  prevention  ;   . 
Though  you  allow  me  wise  (in  modesty, 
I  will  not  say  oraculous),  I  cannot  help  it. 
I  am  a  statesman,  and  some  say  a  wise  one, 
But  I  could  never  conjure,  nor  divine 
Of  things  to  come. 

Vice.  Leave  fooling  :  to  the  point, 
What  treason  ? 

Cue.  The  false  prince,  Don  John  Antonio, 
Is  fled. 

Vice.  It  is  not  possible. 

Pedro.  Peace,  screech-owl. 

Cue.  I  must  speak,  and  it  shall  out,  sir ;  the  captain, 
You  trusted  with  the  fort  is  run  away  too. 

Aim.  O  miserable  woman  !  I  defy 
All  comfort :  cheated  too  of  my  revenge  ! 
As  you  are  my  father,  sir,  and  you  my  brother, 
I  will  not  curse  you  ;  but  I  dare,  and  will  say, 
You  are  unjust  and  treacherous. — If  there  be 
A  way  to  death,  I'll  find  it.  [Eiu. 

Vice.  Follow  her; 

She'll  do  some  violent  act  upon  herself; 
'Till  she  be  better  temper'd,  bind  her  hands,        • 
And  fetch  the  doctor  to  her. 

[Exeunt  Leonora,  and  Waiting  Women. 

Had  not  you 
A  hand  in  this  ? 

Pedro.  I,  sir !  I  never  knew 
Such  disobedience. 

Vice.  My  honour's  touch'd  in't : 
Let  gallies  be  mann'd  forth  in  his  pursuit ; 
Search  every  port  and  harbour  ;  if  I  live, 
He  shall  not  'scape  thus. 

Duke,  Fine  hypocrisy! 
Away,  dissemblers  !  'tis  confederacy 
Betwixt  thy  Bon,  and  self,  and  the  false  captain, 
He  could  not  thus  have   vanish'd  else.     You  hare 

murder'd 

My  son  amongst  you,  and  now  murder  iustice  : 
You  know  it  most  impossible  be  should  live, 


SCENE  II.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


447 


Howe'er  the  doctor,  for  your  ends,  dissembled, 
And  you  have  shifted  hence  Antonio. 

Vice.  Messina,  thou'rt  a  crazed  and  grieved  old 

man, 

And  being  in  my  court,  protected  by 
The  law  of  hospitality,  or  I  should 
(  Give  you  a  sharper  answer:  may  I  perish 
If  I  knew  of  his  flight! 

Duke.  Fire,  then,  the  castle. 
Hang  up  then  the  captain's  wife  and  children. 

Vice.  Fie,  sir ! 

Pedro.  My  lord,  you  are   uncharitable ;    capital 

treasons 
Exact  not  so  much. 

Duke.  Thanks,  most  noble  signior, 
We  ever  had  your  good  word  and  your  love. 

Cue.  Sir,  I  dare  pass  my  word,  my  lords  are  clear 
Of  any  imputation  in  this  case 
You  seem  to  load  them  with. 

Duke.  Impertinent  fool ! 

No,  no,  the  loving  faces  you  put  on 

Have  been  but  grinning  visors  :  you  have  juggled 

me 

Out  of  my  son,  and  out  of  justice  too  ; 
But  Spain  shall  do  me  right,  believe  me,  Viceroy: 
There  I  will  force  it  from  thee  by  the  king, 
He  shall  not  eat  nor  sleep  in  peace  for  me, 
Till  I  am  righted  for  this  treachery. 

Vice.  Thy  worst,  Messina  ;  since  no  reason  can 
Qualify  thy  intemperance  :  the  corruption 
Of  my  subordinate  ministers  cannot  wrong 
My  true  integrity.     Let  privy  searchers 
Examine  all  the  land. 

Pedro.  Fair  fall  A  ntonio  ! 

[Exeunt  Viceroy,  Pedro,  and  Attendants. 

Cue.  This  is  my  wife,  my  lord  ;  troth  speak  your 

conscience, 
Is't  not  a  goodly  dame  ? 

Duke.  She  is  no  less,  sir ; 
I  will  make  use  of  these  ;  may  I  entreat  you* 
To  call  my  niece  1 

Bota.  With  speed,  sir.  [Exit  Borachia. 

Cue.  You  may,  my  lord,  suspect  me 
As  an  adept  in  these  state  conveyances  : 
Let  signior  Cuculo,  then,  be  never  more, 
For  all  bis  place,  wit,  and  authority, 
Held  a  most  worthy  honest  gentleman. 

Re-f nter  BORACHIA  with  LEONORA. 

Duke.  I  do  acquit  you,  signior.     Niece,  you  see 
To  what  extremes  I  am  driven  :  the  cunning  viceroy, 
And  his  son  Pedro,  having  express'd  too  plainly 
Their  cold  affections  to  my  son  Martino : 
And  therefore  I  conjure  thee,  Leonora, 
By  all  thy  hopes  from  me,  which  is  my  dukedom 
If  my  son  fail ;  however,  all  thy  fortunes  ; 
Though  heretofore  some  love  hath  past  betwixt 
Don  Pedro,  and  thyself,  abjure  him  now  : 
And  as  thou  keep'st  Almira  company, 
In  this  her  desolation,  so  in  hate 
To  this  young  Pedro  for  thy  cousin's  lore, 
Be  her  associate  ;  or  assure  thyself, 
I  cast  thee  like  a  stranger  from  my  blood. 


»  1  will  make  use  of  these :  may  1  entreat  you.]    So  the 
old  copy  :  Mr.  M.  Mason  chooses  to  read, 
I  will  ma'.e  toe  of  Cuculu  aiul  Borachia.    May  I  entreat 

you. 

If  such  portentous  lines  as  these  may  be  introduced  without 
r?asci>y  and  without  authority,  there  is  an  end  of  all  editor- 
thip. 


If  I  do  ever  hear  thou  see'st,  or  send'st 
Token,  orreceiv'st  message  —by  yon  heaven, 
I  never  more  will  own  thee  ! 

Leon.  O,  dear  uncle  ! 

You  have  put  a  tyrannous  yoke  upon  my  heart. 
And  it  will  break' it.  [Exit. 

Duke.  Gravest  lady,  you 
May  be  a  great  assister  in  my  ends. 
I  buy  your  diligence  thus  : — divide  this  couple  ; 
Hinder  their  interviews  ;  feign  'tis  her  will 
To  give  him  no  admittance,  if  he  crave  it ; 
And  thy  rewards  shall  be  thine  c.wn  desires  ; 
Whereto,  good  sir,  but  add  your  friendly  aids, 
And  use  me  to  my  uttermost. 

Cue.   My  lard, 

If  my  wife  please,  I  dare  not  contradict. 
Borachia,  what  do  you  say? 

Bora.  I  say,  my  lord, 
I  know  my  place  ;  and  be  assured  I  will 
Keep  fire  and  tow  asunder. 

Duke.   You  in  this 
Shall  much  deserve  me.  [Exit, 

Cue.   We  have  ta'en  upon  us 
A  heavy  charge  :  I  hope  you'll  now  forbear 
The  excess  of  wine. 

Bora.  I  will  do  what  I  please. 
This  day  the  market's  kept  for  slaves  ;  go  you, 
And  buy  me  a  fine-timber'd  one  to  assist  me  ; 
I  must  be  better  waited  on. 

Cue.  Anything, 
So  you'll  leave  wine. 

Bora.  Still  prating ! 

Cue.  1  am  gone,  duck. 

Bora.  Pedro  !  so  hot  upon  the  scent !  I'll  fit  him. 

Enter  PEDUO. 

Pedro.  Donna  Boracbia,  you  most  happily 
Are  met  to  pleasure  me. 

Bora.  It  may  be  so, 

I  use  to  pleasure  many.     Here  lies  my  way, 
I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  keep  on  your  voyage. 

Pedro.  Be  not  so  short,  sweet  lady,  I  must  with 
you. 

Bora.  With  me,  sir!  I  beseech  you,   sir;  why, 

what,  sir, 
See  you  in  me  ? 

Pedro.  Do  not  mistake  me,  lady, 
Nothing  but  honesty. 

Bora.  Hang  honesty  ! 

Trump  me  not  up  with  honesty :  do  you  mark,  sir, 
I  have  a  charge,  sir,  and  a  special  charge,  sir, 
And  'tis  not  honesty  can  win  on  me,  sir. 

Pedro.  Prithee  conceive  me  rightly. 

Bora.  I  conceive  you  ! 

Pedro.  But  understand. 

Bora.  I  will  not  understand,  sir, 
I  cannot,  nor  I  do  not  understand,  sir. 

Pedro.  Prithee,  Borachia,  let  me  see  my  mistress, 
But  look  upon  her ;  stand  you  by. 

Bora.  How's  this ! 

Shall  I  stand  by  ?  what  do  you  think  of  me? 
Now,  by  the  virtue  of  the  place  I  hold, 
You  are  a  paltry  lord  to  tempt  my  trust  thus : 
I  am  no  Helen,  nor  no  Hecuba, 
To  be  deflower'd  of  my  loyalty 
With  your  fair  language. 

Pedro.  Thou  mistak'st  me  still. 

Bora.  It  may  be  so,  my  place  will  bear  me  Out 
in't, 


4*3 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[Acr  III. 


And  will  mistake  you   still,  make  you  your  best 

on't. 

Pedro.  A  pox  upon  thee  !  let  me  but  behold  her. 
Bora.  A  plague  upon  you !  you  shall  never  see 

her. 
Pedro.  This  is   a   crone    in    grain !  thou  art    so 

testy — 
Prithee,  take  breath,  and  know  thy  friends. 

Bora.  1  will  not, 

I  have  no  fiiends,  nor  I  will  have  none  this  way : 
And,  now  I  think  on't  better,  why  will  you  see  her? 
Pedro.  Because    she    loves    me    dearly,    I   her 

equally. 

Bora.  She  hates  you  damnably,  most  wickedly, 
Build  that  upon  my  word,  most  wickedly  ; 
And  swears  her  eyes  are  sick  when  they  behold 

you. 

How  fearfully  have  1  heard  her  rail  upon  you, 
And  cast  and  rail  again  ;  and  cast  again  ; 
Cull  for  hot  waters,  and  then  rail  again ! 
Pedro.  How  !  'tis  not  possible. 
Bora.  I  have  heard  her  swear 
(How  justly,  you  best  know,  and  where  the  cause 

lies) 

That  you  are — I  shame  to  tell  it — but  it  must  out. 
Fie  !  fie!  why, bow  have  you  deserved  it? 
Pedro.  I  am  what  ? 
Bora.  The  beastliest  man — why,   what  a  grief 

must  this  be  ? 

(Sir  reverence  of   the  company) — a   rank    whore- 
master  : 

Ten  livery  whores,  she  assured  me  on  her  credit. 
With  weeping  eyes  she  spake  it, and  seven  citizens, 
Besides  all  voluntaries  that  serve  under  you, 
And  of  all  countries. 

Pedro.  '1  his  must  needa  be  a  lie. 
B«ra.  Besides,  you  are  so  careless  of  your  body, 
Which  is  a  foul  fault  in  you. 
Pedro.  Leave  your  fooling, 
For  this  shall  be  a  fable  :  happily 
My  sister's  anger  may  grow  strong  against  me, 
Which  thou  mistak'st. 

Bora.  She  hates  you  very  well  too, 
But  your  mistress  hates  you  heartily: — look  upon 

you ! 

Upon  my  conscience,  she  would  see  the  devil  first, 
With  eyes  us  big  as  saucers;  when  1  but  warned 

you, 
She  has  leap'd  back  thirty  feet :  if  once  she  smell 

you, 
For  certainly  you  are  rank,  she  says  extreme  rank, 


And  the  wind  stand  with  you  too,  she's  gone  for 
tver. 

Pedro.  For  all  this,  I  would  see  her. 

Bora.  That's  all  one. 
Have  you  new  eyes  when  those  are  scratch'd  out,  or 

a  nose 

To  clap  on  warm?  have  you  proof  against  a  piss- 
pot, 
Which,  if  they  bid  me,  I  must  fling  upon  you  1 

Pedro.  I  shall  not  see  her,  then,  you  say  ? 

Bora.  It  seems  so. 

Pedro.  Prithee,   be   thus    far   friend   then,    good 

Borachia, 

To  give  her  but  this  letter,  and  this  ring, 
And  leave  thy  pleasant  lying,  which  I  pardon  ; 
But  leave  it  in  her  pocket ;  there's  no  barm  in't. 
I'll  take  thee  up  a  petticoat,  will  that  please  thee? 

Bora.  Take  up  my  petticoat  !   1  scorn  the  motion, 
I  scorn  it  with  my  heels ;  take  up  my  petticoat! 

Pedro.  And  why  thus  hot  1 

Bora.  Sir,  you  shall  find  me  hotter, 
If  you  take  up  my  petticoat. 

Pedro.  I'll  give  thee  a  new  petticoat. 

Bora.  I  scorn  the  gift — take  up  my  petticoat ! 
Alas  !  my  lord,  you  are  too  young,  my  lord, 
Too  young,  my  lord,  to  circumcise  me  that  way* 
Take  up  my  petticoat !  I  am  a  woman, 
A  woman  of  another  way,  my  lord, 
A  gentlewoman  :  he  that  takes  up  my  petticoat. 
Shall  have  enough  to  do,  1  warrant  him, 
I  would  fain  see  the  proudest  of  you  all  so  lusty. 

Pedro.  Thou  art  disposed  still  to  mistake  me. 

Bora.  Petticoat ! 

You  show  now   what  you  are  ;  but  do  your  worst, 
sir. 

Pedro.  A  wild-fire  take  thee  ! 

Bora.  1  ask  no  favour  of  you, 
And  so  I  leave  you  ;  and  withal  I  charge  you 
In  my  own  name,  for,  sir,  I'd  have  you  know  it, 
In  this  place  1  present  your  father's  person: 
Upon  your  life,  not  dare  to  follow  me, 
For  if  you  do —  [Eiii. 

Pedro.  Go  and  the  p —  go  with  thee, 
If  thou  hast  so  much  moisture  to  receive  them, 
For  thou  wilt  have  them,  though  a  horse  bestow 

them, 

I  must  devise  a  way — for  I  must  see  her, 
And  very  suddenly  ;  and,  madam  petticoat. 
If  all  the  wit  I  have,  and  this  can  do, 
I'll  make  you  break  your  charge,  and  your  hope 
too.  [Exit 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— A  Market-place. 


Enter  Slave-merchant  and  Servant,  with  ANTONIO 
and  Captain  disguised,  English  Slave,  and  divert 
Slaves. 

Merch.  Come,  rank  yourselves,  and    stand  out 

handsomely. 

— Now  ring  the  bell,  that  they  may  know  my  market. 
Stand  you  two  here  ;    [To  Antonio  and  the  Captain.'] 

you  are  personable  men. 


And  apt  to  yield  good  sums  if  women  cheapen. 

Put  me  that  pig-complexion'd  fellow  behind, 

He  will   spoil  my   sale   else ;  the   slave  looks    like 

famine. 
Sure  he  was  got  in  a  cheese-press,  the  whey  rum 

out  on's  nose  yet. 

He  will  not  yield  above  a  peck  of  oysters — 
If  I  can  get  a  quart  of  wine  in  too,  you  are  gone,  sir 
Why  sure,  thou  hadst  no  father  1 
Ulaie.  Sure  I  know  not. 


SCENE  I.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


Merck.  No,  certainly  ;  a  March  frog  [leap'd]*  thy 

mother  ; 

Thou'rt  but  a  monster  paddock. — Look  who  comes, 
sirrah —  [Exit  Servant. 

And  next  prepare  the  song,  and  do  it  lively. — 
Your  tricks  too,  sirrah,  they  are  ways  to  catch  the 
buyer,  [To  the  English  slave. 

And  if  you  do  them  well,  they'll  prove  good  dowries. 
— How  now  ? 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Sen.  They  come,  sir,  with  their  bags  full  loaden. 
Merch.  Reach  me  my  stool.     O  !  here  they  come. 

Enter  PAULO,  Apothecary,  CUCULO,  and  Citizens. 

Cue.  That's  he. 

He  never  fails  monthly  to  sell  his  slaves  here ; 
He  buys  them  presently  upon  their  taking, 
And  so  disperses  them  to  every  market. 

Merch.  Begin  the  song,  and  chant  it  merrily. 

A  Soxc  fci/  one  of  the  Slavet. 
Well  done. 

Paul.  Good  morrow. 

Merch.  Morrow  to  you,  signiors. 

Paul.  We    come  to  look  upon   your  slaves,  and 

buy  too, 
If  we  can  like  the  persons  and  the  prices. 

Cue.  They  slow  fine  active  fellows. 

Mfrch.  They  are  no  less,  sir, 
And  people  of  strong  labours. 

Paul.  That's  in  the  proof,  sir. 

Apoth.  Pray  what's  the  price  of  this  red-bearded 

fellow  ? 
If  his  gall  be  good,  I  have  certain  uses  for  him. 

Merch.  My  sorrel  slaves  are  of  a  lower  price, 
Because  the  colour's  faint : — fifty  chequins,  sir. 

Apoth.  What  be  his  virtues  1 

Merch.  He  will  poison  rats  ; 
Make  him  but  angry,  and  his  eyes  kill  spiders  ; 
Let  him  but  fasting  spit  upon  a  toad, 
And  presently  it  bursts,  and  dies  ;  his  dreams  kill : 
He'll  run  you  in  a  wheel,  and  draw  up  water, 
But  if  his  nose  drop  in't,  'twill  kill  an  army. 
When  you  have  worn  him  to  the  bones  with  uses, 
Thrust  him  into  an  oven  luted  well. 
Dry  him,  and  beat  him,  flesh  and  bonp,  to  powder, 
And  that  kills  scabs,  and  aches  of  all  climates. 

Apoth.  Pray  at  what  distance  may  I  talk  to  him  ? 

Merch.  Give  him  but  sage  and  butter  in  a  morning, 
And  there's  no  fear  :  but  keep  him  from  all  women; 
For  there  his  poison  swells  most. 

Apoth.  I  will  have  him. 
Cannot  he  breed  a  plague  too  1 

Merch.  Yes,  yes,  yes, 

Feed  him  with  fogs  ;  probatum. — Now  to  you,  sir. 
Do  you  like  this  slave  ?  [Pointing  to  Antonio. 

Cite.  Yes,  if  I  like  his  price  well. 

Merch.  The  price  is  full  an  hundred,  nothing  bated. 
Sirrah,  sell  the  Moors  there  : — feel,  he's  high  and 

lusty. 

And  of  a  gamesome  nature;  bold,  and  secret. 
Apt  to  win  favour  of  the  man  that  owns  him, 
By  diligence  and  duty  :  look  upon  him. 

Paul.  Do  you  hear,  sir! 

Merch.  I'll  be  with  you  presently. — 
Mark  but  his  limbs,  that  slave  will  cost  you  four- 
score ;  [Pointing  to  the  Captain. 


•  OW  eof  X,  "  Kept  thy  mother." 


An  easy  price — turn  him  about,  and  view  him.— 
For   these    two,   sir?   why,  they  are  the  finest  chil 

dren 

Twins,  on  mv  credk,  sir. — Do  you  see  this  boy,  sir  ! 
He  will  run  as  far  from  you  in  an  hour 

1  Cit    Will  he  so,  sir  ? 

Merch.  Conceive  me  rightly, — if  upon  an  errand 
As  any  horse  you  have. 

2  Cit.  W:hat  will  this  girl  do? 
Merch.  Sure  no  harm  at  all,  sir, 

For  she  sleeps  most  an  end*. 

Cit.  An  excellent  housewife. 
Of  what  religion  are  they? 

Merch.  What  you  will,  sir, 

So  there  be  meat  and  drink  in't  :  they'll  do  little 
That  shall  offend  you,  for  their  chief  desire 
Is  to  do  nothing  at  all,  sir. 

Cue.  A  hundred  is  too  much. 

Merch.  Not  a  doit  bated  : 
He's  a  brave  slave,  bis  eye  shows  acliveness; 
Fire  and  the  mettle  of  a  man  dwell  in  him. 
Here  is  one  you  shall  have 

Cue.   For  what  ? 

Merch.  For  nothing, 
And  thank  you  too. 

Paid.  What  can  he  do? 

Merch.   Why,  anything  that's  ill, 
And  never  blush  at  it  •  he's  so  true  a  thief, 
That  he'll  .-teal  from  himself,  and  think  he  has  got 

by  it. 

He  stole  out  of  his  mother's  belly,  being  an  infant; 
And  from  a  lousy  nurse  he  stole  his  nature, 
From  a  dog  his  look,  and  from  an  ape  his  nimble- 
ness  ; 

He  will  look  in  your  face  and  pick  your  pockets, 
Rob  ye  the  most  wise  rat  of  a  cheese-paring, 
There  where  a  cat  will  go  in,  he  will  follow, 
His  body  has  no  back-bone.     Into  my  company 
He  stole,  for  1  never  bought  him,  and  will  steal  into 

yours, 

An  you  stay  a  little  longer.     Now,  if  any  of  you 
Bn  given  to  the  excellent  art  of  lying. 
Behold,  before  you  here,  the  masterpiece  ; 
He'll  outliehitn  that  taught  him,  monsieur  devil, 
Offer  to  swear  he  has  eaten  nothing  in  a  twelve- 
month, 
When  hi*  mouth's  full  of  meat. 

Cue.  Pray  keep  him,  he's  a  jewel ; 
And  here's  your  money  for  this  fellow. 

Merch.  He's  yours,  sir. 

Cue.  Come,  follow  me.  [Exit with  Antoi.it>. 

Cit.  Twenty  chequins  for  these  two. 

Merch.  For  tive  and  twenty  take  them. 


•   Merch.  .Sure  no  harm  at  all,  tir, 

For  she  slfi'{>min»i  an  end.'  i.  e.  Perpetually,  without  In- 
termUsion.  In  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  1'iolcus 
says  of  Lannce : 

"  A  slave  that  still  an  mil  turns  me  to  shame." 
That  is,  says  Steevens,  "  at  the  conclusion  of  every  business 
lie  undertakes."  He  was  set  right  hy  Mr.  M.  Mason  ;  but 
he  persi-ted  in  his  erroneous  explanation :  nliter  ntm  fit, 
Avite,  liher.  With  respect  to  the  meaning  which  is  lure 
assigned  to  most,  or,  as  it  is  sometimes  written,  still  an  end, 
there  cannot  exist  a  reasonable  doubt  of  its  propriety.  Tim* 
Cart-wright : — 

"  Now  help,  good  heaven!  'tis  such  an  nnconth  thing 
To  be  a  widow  out  of  term  time !     I 
Do  feel  siieh  aguish  qu  -lins,  and  (lump!,  and  fits. 
And  shakings  tfill  an  end.  The  Ordinary. 

Indeed,  the  phr.ise  has  not  been  long  out  of  use.  1  meet  with 
it,  for  the  l;tst  time,  in  the  Dedication  to  The  Divine  Lega- 
tion of  Mofei: — "  he  runs  on  in  a  stniuge  jumbled  cliHracter  ; 
tint  ha-  most  an  end,  a  strong  disposition  10  make  a  farce  of 
it."  P.xi. 


450 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[Acr  III. 


Cit    There's  your  money  ; 
I'll  have  them,  it'  it  be  to  sing  in  cages. 

Merck.  Give  them  hard  eggs,  you  never  had  such 

blackbirds. 

Cit.  Is  she  a  maid,  dost  think? 
Merck.  I  dare  not  swear,  sii  . 

She  is  nine  year  old,  at  ten  you  shall  find  few  here. 
Cit.  \  merry  fellow !  thou  say'st   true.     Come, 
children. 

[Eiit  with  the  tu-o  Moors. 
Paul.     Here,  tell  your   money ;    if  his    life  but 

answer 
His  outward  promises,  I   have  bought   him  cheap 

sir. 
Merck    Too  cheap,  o' conscience,  he's  a  pregnant 

knave  ; 

Full  of  fiihe  thought,  I  warrant  him. 
Paul.  He's  but  weak-timber 'd*. 
Merck.  "1'is  the  better  sir ; 
He  wiil  turn  gentleman  a  great  deal  sooner. 
Paul.    Very  weak  legs. 
Meirh.  Strong  as  the  time  allows,  sir. 
P.I  ill.   What's  that  fellow? 
Merch.   Who,  this?    the   finest   thing  in  all    the 

world,  sir, 
The  punctuallest,  and    the   perfectest ;   an  English 

metal. 

Hut  roin'd  in  France;  your  servant's  servant,  sir  ; 
Do  you  understand  that?  or  your  shadow's  servant. 
Will  you  buy  him  to  carry  in  a  box  ?  Kiss  your 

hand,  sirrah  ; — 
Let  fill  your  cloak  on  one  shoulder  ;  — face  to  your 

left  hand ; — 
Feather  your  hat ; — slope  your  hat ; — now  charge, — 

Your  honour, 
What  think  you  of  this  fellow  ? 

Paul.  Indted,  1  know  not; 
I  never  saw  such  an  ape  before :  but,  hark  you, 
Are  these  things  serious  in  his  nature  ? 

Mi  rch.  Yes,  yes  ; 

Part  of  his  creed  :  come,  do  some  more  devices  f. 
Quarrel  a  little,  and  take  him  for  your  enemy, 
iJo  it  in  dumb  show.     Now  observe  him  nearly. 
Paul.   This  fellow's  mad,  stark  mad. 
Merck.  Beiieve  they  are  all  so  : 
I  have  sold  a  hundred  of  them. 

Paul.  A  strange  nation  ! 

What  may  the  women  be? 

Merch.   As  mad  as  they, 

And,  as  1  have  lieaid  for  truth,  a  great  deal  madder  ; 
Yet,  you  miiy  tind  some  civil  things  amongst  them, 
But  they  are  not  respected.     Nay,  never  wonder  ; 
They  have  a  city,  sir,  I  have  been  in  it, 
Aud  therefore  dare  affirm  it,  where,  if  you  saw 


•  Paul.   Uf't  but  wraktimlier'd. 

Kerch,  "/'is  thebcltfr,  tit  ; 

lie  will  turn  jjmtleman  ayreat  deal  sooner.]  Small  lees 
seem,  al  this  lime,  to  li  .ve  been  onsidered  as  one  of  the 
cli..r,cir I-IMIC  m.irk*  of  a  tine  gentleman.  Thus  Jonson  :  — 

Chin.  Arejou  a  tentlcman  born  f 

Cru.  That  1  .mi,  lady;  you  shall  sec  my  arms,  if  it  please 

Chlo.  No ;  your  legs  do  sufficiently  show  you  are  a  Een- 
tleman  bom,  sir  ;  lor  a  man  borne  upon  little  Itet  is  always 
a  gci.tkinaii  burn. — Poetatter. 

come,   do   tmne  more  devic  f,   &c.l     This 

iini>t  have  been  a  most  diverting  sceue  :  the  ridicule  on  the 
Fic-ncli,  ,.r  rather  on  the  travelled  English,  who  caiicatured 
while  tlu-y  ;ip.  d,  thf  foppi.-h  manners  of  the  continent  was 
.  Lever  more  exquisitely  pointed :  indeed,  I  recollect  no'thin» 
i..  tfce  sui'jei-t,  in  any  of  our  old  dramatists,  that  can  be  said 
to  cuine  near  it.  What  follows  is  in  a  higher  tone. 


With  what  a  load  of  vanity  'tis  fraughted, 
How  like  an  everlasting  morris-dance  it  looks, 
Nothing  but  hobby-horse,  and  maid  Marian, 
You  would  start  indeed. 

Paul.  They  are  handsome  men. 
Merch.  Yes,  if  they  would  thank  their  maker, 
And  seek  no  further ;  but  they  have  new  creators, 
God  tailor,  and  god  mercer  :  a  kind  of  Jews,  sir, 
But  fall'n  into  idolatry,  for  they  worship 
Nothing  with  so  much  service,  as  the  c-ow-calves. 
Paul.   What  do  you  mean  by  cow-calves? 
Merch.   Why,  their  women. 
Will  you  see  him  do  any  more  tricks  ? 

Paul.   'Tis  enough,  I  thank  you  ; 
But  yet  I'll  buy  him,  for  the  rareness  of  him, 
He  may  make  my  princely  patient  mirth,  and  that 

done, 

I'll  chain*  him  in  my  study,  that  at  void  hours 
I  may  run  o'er  the  story  of  his  country. 
Merch.  His  price  is  forty. 
Paul.  Hold — I'll  once  be  foolish, 
And  buy  a  lump  of  levity  to  laugh  at. 
Apnlli.  Will  your  worship  walk  ? 
Paul.  How  now,  apothecary, 
Have  you  been  buying  too  ? 

Apoth.  A  little,  sir, 
A  dose  or  two  of  mischief. 
Paul.  Fare  ye  well,  sir  ; 
As   these    prove,  we    shall  look  the  next  wind  for 

you. 

Merch.  I  shall  be  with  you,  sir, 
Paul.  Who  bought  this  fellow? 
*  Cit.  Not  I. 
Apoth.  Nor  1. 

Paul.  Why  does  he  follow  us,  then? 
Merch.  Did    not   I  tell  you   he  would   steal  to 

you  ? 

2  Cit.  Sirrah, 
You  mouldy-chaps  !  know  your  crib,  I  would  wish 

you, 

And  get  from  whence  you  came. 
Slate.  I  came  from  no  place. 
Paul.  Wilt  tbou  be  my  fool?  for  fools,  they  say, 

will  tell  truth. 
Slaie.  Yes,  if  you  will  give  me  leave,  sir,  to  abuse 

you, 

For  1  can  do  that  naturally. 
Paul.  And  I  can  beat  you. 
Stave.  I  should  be  sorry  else,  sir. 
Merch.  He  looks  for  that,  as  duly  as  his  victuals, 
And  will  be  extreme  sick  when  he  is  not  beaten. 
He  will  be  as  wanton,  when  he  lias  a  bone  broken, 
As  a  cat  in  a  bowl  on  the  water. 
Paul.  You  will  part  with  him  ? 
Merch.  To  such  a  friend  as  you,  sir. 
Paul.  And  without  money? 
Merch.  Not  a  penny,  signior ; 
And  would  he  were  better  for  you. 

Paul.  Follow  me,  then  ; 
The  knave  may  teach  me  something. 

Stare.  Something  that 

You  dearly  may  repent ;  howe'er  you  scorn  me, 
The  slave  may  prove  your  master. 
Paul.  Farewell  once  more  ! 

Merch.     Farewell  !    and    when   the   wind   serves 
next,  expect  me. 

[Exeunt 

•  /'//  chain  him  in  my  study  ^  The  old  copy  reads  eiatm 
the  amendment  by  Mr.  M.  Mason. 


SCENE  II.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


4.51 


SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  the  Viceroy's  Palace. 
Enter  Cucui.o  and  ANTONIO. 

Cue.    Come,  sir,  you   are  mine,  sir,  now,  you 

serve  a  man,  sir  ; 
That,  when  you  know  more,  you  will  find. 

Ant.  I  hope  so. 

Cue.  What  dost  thou  hope  ? 

Ant.  To  find  you  a  kind  master. 

Cue.  Find  you  yourself  a  diligent  true  servant, 
And  take  the  precept  of  the  wise  before  you, 
And  then  you  may  hope,  sirrah.     Understand, 
You  serve  me* — what  is  ME?  a  man  of  credit. 

Ant.  Yes,  sir. 

CHC.  Of  special  credit,  special  office;  hear  first 
And  understand  again,  of  special  office: 
A  man  th.it  nods  upon  the  thing  he  meets, 
And  that  thing  bows. 

Ant.  'Tis  fit  it  should  he  so,  sir, 

Cue.  It  shall  be  so  :  a  man  near  all  importance. 
Dost  thou  digest  this  truly  1 

Ant.  I  hope  I  shall,  sir. 

Cue.  Besides,  thou  art  to  serve  a  noble  mistress, 
Of  equal  place  and  trust.     Serve  usefully, 
Serve  all  with  diligence,  but  her  delights  ; 
There  make  your  stop.     She  is  a  woman,  sirrah, 
And  though  a  cull'd  out  virtue,  yet  a  woman. 
Thou  art  not  troubled  with  the  strength  of  blood, 
And  stirring  faculties,  for  she'll  show  a  fair  one  ? 

Ant.  As  I  am  a  man,    I  may;  but  as  I  am  your 

man, 

Your  trusty,    useful    man,    those    thoughts    shall 
perish. 

Cue.  'Tis  apt,  and  well  distinguish 'd.      The  next 

precept, 

And  then,  observe  me,  you  have  all  your  duty  ; 
Keep,    as  thou'dst   keep  thine  eye-sight,  all  wine 

from  her, 
All  talk  of  wine. 

Ant.  Wine  is  a  comfort,  sir. 

Cue.  A  devil,  sir  ;  let  her  not  dream  of  wine. 
Make  her  believe  there  neither  is,  nor  was  wine ; 
Swear  it. 

Ant.  Will  you  have  me  lie  ? 

Cue.  To  my  end,  sir  ; 
For  if  one  drop  of  wine  but  creep  into  her, 
She  is  the  wisest  woman  in  the  world  straight, 
And  all  the  women  in  the  world  together 
Are  but  a  whisper  to  her  ;  a  thousand  iron  mills 
Can  be  heard  no  further  than  a  pair  of  nut-crackers : 
Keep  her  from  wine  ;  wine  makes  her  dangerous. 
Fall  back  :  my  lord  don  Pedro  ! 
Enter  PEDRO. 

Pedro.  Now,  master  officer, 
'U  hat  is  the  reason  that  your  vigilant  greatness, 
And  your  wife's  wonderful  wiseness,  have  lock'd  up 

from  me 

The  way  to  see  my  mistress?  Whose  dog's  dead  now, 
That  you  observe  these  vigils  ? 

Cue.  Very  well,  my  lord. 
Belike,  we  observe  no  law  then,  nor  no  order, 
Nor  feel  no  power,  nor  will,  of  him  that  made  them, 
When  state-commands  thus  slightly  are  disputed. 

Pedro,  \\hatstate-command?  dost  thou  think  any 

state 

Would  give  thee  any  thing  but  eggs  to  keep, 
Or  trust  thee  with  a  secret  above  lousing  ? 

You  terve  me — ]  So  the  old  copy ;  the  modern  editors 
omit  the  prunoun,  which  reduces  the  passage  to  nonsense. 


Cue.  No,  no,  my  lord,  I  am  not  passionate, 
You  cannot  work  me  that  way  to  betray  me. 
A  point  there  is  in't,  that  you  must  not  see,  sir, 
A  secret  and  a  serious  point  of  state  too; 
And  do  not  urge  it  further,  do  not,  lord, 
It  will  not  take :  you  deal  with  them  that  wink  not. 
You   tried  my    wife ;  alas  !  you  thought   she  was 

foolish. 
Won  with  an  empty  word  ;  you  have  not  found  it. 

Pedro.  I  have  found  a  pair  of  coxcombs,  that  I  am 
sure  on. 

CMC.  Your  lordship  may  say  three  : — I  am  cot 
passionate. 

Pedro.  How's  that  ? 

Cue.  Your  lordship  found  a  faithful  gentle-woman, 
Strong,  and  inscrutable  as  the  viceroy's  heart, 
A  woman  of  another  making,  lord  : 
And,  lest  she  might  partake  with  woman's  weakness 
I've  purchased  her  a  rib  to  make  her  perfect, 
A  rib  that  will  not  shrink  nor  break  in  the  bending  ; 
This  trouble  we  are  put  to,  to  prevent  things 
Which  your  good  lordship  holds  but  necessary. 

Pedro.  A  fellow  of  a  handsome  and  free  promise, 
And  much,  methiuks,  I  am  taken  with  his  counte- 
nance.— 
Do  you  serve  this  yeoman-porter  ?          [To  Antonio. 

Cue.  Not  a  word. 

Basta  !  your  lordship  may  discourse  your  freedom  ; 
He  is  a  slave  of  state,  sir,  so  of  silence. 

Pedro.  You  are  very  punctual,  state-cut,  fare  ye 

well  ; 
I  shall  find  time  to  fit  you  too,  I  fear  not.         [Exit. 

Cue.  And  1  shall   fit  you,  lord  :  you  would  be 

billing ; 

You  are  too  hot,  sweet  lord,  too  hot.    Go  you  home, 
And  there  observe  these  lessons  I  first  taught  you. 
Look  to  your  charge  abundantly  ;  be  wary, 
Trusty  and  wary  ;  much  weight  hangs  upon  me. 
Watchful  and  wary  too !  this  lord  is  dangerous 
Take  courage  and  resist :  for  other  uses, 
Your  mistress  will  inform  you.     Go,  be  faithful, 
And,  do  you  hear  ?  no  wine. 

Ant.  I  shall  observe,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  tame. 
Enter  PAULO  and  Surgeons. 

Paul.  He  must  take  air. 

1  Surg.  Sir,  under  your  correction, 
The  violence  of  motion  may  make 
His  wounds  bleed  fresh. 

2  Surg.  And  he  hath  lost  already 
Too  much  blood,  in  my  judgment. 

Paul.  I  allow  that ; 

But  to  choke  up  his  spirits  in  a  dark  room 
Is  far  more  dangerous.     He  comes  ;  no  questions. 

Enter  CARDENES. 

Car.  Certain  we  hare  no  reason,  nor  that  soul 
Created  of  that  pureness  nooks  persuade  us  : 
We  understand  not,  sure,  nor  feel  that  sweetness 
That  men  call  virtue's  chain  to  link  our  actions. 
Our  imperfections  form,  and  flatter  us  ; 
A  will  to  rash  and  rude  things  is  our  reason, 
And  that  we  glory  in,  that  makes  us  guilty. 
Why  did  I  wrong  this  man,  unmanly  wrong  him, 
Unmannerly  ?  he  gave  me  no  occasion. 
In  all  my  heat  how  noble  was  his  temper ! 
And,  when  I  had  forgot  both  man  and  manhood. 


452 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[Acr  III. 


With  what  a  gentle  bravery  did  he  chide  me  ! 
And,  say  he  had  kill'd  me,  whither  had  I  travell'd? 
Kill'd  me  in  all  my  rage — oh,  how  it  shakes  me! 
Why  didst  thou  do  this,  fool?  a  woman  taught  me, 
The  devil  and  his  angel,  woman,  bad  me. 
I  am  a  beast,  the  wildest  of  all  beasts, 
And  like  a  beast  I  make  my  blood  my  master. 
Farewell,  farewell,  forever,  name  of  mistress  ! 
Out  of  my  heart  I  cross  thee  ;  love  and  women 
Out  of  my  thoughts. 

Paul.  Ay,  now  you  show  your  manhood. 

Car.  Doctor,  believe    me,   I   have   bought    my 

knowledge, 

And  dearly,  doctor: they  are  dangerous  crea- 
tures, 

They  sting  at  both  ends,  doctor  ;  worthless  creatures, 
And"  all  their  loves  and  favours  end  in  ruins. 

Paul.  To  man  indeed. 

Car.  Why,  now  thou  tak'st  me  rightly. 
What  can  they  show,  or  by  what  act  deserve  us, 
While  we  have  Virtue,  and  pursue  her  beauties? 

Paul.  And    yet   I've  heard   of    many    virtuous 
women. 

Car.  Not  many,  doctor,  there  your  reading  fails 

you ; 

Would  there  were  more,  and  in  their  loves  less 
dangers  ! 

Paul.  Love  is  a  noble  thing  without  all  doubt,  sir, 

Car.  Yes,  and  an  excellent — to  cure  the  itch. 

[Exit. 

1  Surg.  Strange  melancholy ! 
Paul.   By  degrees  'twilllessen  : 

Provide  your  things. 

2  Surg.  Our  caro  shall  not  be  wanting. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— A  Room  in  Cuculo's  Houte. 

Enter  LEONORA  and  ALMIRA. 

Leon.  Good  madam,  for  your  health's  sake  clear 

those  clouds  up, 

That  feed  upon  your  beauties  like  diseases. 
Time's  hand  will  turn  again,  and  what  he  ruins 
Gently  restore,  and  wipe  off  all  yuur  sorrows. 
Believe  you  are  to  blame,  much  to  blame,  lady ; 
You  tempt  his  loving  care  whose  eye  has  number'd 
AH  our  afflictions,  and  the  time  to  cure  them  : 
You  rather  with  this  torrent  choak  his  mercies. 
Than  gently  slide  into  bis  providence. 
Sorrows  are  well  allow'd,  and  sweeten  nature, 
Where  they  express  no  more  than  drops  on  lilies  ; 
But,  when  they  fall  in  storms,  they  bruise  our  hopes, 
Make  us  unable,  though  our  comforts  meet  us, 
To  hold  our  heads  up  -.  Come,  you  shall  take  com- 
fort; 

This  is  a  sullen  grief  becomes  condemned  men, 
That  feel  a  weight  of  sorrow  through  their  souls  : 
Do  but  look  up.     Why,  so  ! — is  not  this  better 
Than  hanging  down  your  head  still  like  a  violet, 
And  dropping  out  those  sweet  eyes  for  a  wager  ? 
Fray  you,  speak  a  little. 

Aim.  Pray  you,  desire  no  more  ; 
And,  if  you  love  me,  say  no  more. 

Leon.  How  fain, 

If  I  would  be  as  wilful,  and  partake  in't, 
Would  you  destroy  yourself!  how  often,  lady, 
Even  of  the  same  disease  have  you  cured  me, 


And  shook  me  out  on't ;  chid  me,  tumbled  me, 
And  forced  my  hands,  thus? 

Aim.  By  these  tears,  no  more. 

Lean.  You  are  too  prodigal  of  them.     Well,  I  will 

110 1, 

For  though  my  love  bids  me  transgress  your  will, 
I  have  a  service  to  your  sorrows  still.  [Exeunt 


SCENE  V.— A  Halt  in  the  same. 
Enter  PEDRO  and  ANTONIO. 

Ant.  Indeed,  my  lord,  my  place  is  not  so  near : 
I  wait  below  stairs,  and  there  sit,  and  wait 
Who  comes  to  seek  accesses  ;  nor  is  it  fit,  sir*, 
My  rudeness  should  intrude  so  near  their  lodgings. 

Pedro.  Thou  mayst  invent  a  way,  'tis  but  a  trial, 
But  carrying  up  this  letter,  and  this  token, 
And  giving  them  discreetly  to  my  mistress, 
The  Lady  Leonora  :   there's  my  purse, 
Or  anything  thou'lt  ask  me  ;  if  ihou  knew'st  me, 
And  what  may  1  be  to  thoe  tor  this  courtesy 

Ant.  Your  lordship  speaks  so  honestly,  and  freely, 
That  by  my  troth  I'll  venture. 

Pedro.  1  dearly  thank  thee. 

Ant.  And  i:  shall  cost  me  hard  ;  nay,  keep  your 

purse,  sir, 
For,    though    my   body's    bought,    my  mind  was 

never. 
Though  I  am  bound;  my  courtesies  are  no  slaves. 

Pedro.  Thou  shouldst  be  truly  gentle. 

Ant.  If  1  were  so, 

The  state  1  am  in  bids  you  not  believe  it. 
But  to  the  putpose,  sir;  give  me  your  letter 
And  next  your  counsel,  for  1  serve  it  crafty  mistress. 

Pedro.  And  she  must  be  removed,  thou  wilt  else 
ne'er  do  it. 

Ant.  Ay,  there's  the  plague  :  think,  and  I'll  think 
awhile  too. 

Pedro.  Her  husband's  suddenly  fallen  sick. 

Aitt.  She  cares  not ; 
If  he  were  dead,  indeed,  it  would  do  better. 

Pedro.  Would  he  were  hanged  ! 

Ant.  Then  she  would  run  for  joy,  sirf. 

Pedro.  Some  lady  crying  out ! 

Ant.  She  has  two  already. 

Pedro.  Her  house  afire. 

Ant.  Let  tliejool  my  husband,  quench  it. 
This  will  be  her  answer. — This  may  take:  it  will, 

sure. 

Your  lordship  must  go  presently,  and  send  me 
Two  or  three  bottles  of  your  best  Greek  wine, 
Th-e  strongest  and  the  sweetest. 


• Nor  is  it  fit,  sir,]  Fit,  which  rf. 

stores  the  pa.-sa^e  to  sense,  1  have  inserted  from  the  old 
copy. 

t  Ant.  Then  she  would  run  fur  joy,  sir.]      (fcxeter,  and 
ot  course,  Mr.  M.  Mason,  read, 

Then  she  would  run  mad  for  joy,  sir. 

This  interpolation  which  destroys  the  metre,  seems  to  have 
originated  m  a  misapprehension  of  the  passage.  The  object 
is  to  get  Bi.rarlii.i  out  of  the  way,  and  the  expedients  which 
suggest  themselves  arc  mentioned  in  order: 

Pedro.    Would  he  irtre  hana'd  ! 

Ant.  Then  she  would  run  for  joy,  sir. 

i.e.  this  might  do,  foi  then  she  would  leave  her  charge,  and 
joyfully  run  10  witness  his  execution.  Such,  1  conceive  to 
be  the  put  port  of  Antonio's  observation  :  lor  the  rest,  1  must 
observe,  that  the  whole  of  this  scene  is  most  shamefully  given 
in  the  modern  editions,  scarcely  a  single  speech  being  without 
an  error  or  an  omission. 


SCENE  V.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


453 


Pedro.  Instantly : 
But  will  that  do  ? 

Ant.  Let  me  alone  to  work  it.  [.En*  Pedro. 

Wine  I  was  charged  to  keep  by  all  means  from  her; 
All  secret  locks  it  opens,  and  all  counsels, 
That  I  am  sure,  and  gives  men  all  accesses. 
Pray  heaven  she  be  not  loving1  when  she's  drunk 

now, 

For  drunk  she  shall  be,  though  my  pate  pay  for  it ! 
She'll  turn  my  stomach  then  abominably. 
She  has  a  most  wicked  face,  and  that  lewd  face 
Being  a  drunken  face,  what  face  will  there  be ! 
She  cannot  ravish  me.     Now,  if  my  master 
Should  take  her  so,  and  know  1  ministered. 
What  will  his  wisdom  do  1  I  hope  be  drunk  too, 
And  then  all's  right.     Well,  lord,  to  do  thee  service 

Above  these  puppet-plays,  I  keep  a  life  yet 

Here  come  the  executioners. 

Enter  Servant  wiih  bodies. 

You  are  welcome, 

Give  mevour  load,  and  tell  ray  lord  1  am  at  it. 
Serv.  I  will,  sir  ;  speed  you,  sir.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Good  speed  on  all  sides  ! 

'Tis  strong,  strong  wine  ;  O.the  yaws  that  she  will 
make  !* 

Look  to  your  stern,  dear  mistress,  and  steer  right, 

Here's  that  will  work  as  high  as  the  Bay   of  Por- 
tugal. 

Stay,  let  me  see — I'll  try  her  by  the  nose  first ; 

For,  if  she  be  a  right  sow,  sure  she'll  find  it. 

She  is  yonder  by  herself,  the  ladies  from  her. 

Now  to  beg-in  my  sacrifice!  : — [pours  out  some  of  the 
nine.] — she  stirs,  and  vents  it. 

O,  how  she  holds  her  nose  up  like  a  jennet 

In  the  wind  of  a  grass-mare  !  slie  has  it  full  now, 

And  now  she  comes. 

Enter  BOUACUIA. 

I'll  stand  aside  awhile. 
Bora.  'Tis   wine!  ay,  sure   'tis    wine!     excellent 

strong'  wine  ! 

lu  the  must,  I  take  it :   very  wine  :   this  way  too. 
Ant.  How  true  she  hunts  !  I'll  make  the  train  a 
little  longer.  [Pours  out  more  wine. 

Bora.  Stronger  and  stronger  still !  still !  blessed 

wine ! 

Ant.  Now  she  hunts  hot. 
Bum.  All  that  I  can  for  this  wine. 
This  way  it  went,  sure. 

Ant.  Now  she  is  at  a  cold  scent. 
Make  out  your  doubles,  mistress.     O,  well  hunted  ! 
That's  she  !  that's  she  ! 

Bora.  O,  if  I  could  but  see  it ! 
(Oh  what  a  precious  scent  it  has  !)  but  handle  it ! 
Ant.  Now  I'll  untappice.  [ Comes  jorward. 


*  'Tis  strong,  strong  wine:  O,  the  yaws  that  she  will 
nuke  !\  The  old  copy  reads, 

O  the  yaiins  that  she  will  make, 

tnd  was  followed  by  Coxeter.  Mr.  M.  Mason,  attentive  to 
the  spelling  of  his  author,  but  careless  of  his  sense,  corrected 
it  to  yawns ;  though  to  make  yawns  appears  an  expression 
sufficiently  singular  to  excite  a  doubt  of  its  authenticity  : 
and  thus  it  has  hitherto  stood  !  The  genuine  word,  as  is 
clear  from  the  context,  is  undoubtedly  that  which  I  have 
given.  A  yaw  is  that  unsteady  motion  which  a  ship  makes 
in  a  great  swell,  when,  in  steering,  she  inclines  to  the  right 
or  left  of  her  course.  The  sea  runs  proverbially  high  in  the 
Bay  of  Portugal. 

t  Now  to  begin  my  sacrifice: — ]  This  is  imitated,  but 
with  exquisite  humour,  from  a  very  amusing  scene  in  The 
Curculivvf  Plautus.  „„ 


Bora.  What's  that  ?  still  'tis  stronger. 
Why,    how    now,    sirrah !    what's    that  ?    answer 

quickly, 
And  to  the  point. 

Ant.  'Tis  wine,  forsooth,  good  wine, 
Excellent  Candy  wine. 

Bora.  'Tis  well,  forsooth! 
Is  this  a  drink  for  slaves  ?  why,  saucy  sirrah 
(F.xcellent  Candy  wine  !),  draw  nearer  to  me, 
Reach  me  the  bottle :  why,  thou  most  debauch'd 
slave — 

Ant.  Pray  be  not  angry,  mistress,  for  with  all  my 

service 
And  pains,  I  purchased   this  for  you  (I  dare  not 

drink  it), 

For  you  a  present ;  only  for  your  pleasure  j 
To  show  in  little  what  a  thanks  I  owe 
The  hourly  courtesies  your  goodness  gives  me. 

Bora.  And  I  will  give  thee  more  ;  there,  kiss  my 
hand  on't. 

Ant.  I  thank  you  dearly — for  your  dirty  favour 
How  rank  it  smells  ! 

Bora.  By  thy  leave,  sweet  bottle, 
And  sugar-candy  wine,  I  now  come  to  thee, 
Plold  your  hand  under. 

Ant.  How  does  your  worship  like  it? 

Bora.  Under  again — again — and  now  come  kiss 

me  ; 
I'll  be  a  mother  to  thee  :  come,  drink  to  me. 

Ant.  I  do  beseerh  your  pardon. 

Bora.   Here's  to  thee,  then, 
I  am  easily  entreated  for  thy  good  ; 
'Tis  naught  for  thee,  indeed  ;  'twill  make  thee  break 

out; 

Thou  hast  a  pure  complexion  ;  now,  for  me 
'Tis  excellent,  'tis  excellent  for  me. 
Son  slave,  I've  a  cold  stomach,  and  the  wind — 

Ant.  Blows  out  a  cry  at  both  ends. 

Bora.  Kiss  again ; 

Cherish  thy  lips,  for  thou  shall  kiss  fair  ladies : 
Son  slave.  1  have  them  for  thee ;  I'll  show  thee  all. 

Ant.  Heaven  bless  mine  eyes  ! 

Bora.  F.ven  all  the  secrets,  son  slave, 
In  my  dominion. 

Ant.  Oh  !  here  come  the  ladies ; 
Now  to  my  business. 

Enter  LEONORA  and  ALMIRA  behind. 

Leon.  This  air  will  much  refresh  you. 
Aim.  1  must  sit  down. 
Leon.  Do,  and  take  freer  thoughts, 
The  place  invites  you  ;  I'll  walk  by  like  your  sen- 
tinel. 
Bora.  And  thou  shalt  be  my  heir,  I'll  leave  thee 

all. 

Heaven  knows  to  what  'twill  mount  to* ;  but  abun- 
dance: 


*  Heaven  knows  to  what  'twill  mount  to  ;]  Of  this  mode 
of  speech  innumerable  instances  have  already  occurred  ;  yet 
it  is  corrupted  by  Mr.  M.  Mason,  with  his  usual  oscitancy, 
into 

Heaven  hnowi  what  'twill  amount  to  ! 

But  this  gentleman  does  not  appear  to  have  profited  greatly 
by  his  "  reading  of  our  old  poets:"  twenty  years  after  he 
had  edited  Mas.-inger,  he  stumbled  upon  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  where  he  found  this  line: 

"  And  through  what  seas  of  hazard  I  sail'd  through." 

Humorous  Lieutenant. 

Through,  the  editors,  perfectly  ignorant  of  the  phraseology 
of  the  author's  times,  absurdly  changed  to  too,  because,  tor. 
sooth,  "  such  disagreeable  tautology  was  more  likely  to  pro- 


454 


A   VERY  WOMAN. 


f  ACT  III 


111  leave  tbee  two  young  Indies,  what  think  you  of 

that,  boy ! — 

Where  is  the  bottle  ? — two  delicate  young  ladies  ; 
But  first  you  shall  commit  with  me  :   do  you  mark, 

son, 
And  show  yourself  a  gentleman,  that's  the  truth,  son, 

Ant.  Excellent  lady,  kissing  your  fair  band, 
And  humbly  craving  pardon  for  intruding, 
This  letter,  and  this  ring 

Leon.   Krom  whom,  I  pray  you,  sir? 

Ant.  From    the    most   noble,   loving   lord,   don 

Pedro, 
The  servant  of  your  virtues. 

Bora.  And  prithee,  good  son  slave,  be  wise  and 

circumspect ; 
And  take  heed  of  being  o'ertaken  with  too  much 

drink  ; 

For  it  is  a  lamentable  sin,  and  spoils  all : 
Why,  'tis  the  damnablest  thing  to  be  drunk,  son  ! 
Heaven  can't  endure  it.     And  hark  you,  one  thing 

I'd  have  done : 
Knock  my  husband  on  the  head,  as  soon  as  may  be, 

For  he  is  an  arrant  puppy,  and  cannot  perform 

Why,  where  'he  devil  is  this  foolish  bottle  ? 

Leon.  I  much  thank  you  ; 
And  this,  sir,  for  your  pains. 

Ant.  No,  gentle  lady  ; 
That  I  can  do  him  service  is  my  merit, 
My  faith,  my  full  reward. 

Leon.  Once  more,  I  thank  you. 
Since  I  have  met  so  true  a  friend  to  goodness, 
I  dare  deliver  to  your  charge  my  answer: 
Pray  you,  tell  him,  sir,  this  night  I  do  invite  him 
To  meet  me  in  the  garden ;  means  he  may  find, 
For  love,  they  say,  wants  no  abilities. 

Ant.  Nor  shall  he,  madam,  if  my  help  may  pro- 
sper ; 

So  everlasting  love  and  sweetness  bless  you  ! — 
She's  at  it  still,  1  dare  not  now  appear  to  her. 

Aim.  What  fellow's  that  ? 

Lean.  Indeed,  I  know  not,  madam  ; 
It  seems  of  some  strange  country  by  his  habit ; 
Nor  can  I  show  you  by  what  mystery 
He  wrought  himself  into  this  place,  prohibited. 

Aim.  A  handsome  man. 

Leon.  But  of  a  mind  more  handsome. 

Aim.  Was  his  business  to  you? 

Leon.  Yes,  from  a  friend  you  wot  of. 

Aim.  A  very  handsome  fellow 

And  well  demean 'd  1 

Leon.   Exceeding  well,  and  speaks  well. 

Aim.  And  speaks  well,  too  ! 

Leon.  Aye,  passing  well,  and  freely. 
And,  as  he  promises,  of  a  most  clear  nature. 
Brought  up,  sure,  far  above  his  show. 

Aim.  It  seems  so  : 
I  would  I'd  heard  him,  friend.     Comes  he  again  1 


ceed  from  the  press  than  the  author."  Upon  which  Mr.  M. 
Mason  says,  "  I  agree  with  them  in  thinking  the  old  reading 
erroneous,  but  not  in  their  amendment.  The  line  should  run 
tini.  > 


thus: 


And  through  what  seas  of  hazard  I  sail'd  thorough] 
Which  avoids  the  repetition  of  the  word  through."  Corn- 
mention  Hcaumont  and  Fletcher,  p.  104.  When  it  is  con- 
sidered Iliat  the  repetition  eo  sedulously  removed,  was  as 
anxiously  iought  after  by  our  old  writers,  and  was,  indeed, 
characteristic  of  their  style  and  manner,  we  may,  perhaps, 
be  indulged  in  forming  a  wish  that  those  who  undertake  to 
revive  and  explain  them,  were  somewhat  more  competent  to 
the  otlice.  A  good  edition  of  these  excellent  dramatists  is 


touch  wanted. 


Leon.   Indeed  1  know  not  if  he  do. 
Aim.   'Tis  no  mutter. 
Come,  let's  walk  in. 

Leon.  I  am  glad  you  have  found  your  tonsrue  yet. 
[Exeunt  Leonora  and  Almira. 
fkHUCBM  sings. 

Cue.  [iri'Jim.]  Bly  wife  is  very  merry  ;  sure  'twas 

her  voice : 

Pray  heaven  there  be  no  drink  iii't,  then  I  allow  it. 
Ant.  'Tis  sure  my  master: 

Enter  CUCULO 

Now  the  game  begins  ; 

Here  will  be  spitting  of  fire  o'both  sides  presently  ; 
Send  me  but  safe  deliver 'd  ! 
Cite.  O,  my  heart  aches  ! 

My  head  aches  too  :  mercv  o'me,  she's  perish 'd  ! 
She  has  gotten  wine  !  she  is  gone  for  ever. 
Bora.  Come  hither,  ladies,  carry  your  bodies 

sw'mming  ; 

Do  your  three  duties,  then — then  fall  behind  me. 
Cue.  O,  thou  pernicious  rascal !  what  hast  thou 

done  ? 

Ant.  1  done  !  alas,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing. 
Cue.  Sirrah, 

How  came  she  by  this  wine  ? 
Ant.  Alas,  I  know  not. 
Bora.  Who's  that,  that  talks  of  wine  there? 
Ant.  Forsooth,  my  master. 
Bora.  Bring  him  before  me,  son  slave. 
Cue.  I  will  know  it, 
This  bottle,  how  this  bottle? 

Bora.  Do  not  stir  it  ; 

For,  if  you  do,  by  this  good  urine,  I'll  knock  you, 
I'll  beat  you  damnably,  yea  and  nay,   I'll  heat  you  ; 
And,  when  I  have  broke  it  'bout    your  head,  do  you 

mark  me? 

Then  will  I  tie  it  to  your  worship's  tail, 
And  all  the  dogs  in  the  town  shall  follow  you. 
No  question,  1  would  advise  you,  how  I  came  by  it, 
I  will  have  none  of  these  points  handled  now. 
Cue.  She'll  ne'er  be   well  again  while  the  world 

stands. 

Ant.  I  hope  so. 
Cue.  How  dost  thou,  lamb? 
Bora.   Well,  God-a-mercy,  belwether  ;  how  dost 

thou  ? 
Stand  out :  son  slave,  sit  you   here,  and  before  this 

worshipful  audience 
Propound  a  doubtful  question  ;  see  who's   drunk 

now. 
Cue.  Now,  now  it  works  ;  the  devil  now  dwells 

in  her. 
Bora.  Whether  the  heaven  or  the  earth  be  nearer 

the  moon? 

Or  what's  the  natural  reason,  why  a  woman  longs 
To   make   her   husband   cuckold  ?    bring   me  your 

cousin 

The  curate  now,  that  great  philosopher, 
He  that  found  out  a  pudding  had  two  ends, 
That  learned  clerk,  that  notable  gymnosophist: 
And  let  him  with  bis  Jacob's-staff  discover 
What  is  the  third  part  of  three  farthings, 
Three  halfpence  being  the  half,  and  1  am  satisfied. 
Cue.  You   see  she  hath  learning  enough,  it  she 

could  dispose  it. 
Bora.  Too  much  for  thee,  thou  loggerhead,  thou 

hull-head  ! 
Cue.  N  ay,  good  Borachia. 


SCENE  II.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


455 


Bora.  Thou  a  sufficient  statesman  ! 
A  gentleman  of  learning  !  hang  thee,  dogwhelp  ; 
Thou  shadow  of  a  man  of  action, 
Ihou    scab    o'th'   court!  go    sleep,   you    drunken 

rascal, 
Vou    debauched   puppy  ;  get  you  home,  and  sleep, 

sirrah  ; 

Vnd  so  will  I  :  son  slave,  thou  shall  sleep  with  me. 
Cue.  Prithee,  look  to  her  tenderly. 


Bora.  No  words,  sirrah, 
Of  any  wine,  or  anything  like  wine, 
Or  any  tiling  concerriin-r  wine,  or  by  wine, 
Or   from,  or    with    wine*.      Come,  lead  me  like  a 

countess. 
Cue.  This  must  we  bear,  poor  men !  there   is  a 

trick  in't, 
But,  when  she  is  well  again,  I'll  trick  her  for  it. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Viceroy's  Palace. 

Enter  PEDRO. 

Pedro.  Now,  if  this  honest   fellow   do  but  pros- 
per, 

\  hope  I  shall  make  fair  return.     I  wonder 
I  hear  not  from  the  prince  of  Tarent  yet, 
I  hope  he's  landed  well,  and  to  his  safety  : 
The  winds  have  stood  most  gently  to  his  purpose. 

Enter  ANTONIO. 
My  honest  friend  ! 

Ant.  Your  lordship's  poorest  servant. 

Pedro.  How  hast  thou  sped  ? 

Ant.  My  lord,  as  well  as  wiahesf 
My  way  hath  reach'd  your  mistress,  and  deliver'*! 
Your  love  letter,  and  token  ;  who,  with  all  joy, 
And  virtuous  constancy,  desires  to  see  you  : 
Commands  you  this  niirht,  by  her  loving  power, 
To  meet  her  in  the  garden. 

Pedro.  Thou  hast  made  me, 
Redeem 'd  me,  man,  again  from  all  my  sorrows  ; 
Done  above  wonder  for  me.     Is  it  sol 

Ant.  1  should  be  now  too  old  to  learn  to  lie,  sir, 
And,  as  I  live,  I  never  was  good  flatterer}. 

Pedro.  I  do  see  something   in  this  fellow's  face 

still, 

That  ties  my  heart  fast  to  him.     Let  me  love  thee, 
Nay,  let  me  honour  thee  for  this  fair  service. 
And  if  I  e'er  forget  it 

Ant.  Good  my  lord, 

The  only  knowledge  of  me  is  too  much  bounty  : 
My  service,  and  my  life,  sir. 

or  by  wine, 

Or  from,  or  with  wine,  &c.]  More  trails  of  Borachia's 
"  learning  !"  she  is  running  through  the  signs  of  the  ablative 
ease. 

t  Ant.  My  lord,  a*  well  as  wishes  :]  i.  e.  as  well  as  yon 
Could  wish;  or,  as  well  as  if  your  wishes  had  been  effectual : 
it  is  a  colloquial  phrase,  and  is  found  in  many  of  our  old 
dramatists.  Thus  Beaumont  and  Fletcher: 

"  Dor.  Shall  we  run  for  a  wager  to  the  next  temple,  and 
give  thanks  >. 

"  Nis.  Aifatt  as  withe*.  Cupid's  Revenge. 

And  again  ;  more  appositely  in  the  same  play  : 

"  Timan.  There's  a  messenger,  madam,  come  from  the 
prince,  with  a  letter  to  Ismenes." 

"  Jiacha.  This  comes  as  pat  a*  withes." 

1  And,  as  1  live,  Inner  icat  good  flatterer.']  This  is  the 
language  of  the  time  :  the  modern  editors  carefully  interpo- 
late the  article  before  good,  though  it  spoils  the  metre  :  and 
in  the  next  line  omit  ttill,  though  it  be  necessary  to  the 
wnsel 


Pedro.  I  shall  think  on't ; 
But  how  for  me  to  get  access? 

Ant.  "Tis  easy  ; 

I'll  be  your  guide,  sir,  all  my  care  shall  lead  you ; 
My  credit's  belter  than  you  think. 

Pedro.  I  thank  you, 
And  soon  I'll  wait  your  promise. 

Ant.  With  all  my  duty.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — A  Bedroom  in  the  tame. 
Enter  VICEROY,  DUKE,  PAULO,  and  CUCULO.. 

Paulo.  All's  as  1  tell  you,  princes  ;  you  shall  her* 
Be  witness  to  his  fancies,  melancholy, 
And  strong  imagination  of  his  wrongs 
His  inhumanity  to  Don  Antonio, 
Hath  rent  his  mind  into  so  many  pieces 
Of  various  imaginations,  that, 
Like  the  celestial  bow,  this  colour  now's 
The  object,  then  another,  till  all  vanish. 
He  says  a  man  might  watch  to  death,  or  fast, 
Or  think  his  spirit  out ;  to  all  which  humours 
1  do  apply  myself,  checking  the  bad, 
And  cherishing  the  good.     For  these,  I  have 
Prepared  my  instruments,  fitting  his  chamber 
\\ith  trapdoors,  and  descents  ;  sometimes  presenting 
Good  spirits  of  the  air,  bad  of  the  earth, 
To  pull  down  or  advance  his  fair  intentions. 
He's  of  a  noble  nature,  yet  sometimes 
Thinks  that  which  by  confederacy  I  do, 
Is  by  some  skill  in  magic. 

Enter  CAHDENES.O  book  in  his  hand*. 

Here  he  comes 

Unsent.     I  do  beseech  you,  what  do  you  read,  airl 
Cur.  A  strange    position,  which  doth  much  per- 
plex me  : 
That  every  soul's  alike  a  musical  instrument, 


+  Enter  CARDENES.  a  book  in  hit  hand]  The  book  ap 
pear-  to  be  I'l.-tti.  The  margiiul  d  rf  ction  in  tlu-  old  C"py, 
whirh  i*  wisvly  followed  h\  Cnxcter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason, 
i*  «oiii«wh;it  curious:  .1  bfd  drawn  forth.  Mailinoupon  if, 
a  bonk  in  hi*  hand  ;  this  nvis'  h..v.  cont.aMid  in  »  >ini;nlar 
m  inner  wilh  the  doctor' .«  excl.nii»ti'  "  :  Here  he  come*  t/»- 
tent !  The  noon-M  stK.lli'iif  o.innanv  in  III.-  pr.''rr*t  IvfB 
would  nol  now  be  rednred  to  snrh  shifts,  as  "  those  of  bit 
Majrstj'i  servants"  who  performed  this  mort  excellent 
Comedy  a*  fce  private-house  in  Blackfriarv 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[Act  IV 


The  faculties  in  all  men  equal  strings, 

Well  or  ill  handled  ;  and  those  sweet  or  harsh. 

[Exit  Paulo. 

How  like  a  fiddler  I  have  play'd  on  mine  then  ! 
Declined  the  high  pitch  of  my  birtli  and  breeding, 
Like  the  most  barbarous  peasant  ;  read  my  pride 
Upon  Antonio's  meek  humility. 
Wherein  he  was  far  valianter  than  I. 
Meekness,  thou  wait'st  upon  courageous  spirits, 
Enabling  sufferance  past  inflictions. 
In  patience  Tarent  overcame  me  more 
Than  in  my  wounds  :  live  then,  no  more  to  men, 
Shut  dav-ligbt  from  thine  eyes,  here  cast  thee  down, 
And  with  a  sullen  sigh  breathe  forth  thy  soul — 

Re-enter  PAULO,  disguised  at  a  Friar. 

What  art  1  an  apparition,  or  a  man  ? 

Paul.  A  man,  and  sent  to  counsel  thee. 

Car.  Despair 
Has  stopped  mine  ears  ;  thou  seem'st  a  holy  friar. 

Paul.  I  am  ;  by  doctor  Paulo  sent,  to  tell  thee 
Thou  art  too  cruel  to  thyself,  in  seeking 
To  lend  compassion  and  aid  to  others. 
My  order  bids  me  comfort  thee  ;  I  hare  heard  all 
Thy  various  troubled  passions.     Hear  but  my  story; 
In  way  of  youth  I  did  enjoy  one  friend*, 
As  good  and  perfect  as  heaven  e'er  made  man  , 
This  friend  was  plighted  to  a  beauteous  woman 
(Nature  proud  of  her  workmanship),  mutual  love 
Possessed  them  both,  her  heart  in  his  breast  lodged, 
And  his  in  hers. 


*  Jn  way  of  youth  I  d id  enjoy  one  friend."]  There  is  no 
passage  in  Shakspeare  on  which  more  ha?  been  written  than 
the  following  one  in  Macbeth: 

"  I  have  lived  long  enough,  my  way  of  life 
"  Is  faflen  inlo  the  si-re,  the  yellow  leaf,"  &c. 
For  tcay  of  life  Johnson  would  read  May  of  life;  in  which 
he  is  followed  by  Colman,  L  tn^tusi,  Steevens,  and  others  : 
and  Mr.  Henley,  a  very  ronfiiient  gentleman,  declares  that  he 
"  has  no>v  no  doubt  that  Shakspi-are  wrote  May  of  lift," 
which  it  also  the  "  settled  opinion"  of  Mr.  Davies !  At  a 
subsequent  period  Steevens  appears  to  have  changed  his  opi- 
nion, and  acquiesced  in  the  old  reading,  way  of  life,  whirh 
he  interprets,  with  Mr.  M.  Mason,  course  or  progress,  pre- 
cisely as  Warburton,  whom  every  mousing  owl  hawks  at,  had 
done  long  before  them.  Mr.  Malone  follows  the  same  track, 
and  ii'ti.e  words  had  signified  what  he  supposed  them  to  do, 
nothing  more  would  be  necessary  on  the  subject.  The  fact, 
however,  is,  that  these  ingenious  writers  have  mistaKtn  the 
phrase,  which  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  simple  peri- 
phrasis for  life:  ai  way  of  youth,  in  the  text,  is  for  youth. 
A  few  examples  will  make  this  clear: 

"  If  that,  when  I  was  mistress  of  myse'-f, 

And  in  my  tray  of  youth,  pure  and  untainted, 
The  emperor  had  vouchsafe  i,"  8tc.        Jioman  Actor. 
.  e.  in  my  youth. 
"  So  mnchnoller 

Shall  be  your  way  of  justice."  Thierry  and  Theodoret. 
i.  e.  your  justice. 

"  Thus  ready  for  the  u-ay  of  death  or  life, 

I  wait  the  sharpest  blow."  Periele*. 

e.  f.ir  death  or  lite. 

"  If  all  the  art  1  have,  or  power  can  do  it, 
He  shall  be  found,  and  such  a  way  of  justice 
In'lirtcd  ou  him  !"  Queen  of  Corinth, 

i.  e  >iirh  justice.     "  Probab!},"  say  the  editors,  "weshouid 
read  weight  of  justice  ;  way  is  very  flat !" 
"  If  we  can  wipe  out 

The  way  of  your  offences,  we  are  yours,  sir." 

Falentinian. 

i.  e.  yom  offence^.  "  To  wipe  out  the  way,"  the  same  edi- 
tors again  lemark,  "  seems  a  strange  phrase;  stain,  we  ap- 
prehend, will  be  allowed  a  better  word  :  yet  we  eh  >uld  not 
Imve  substituted  it"  (they  actually  foist  it  into  the  «ext), 
"  had  we  not  been  persuaded  that  the  oM  reading  was  cor- 
rupt !"  And  thns  our  best  po:ts  are  edited  ! 

It  is  unnecessary  to  proceed  any  further  :  indeed  I  should 
hav«  beco  satisfied  with  fewer  examples,  had  not  my  respect 


Car.  No  more  of  love,  good  father, 
It  was  my  sur.eir,  and  I  loath  it  now, 
As  men  in  fevers  meat  they  fell  sick  on. 

Paul.  Howe'er,    'tis    worth   your  hearing.     This 

betroth'd  lady 

(The  ties  and  duties  of  a  friend  forgotten), 
Spurr'd  on  by  lust,  I  treacherously  pursued  ; 
Contemn'd  by  her,  and  by  my  friend  reproved, 
Despised  by  honest  men,  my  conscience  seared  up, 
Love  I  converted  into  frantic  rage  ; 
And  by  that  false  guide  led,  I  summoned  him 
In  this  bad  cause,  his  sword  'gainst  mine,  to  prove 
If  he  or  I  miiiht  claim  most  right  in  love, 
But  fortune,  that  does  seld  or  never  give 
Success  torijjht  and  virtue,  nu'deliiru  fall 
Under    my    sword.       Blood,  blood,  a  friend's  dear 

blood, 

A  virtuous  friend's,  shed  by  a  villain,  me, 
In  such  a  monstrous  and  unequal  cause, 
|   Lies  on  my  conscience. 

Car.  And  durst  thou  live, 
.   After  this,  to  bo  so  old  ?  'tis  an  illusion 
Raised  up  by  charms :  a  man  would  not  have  lived. 
Art  quiet  in  thy  bosom  ? 

Paul.  As  the  sleep 
Of  infants^ 

Car.  My  fault  did  not  equal  this; 
Yet  I  have  emptied  mv  heart  of  joy, 
Only  to  store  si?hs  up.      What  were  the  arts 
That  made  thee  live  so  long  in  rest? 

Paul.  Repentance 
Hearty,  that  cleansed  me ;  reason  then  confirmed 

me 
I  was  forgiven,  and  took  me  to  my  beads.        [Ertf. 

Cor.  I    am    in    the    wrong   path  ;  tender    con- 
science 

Makes  me  forget  mine  honour  ;  I  have  done 
No  evil  like  this,  yet  1  pine ;  whilst  he, 
A  few  tears  of  his  true  contrition  tendered, 
Securely  sleeps.      Ha  !   where  keeps  peace  of  con- 
science, 

That  I  may  buy  her  ? — no  where  ;  not  in  life. 
"Tis  feignpd  that  Jupiter  two  vessels  placed, 
The  one  with  honey  tilled,  the  other  gall, 
At  the  entry  of  Olympus;  destiny, 
There  brewing  these  together,  suffers  not 
One  man  to  pass,  before  he  drinks  this  mixture. 
Hence  is  it  we  have  not  an  hour  of  life 
In  which  our  pleasures  relish  not  some  pain, 
Our  sours  some  sweetne.-s.     Love  doth  taste  of  both  ; 
Revenge,  that  thirsty  dropsy  'of  our  souls, 
Which  makes  us  covet  that  which  hurts  us  most, 
Is  not  alone  sweet,  but  partakes  of  tartness. 

Duke.  Is't  not  a  strange  effect? 

Vice.  Past  precedent. 

Cue.  His  brain-pan's   perished  with  his  wounds  • 

go  to, 
I  knew  'twould  come  to  this. 

Vice.  Peace,  man  of  wisdom. 

Cue.  Pleasure's  the  hook  of  evil ;  ease  of  care, 


for  Shakspcare  made  me  desirous  of  disencumbering  hispag», 
by  ascertaining,  beyond  the  possibility  of  cavil,  the  im-anim; 
of  an  expies*ion  so  Imigand  so  laboriously  agitated.  To  re- 
turn to  Macbeth:  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  is  the  commence- 
ment of  the  winter  of  life,  or  of  old  age;  to  this  he  hai 
attained,  and  he  laments,  in  a  strain  of  inimitable  patht.sand 
beamy,  that  it  is  aMccompaflied  by  those  blessings  which 
render  it  supportable.  As  his  manhood  was  without  virtue, 
»o  he  has  now  before  him  the  certain  prospect  of  an  old  a«« 
without  honour. 


Bern  II.] 


A  VERY  WOMAV. 


457 


And  so  the  general  object  of  the  court  ; 
Yet  some  delights  are  lawful.     Honoui  is 
Virtue's  allow'd  ascent  ;  honour,  ihat  clasps 
All-perfect  justice  in  her  arms,  that  craves 
No  more  respect  than  what  she  gives,  that  does 
Nothing  hut  what  she'll  suffer  —This  distracts  me, 
But  I  have  found  the  right :  had  Don  Antonio 
Done  that  to  me,  I  did  to  him,  I  should  have  kill'd 

him  ; 

The  injury  so  foul,  and  done  in  public, 
My  footman  would  not  bear  it  ;  then  in  honour 
Wronged  him  so,  I'll  right  him  on  myself: 
There's  honour,  justice,  and  full  satisfaction 
Equally  tender'd  ;  'tis  resolved,  I'll  do  it. 

[They  disarm  him. 
They  take  all  weapons  from  me. 
Duke.  Bless  my  son  ! 

Re-enter  PAULO,  dressed  like  a  Soldier,  and  the  English 
Slave  tike  a  Courtier. 

Vice.  The  careful  doctor's  come  again. 

Duke.  Rare  man ! 
How  shall  I  pay  this  debt  ? 

Cite.   He  that  is  with  him, 
Is  one  o'  the  slaves  be  lately  bought,  he  said, 
To  accommodate  his  cure  :  he's  English  born, 
But  French  in  his  bebavour  ;  a  delicate  slave. 

Vice    The  slave  is  very  fine. 

Cue.  Your  English  slaves 
Are  ever  so  ;  I  have  seen  an  English  slave 
Far  finer  than  his  master :  there's  a  state-point 
Worthy  your  observation. 

Paul.  On  thy  life, 
Be  perfect  in  thy  lesson  :  fewer  legs,  slave. 

Car.  My   thoughts   are   search'd   and  answer'd  : 

for  I  did 

Desire  a  soldier  and  a  courtier, 
To  yield  me  satisfaction  in  some  doubts 
Not  yet  concluded  of. 

Punl.  Your  doctor  did 
Admit  us,  sir. 

Slave.  And  we  are  at  your  service  ; 
Whate'er  it  be,  command  it. 

Car.  You  appear 

A  courtier  in  the  race  of  LOVE  ;  how  far 
In  honour  are  you  bound  to  run  7 

Slave.  I'll  tell  you, 

You  must  not  spare  expense,  but  wear  gay  clothes, 
And  you  maybe,  too,  prodigal  of  oaths, 
To  win  a  mistress'  favour  ;  not  afraid 
To  pass  unto  her  through  her  chambermaid. 
You  may  present  her  gifts,  and  of  all  sorts, 
Feast,  dance,  and  revel ;  they  are  lawful  sports  : 
The  choice  of  suitors  you  must  not  deny  her, 
Nor  quarrel,  though  you  find  a  rival  by  her: 
Build  ou  your  own  deserts,  and  ever  be 
A  stranger  to  love's  enemy,  jealousy, 
For  that  draws  on 

Cor.  No  more  ;  this  points  at  me  ; 

[Exit  English  Slave. 
I   ne'er  observed   these  rules.      Now  speak,    old 

soldier, 
The  height  of  HONOUH  ? 

Paul.  No  man  to  offend, 
Ne'er  to  reveal  the  secrets  of  -a.  friend  ; 
Rather  to  suffer  than  to  do  wrong  ; 
To  make  the  heart  no  stranger  to  the  tongue ; 
Provoked,  not  to  betray  an  enemy, 
Nor  eat  his  meat  I  choke  with  flattery; 
Blushless  to  tell  wherefore  I  wear  my  scars 


Or  for  my  conscience,  or  my  country's  wars  ; 
To  aim  at  just  things  ;  if  we  have  wildly  run 
Into  offences,  wish  them  all  undone  : 
'Tis  poor,  in  grief  for  a  wrong  done,  to  die, 
Honour,  to  dare  to  live,  and  satisfy. 

Vice.  Mark,  how  he  winds  him. 

Duke.    Kxcellent  man  ! 

Paul.   Who  fights 

With  passions,  and  o'ercomes  them,  is  endued 
With  the  best  virtue,  passive  fortitude.  [Exit 

Car.  Thou  hast  touch'd   rue,   solilier;    oh!    this 

honour  bears 

The  right  stamp  ;  would  all  soldiers  did  profess 
Thy  good  religion  !  The  discords  of  my  soul 
Are  tuned,  and  make  a  heavenly  harmony  : 
What  sweet  peace  feel  I  now  !  I  am  ravish *d  with  it. 

Vice.  How  still  he  sits  !  [Music. 

Cue.  Hark !  music. 

Duke.  How  divinely 

This  artist  gathers  scatter'd  sense ;  with  cunning 
Composing  the  fair  jewel*  of  Ins  mind, 
Broken  in  pieces,  and  nigh  lost  before  ! 

Re-enter  PAUI.O,  dressed  like  a  Philosopher,  accom- 
panied bu  a  gi>od  and  evil  Genius,  who  sing  a  song  in 
alternate  stanzas  :  during  the  performance  of  tt/itcA 
PAULO  goes  off,  and  returns  in  hi*  own  shape. 

Vice.  See  Protean  Paulo  in  another  shape. 

Paul.  Away,  I'll  bring  him  shortly  perfect,  doubt 
not. 

Duke.  Master  of  thy  great  art! 

Vice.  As  such  we'll  hold  thee. 

Dukt.  And  study  honours  for  him. 

Cue.  I'll  be  sick 
On  purpose  to  take  physic  of  this  doctor. 

[Eietint  all  Imt  Cardenes  and  Paulo. 

Car.  Doctor,  thou  hast  perfected  a  body's  cure. 
To  amaze  the  world,  and  almost  cured  a  mind 
Near  frenzy.     With  delight  I  now  perceive. 
You,  for  my  recreation,  have  invented 
The  several  objects,  which  my  melancholy 
Sometimes  did  think  you  conjured,  otherwhiles 
Imagined  them  chimxras.     You  have  been 
My  friar,  soldier,  philosopher, 
My  poet,  architect,  physician  ; 
Labour'd  for  me  more  than  your  slaves  for  you 
In  their  assistance  :  in  your  moral  songf 
Of  my  good  genius,  and  my  had,  you  have  won  me 
A  cheerful  heart,  and  banish 'd  discontent ; 
There  being  nothing  wanting  to  my  wishes, 
But  once  more,  were  it  possible,  to  behold 
Don  John  Antonio. 

Paul.  Theie  shall  be  letters  sent 
Into  all  parts  of  Christendom,  to  inform  him 
Of  your  recovery,  which  now,  sir,  1  doubt  not. 

Car.  What  honours,  what  rewards  can  1  heap  on 
you  ! 

Paul.    That  my  endeavours    have    so  well  suc- 
ceeded, 

Is  a  sufficient  recompense.     Pray  you  retire,  sir, 
Not  too  much  air  so  soon. 

Cor.  I  am  obedient.  [Exeunt. 

*  Comparing  the  fair  jewel  of  hit  mind,  &c.  By  jewel 
oar  old  writers  meant,  as  1  have  already  observed,  not  so 
much  a  single  precious  stone,  as  H  trinket  formed  of  several, 
or  what  we  call  a  piece  of  jewel-work 

t  in  your  moral  song 

Of  my  good  yeniiu,  and  my  bad,  <Scc. '  This  song  U  not 
given ;  I  do  not  know  tin  it  is  much  to  be  regretted,  and 
yet  it  promises  better  than  many  >.f  those  with  nliicfe  wt 
nave  been  favoured. 


458 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[Acr  IV 


SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  Cuculo's  House. 
Eiitei-  ALMIKA  and  LFONOIIA. 

Leon.  How  strangely 
This  ft-llow  runs  in  her  mind ! 

Aim.   Do  you  hear,  cousin? 

Leon.   Her  sadness  clean  forsaken  ! 

Aim.   A  poor  slave 
Bought  for  my  governess,  say  you? 

Lena.   I  hear  so. 

Aim.  And,  do  you  think,  a  Turk? 

Lean.   His  habit  shows  it, 
At  least  bought  for  a  Turk. 

Aim.  Ay,  that  may  he  so. 

Leon.   What  if  he  were  one  naturally  ? 

Aim.  Nay,  'tis  nothing. 
Nothing   to  the  purpose ;  and  yet,  methinks,    'tis 

strange 

Such  handsomeness  of  mind,  and  civil  outside, 
Should  spring  from  those  rude  countries. 

Leon.   If  it  be  no  more, 
I'll  call  our  governess,  and  she  can  show  you. 

Aim.   Why,  do  you  think  it  is  ? 

Leon.  1  do  not  think  so. 

Aim.   Fie  !  no,  no,  by  no  means;  and  to  tell  thee 

truth,  wench. 

I  am  truly  glad  he  is  h»re,  be  what  he  will  ; 
Let  him  be  still  the  same  he  makes  a  show  of, 
For  now  we  shall  see  something  to  delight  us. 

Leon.  And  heaven  knows,  we  have  need  on't. 

Aim.  Heigh  ho!  my  heart  aches. 
Prithee,    call    in    our    governess. — [Exit  Leonora.] 

Plague  o'this  fellow  ! 

Why  do  I  think  so  much  of  him?  how  the  devil 
Creep'd  he  into  my  head?  and  yet,  beshrew  me, 
Bdetbinka  I  have  not  seen — 1  lie,  1  have  seen 
A  thousand  handsomer,  a  thousand  sweeter. 
But  say  this  fellow  were  adorned  as  they  are, 
Set  off  to  show  and  glory  !-r- What's  that  to  me  ? 
Fie  !   what  a  fool  am  I,  what  idle  fancies 
Buz  in  my  brains  ! 

Re-enter  LEONORA  with  BOKACHIA. 

Bora.  And  how  doth  my  sweet  lady  ? 

Leon.  She  wantsyour  company  to  make  her  merry. 

Bora.  And  how  does   master    Pug,  I  pray  you, 
madam  ? 

Leon.  Do  you  mean  her  little  dog  ? 

Bora.  I  mean  his  worship. 

Lean.  Troubled  with  fleas  a  little. 

Kara.  Alas!   poor  ckicken  ! 

Leon.  She's  here,  and  drunk,  very  fine  drunk, 

1  lake  it ; 

I  found  her  with  a  bottle  for  her  bolster, 
Lying  along  and  making  love. 

Aim.  Borachia, 
Why,  where  hast  thou  been,  wench  ?  she  looks  not 

well,  friend. 
Art  not  with  child  ? 

Bora.  I  promise  ye,  I  know  not, 
I  am  sure  my  belly's  full,  and  that's  a  shrewd  sign  : 
Besides  I  am  shrewdly  troubled  with  a  tiego 
Here  in  my  head ,  madam ;  often  with  this  tiego, 
It  takes  me  very  often. 

Leon.  I  believe  thee. 

Aim.  You  must  drink  wine. 

Bora.  A  little  would  do  no  harm,  sure. 

Leon.  'Tis  a  raw  humour  blows  into  your  head  ; 
Which  good  strong  wine  will  temper. 

Bora.  I  thank  your  highness. 
I  will  be  ruled,  though  much  against  my  nature ; 


For  wine  I  ever  hated  from  my  cradle  : 

Yet  for  my  good 

Leon.   Ay,  tor  your  good,  by  all  means. 

Aim.  Borachia,  what  new  fellow's  that  thou  hast 

gotten 
(Now     she    will     sure    be    free)  ?  that    handsome 

stranger? 
Bora.    How  much  wine  must  I  drink,  an't  please 

your  ladyship  ? 
Aim.  She's  finely  greased.     Why  two  or  three 

round  draughts,  wench. 
Bora.  Fasting  ? 
Aim.  At  any  time. 
Bora.  I  shall  hardly  do  it : 
But  yet  I'll  try,  good  madam. 
Leon.  Do  .  'twill  work  we'll. 

Aim.  Hut,  prithee  answer  me,  what  is  this  fellow? 
Bora.  I'll  tell  you  two  :  but  let  it  go  no  further. 
Leon.  No,  no,  by  no  means. 
Bora.  May  I  not  drink  before  bed  too  ? 
Leon.  At  any  hour. 

Born.  And  say  in  the  night  it  take  me? 
Aim.  Drink  then:  but  what's  this  man? 
Bora.  I'll  tell  ye,  madam, 
But  pray  you  be  secret ;  he's  the  great  Turk's  son 

for  certain, 
And  a  fine  Christian  ;  my  husband  bought  him  for 

me  ; 
He's  circumsinged. 

Leon.  He's  circumcised,  thou  wouldst  say. 
Aim.  How  dost  thou  know? 
Bora.  1  had  an  eye  upon  him ; 

I   But  even   as  sweet  a  Turk,  an't  like  your  lady- 
ship, 

|  And  speaks  ye  as  pure  pagan  ; — I'll  assure  ye, 
j  My  husband  had  a  notable  pennyworth  of  him  ; 
And  found  me  but  the  Turk's  own   son,  his  own 

son 

By  father  and  mother,  madam  ! 
Leon.  She's  mad-drunk. 

Aim.  Prithee  Borachia,  call  him  ;  I  would  see  him, 
And  tell  thee  how  I  like  him. 
Bora.  As  fine  a  Turk,  madam, 

For  that  which  appertains  to  a  true  Turk 

Aim.  Prithee,  call  him. 

Bora.  He   waits  here  at  the  stairs: — Son  slave 
come  hither. 

Enter  ANTONIO. 

Pray  you  give  me  leave  a  little  to  instruct  him, 
He's  raw  yet  in  the  way  of  entertainment. 
Son  slave,  where 's  the  other  bottle  ? 

Ant.  In  the  bed-straw, 
I  hid  it  there. 

Bora.  Go  up,  and  make  your  honours. 
Madam,  the  tiego  takes  me  now,  now,  madam  ; 
I  must  needs  be  unmannerly. 

Aim.  Pray  you  be  so. 

Leon.  You  know  your  cure. 

Bom.  In  the  bed-straw  ? 

Ant.  There  you'll  find  it.  [Exit  Borachia. 

Aim.  Come    hither,    sir :    how    long    have    you 
served  here  ? 

Ant.  A    poor    time,   madam,    yet,   to    show   my 
service. 

Aim.  I  see  thou  art  diligent. 

Ant.  I  would  be,  madam  ; 
'Tis  all  the  portion  left  me,  that  and  truth. 

Aim.  Thou  art  but  young. 


SCENE  III.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN 


459 


Ant.  Had  fortune  meant  me  so*, 
Excellent  lady,  time  had  not  much  wrong'd  me. 

Aim.  Wilt  tliou  serve  me? 

Aid.   In  all  mv  prayers,  madam, 
Else  such  a  misery  as  mine  but  blasts  you. 

Aim.    Beshrew   my  heart,  he    speaks  well  ;  won- 
drous honestly.  [Aside. 

Ant.  Madam,  your  loving  lord  stays  for  you. 

Leon.   I  thank  you. 
Your  pardun  for  an  hour,  dear  friend. 

Aim.  Your  pleasure. 

Leon.  I  dearly  thank  you,  sir.  [Ei'it. 

Ant.  My  humblest  service. 

She  views  me  narrowly,  yet  sure  she  knows  me  not : 
I  dare  not  trust  the  lime  \et,  nor  1  must  not. 

Aim.  You  are  not  as  your  habit  shows  ? 

Ant.  No,  maiiam, 

His  hand,  that,  for  my  sins,  lies  heavy  on  me, 
I   hope    will  keep    me  from   being  a  slave  to    the 
devilf. 

Aim.    A    brave   clear    mind   be  has,    and   nobly 

season'd. 
What  country  are  you  of? 

Ant.  A  Biscan,  lady;. 

Aim.  No  doubt,  a  gentleman? 

Ant.  My  father  thought  so. 

Aim,  Ay,  and  1  warrant  thee  a  right  fair  woman 
Thy  mother  was  ,  he  blushes,  that  confirms  it. 
Upon  my  soul,  I  have  not  seen  such  sweetness! 
I  prithee,  blush  again. 

Ant.  Tis  a  weakness,  madam, 
I  am  ea.sily  this  way  woo'd  to. 

Aim.  I  thank  you. 
Of  all  that  e'er  I  saw,  thou  art  the  perfectest. 

[Aside. 
Now  you  must  tell  me,  sir,  for  now  I  long  for't — 

Ant.   What  would  she  have? 

Aim.  The  story  of  your  fortune, 
The  bard  ami  cruel  fortune  brought  you  hither. 

Ant.  That  makes  me  stagger  j  yet  1  hope  I'm  hid 
still.  [Atide. 

That  I  came  hither,  madam,  was  the  fairest. 

Aim.    But  how  this  misery  you  bear,  fell  on  you  7 

Ant.   Injandum  reginajubes  renovare  dolirrem. 

Aim.  Come,  I  will  have  it ;  1  command  you  tell 

it, 
For  such  a  speaker  I  would  hear  for  ever. 

Ant.  Sure,  madam,  'twill  but  make  you  sad  and 

heavy, 

Because  I  know  your  goodness  full  of  pity; 
And  'tis  so  poor  a  subject  too,  and  to  your  ears, 
That  are  acquainted  with  things  sweet  and  easy, 
So  harsh  a  harmony. 

Aim.  1  prithee  speak  it. 

Ant.  I  ever  knew  obedience  the  best  sacrifice. 
Honour  of  ladies,  then,  first  passing  over 
Some  few  years  of  my  youth,  that  are  impertinent, 


*  Ant     Had  fortune  meant  me  no, 

Excellent  iady,  time  had  nut  much  wrong'd  mf.]  F«>r  so, 
Mr.  .M.  .MiiMin  would  n-mlyood,  because,  as  lit-  says,  "  a  man's 
youth  dues  not  depend  on  fortune,  :"  hut  this  i:-  n..t  MasMii- 
ger's  meaning.  » hicli  is,  that  if  fortune  had  dine  him  no 
wrong  (refer ling  to  the  concluding  part  of  the  sentence;,  he 
should  have  had  but  liitle  to  complain  of  time.  In  other 
words,  that  he  was  "but  young,''  as  Aliniia  lia  1  observed. 

*  .  ; from  being  a  slave  tn  the  devil.] 

That  is,  from  being  a  Mahometan:  liis  dus.-,  it  appeals,  was 
that  of  a  Turk. 

I  Ant.  A  Bisean,  lady.]  Here  'Mr.  M.  Mason,  for  no  bet- 
ter reason,  that  I  can  tind,  than  spoiling  the  metre,  reads, 
A  Biscayan,  lady. 


Let  me  begin  the  sadness  of  my  story, 
Where  1  began  to  lose  myself,  to  love  first. 

Aim.  'Tis   well,  go   forward ;  some  rare   piece  I 
look  for. 

Ant.  Not  far  from  where  my  father  lives,  a  lady, 
A  neighbour  by,  bless'd  with  as  great  a  beauty 
As  nature  durst  bestow  without  undoing*, 
Dwelt,  and  most  happily,  as  I  thought  then, 
And  bless'd  the  house  a  thousand  times  she  dwelt  in. 
This  beauty,  in  the  blossom  of  my  youth, 
VV  hen  my  first  fire  knew  no  adulterate  incense, 
Nor  I  no  way  to  flatter,  but  my  fondness  ; 
In  all  the  bravery  my  friends  could  show  me, 
In  all  the  faith  my  innocence  could  give  me, 
In  the  best  language  my  true  tongue  could  tell  me, 
And  all  the  broken  sighs  my  sick  heart  lend  me, 
I  sued,  and  served :  long  did  1  love  this  lady, 
Long  was  my  travail,  long  my  trade  to  win  her  ; 
Who  all  the  duty  of  my  soul,  I  served  her. 

Aim.  How  feelingly  he  speaks !  and    she  loved 

you  too? 
It  must  be  so. 

Ant.  I  would  it  had,  dear  lady  ; 
This  story  had  been  needless,  and  this  place, 
I  think,  unknown  to  me. 

Aim.   Were  your  bloods  equal? 

Ant.  Yes,  and  I  thought  our  hearts  too. 

Aim.  Then  she  must  love. 

Ant.  She  did — but  never  me  ;  she  could  not  love 

me, 

She  would  not  love,  she  hated,  more,  she  scorn "d  me, 
And  in  so  poor  and  base  a  way  abused  me, 
For  all  my  services,  for  all  my  bounties, 
So  bold  neglects  flung  on  me. 

Aim.  An  ill  woman  ! 
Belike  you  found  some  rival  in  your  love,  then  ! 

Ant.  How  perfectly  she  points  me  to  my  story! 

[Aside. 

Madam,  I  did  ;  and  one  whose  pride  and  anger, 
111  manners,  and  worse  mien,  she  doted  on, 
Doted  to  my  undoing,  and  my  ruin. 
And,  but  for  honour  to  your  sacred  beauty, 
And  reverence  to  the  noble  sex,  though  she  fall, 
As  she  must  fall  that  durst  be  so  unnoble, 
I  should  say  something  unbeseeming  me. 
What  out  of  love,  and  worthy  love,  1  gave  her, 
Shame  to  her  most  unworthy  mind  !  to  fools, 
To  girls,  and  fiddlers,  to  her  boys  she  flung, 
And  in  disdain  of  me. 

Aim.   Pray  you  take  me  with  youf. 
Of  what  complexion  was  she? 

Ant.  But  that  1  dare  not 
Commit  so  great  a  sacrilege  'gainst  virtue, 

She    look'd    not    much   unlike though  far,  fa; 

short. 

Something  I  see  appears — your  pardon,  madam — 
Her    eyes  would    smile   so,  but  her    eyes   would 
cozen  ; 

*  At  nature  durst  bestow  without  undoing,]  herself,  ai  I 
suppose;  tor  that  is  a  frequent  sentiment  in  these  i'lays 
The  remainder  of  this  ipeech,  and,  indeed,  of  the  whole 
scene,  is  beautiful  beyond  expression.  The  English  language 
does  not  furnish  so  complete  a  specimen  of  sweetness,  ele> 
gauce,  and  simplicity,  of  all  that  is  harmonious  in  poesie 
tender  in  sentiment,  and  ardent  in  aft'ection,  as  the  passage 
begin  uiaxi 

This  beauty,  in  the  blottom  of  my  youth,  &c. 

t  Aim.  /-raw  you  take  me  with  you.]  i.  e.  let  me  nndei- 
stand  jou.  The  last  circumstance  mentioned  in  Don  John's 
speech  seen.s  to  have  recalled  10  her  rnind  the  flinging  of 
the  jewel  with  which  he  had  presented  her,  to,  Car.deue.** 
page. 


460 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


(ACT  IV 


And  so  she  would  look  sad  :  but  yours  is  pity, 
A  noble  chorus  to  my  wretched  story  ; 
Hera  was  disdain  and  cruelty. 

Aim.  Pray  heaveu 
Mine  be  no  worse !  he  has  told  me  a  strange  story, 

[Aside. 

And  said  'twould  make  me  sad  !  he  is  no  liar. — 
But  where  begins  this  poor  state  7  I  will  have  all, 
For  it  concerns  me  truly. 

Ant.  Last,  to  blot  me 

From  all  remembrance  what  I  had  been  to  her, 
And  how,  how  honestly,  how  nobly  served  her, 
Twas  thought  she  set  her  gallant  to  dispatch  me. 
'Tis  true,  he  quarrell'd  without  place  or  reason  : 
We  fought,  I  kill'd  him ;  heaven's  strong  hand  was 

with  me; 

For  which  I  lost  my  country,  friends,  acquaintance, 
And  put  myself  to  sea,  where  a  pirate  took  me, 
Foicing  the  habit  of  a  Turk  upon  me*, 
And  sold  me  here. 

Aim.  Stop  there  awhile;  but  stay  still. 

[  Walks  aside. 

In  this  man's  story,  how  I  look,  bow  monstrous ! 
How  poor  and  naked  now  1  shew  !   what  don  John, 
In  all  the  virtue  of  his  life,  but  aimed  at. 
Tbis  tiling  bath  conquer'd  with  a  tale,  and  carried. 
Forgive  me,  thou  that  guid'stme!  never  conscience 
Touch'd  me  till  now,  nor  true  love:  let  me  keep  it. 
Re-enter  LEONORA  with  PEDRO. 

Leon.  She  is  there.     Speak  to  her,  you  will  find 
her  alter'd. 

Pedro.  Sister,  I   am   glad   to   see  you,  but  far 

gladder, 
To  see  you  entertain  your  heulth  so  well. 

Aim.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  too,  sir,  and  shall  be 

gladder 
Shortly  to  see  you  all. 

Pedro.  Now  she  speaks  heartily. 
What  do  you  want  ? 

Aim.  Only  an  hour  of  privateness  ; 
I  have  a  few  thoughts — 

Pedro.  Take  your  full  contentment, 
We'll  walk  aside  again  ;  but  first  to  you,  friend, 
Or  I  shall  much  forget  myself :  my  best  friend, 
Command  me  ever,  ever — you  have  won  itf. 

Ant.  Your  lordship  overflows  me. 

Leon.  'Tis  but  due,  sir. 

[Eiennt  Leonora  and  Pedro. 

Aim.  He's  there  still.     Come,    sir,   to  your  last 

part  now, 

Which  only  is  your  name,  and  I  dismiss  you. 
Why,  whither  go  you  1 

Ant.  Give  me  leave,  good  madam, 
Or  I  must  be  so  seeming  rude  to  take  it. 

Aim.  You  shall  not  go,  I  swear  you  shall  not  go  : 
I  ask  you  nothing  but  your  name  ;  you  have  one. 
And  whv  should  that  thus  fright  you? 

Ant.  Gentle  madam, 

I  cannot  speak  ;  pray  pardon  me,  a  sickness, 
That  takes  me  often,  ties  my  tongue :  go  from  me, 
Bly  fit's  infectious,  lady. 

Aim.  Were  it  death 
In  all  his  horrors,  I  must  ask  and  know  it ; 

•  Forcing  this  habit  of  a  Turk  upon  me,]  This  line,  which 
i»  of  the  more  importance,  as  it  furnishes  the  only  reason 
why  Don  John  appeared  in  such  a  dress,  is  wholly  omitted 
by  both  the  modern  editors! 

f  —  you  have  won  it.]  So  the  old 

copy,  which  I  prefer  as  the  simpler  reading:  the  modern 
editors  have  youhaxte  taon  me.  ^me  act  of  kindness  must 
he  supposed  to  pass  ofl  the  tide  of  Don  Pedro. 


Your  sickness  is  unwillingness.     Hard  heart, 
To  let  a  lady  of  my  youth  and  place 
Beg  thus  long  for  a  trifle  ! 

Ant.   Worthiest  lady, 

Be  wise,  and  let  me  go  ;  you'll  bless  me  for't  j 
Bes;  not  that  poison  i'rom  me  that  will  kill  you. 

Aim.  I  only  bpg  your  name,  sir. 

Ant.  That  will  choak  you  ; 
I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me. 

Aim.  I  will  not*. 

Ant.  You'll  curse  me  when  you  hear  it. 

Aim.   Rather  kiss  thee  ; 
Why  shotildst  thou  think  so? 

Ant.   Why.  1  bear  that  name, 
And  most  unluckily  as  now  it  happens 
(Though  1  be  innocent  of  all  occasion), 
That,  since  my  coming  hither,  people  tell  me 
You  hate  bryond  forgiveness  :   now,  heaven  knows 
So  much  respect,  although  I  am  a  stranger, 
Duty,  and  humble  zeal,  I  bear  your  sweetness, 
That  for  the  world  I  would  not  grieve  your  good- 
ness : 
I'll  change  my  name,  dear  madam. 

Aim.  People  lie, 

And  wrong  thy  name  ;  thy  name  may  save  all  others, 
And  make  that  holy  to  me,  that  1  hated  : 
Prithee,  what  is't  ? 

Ant.  Don  John  Antonio. 

What  will  this  woman  do,  what  thousand  changes 
Run  through  her  heart  and  hands  f  ?  no  fix'd  thought 

in  her ! 

She  loves  for  certain  now,  but  now  I  dare  not. 
Heaven  guide  me  right ! 

Aim.  I  am  not  angry,  sir, 

With  you,  nor  with  your  name  ;  I  love  it  rather, 
And  shall  respect  you — you  deserve — for  this  time 
I  license  you  to  go  ;  be  not  far  from  me, 
I  shall  call  for  you  often. 

Ant.  I  shall  wait,  madam.  [Exit. 

Enter  CUCULO. 

Aim.  Now,  what's  the  news  with  you  ? 
Cue.  My  lord  your  father 
Sent  me  to  tell  your  honour,  prince  Martino 
Is  well  recovered,  and  in  strength. 

Aim.  Why,  let  him. — 
The  stories  and  the  names  so  well  agreeing, 
And  both  so  noble  gentlemen.  [Aside 

Cue.  And  more,  an't  please  you — 
Aim.  It  doth  not  please  me,  neither  more  nor 

less  on't. 

Cue.  They'll  come  to  visit  you. 
Aim.  They  shall  break  through  the  doors  then. 

[  Exit. 
Cue.  Here's  a  new  trick  of  state  ;    this  shows 

foul  weather ; 

But  let  her  make  it  when  she  please,  I'll  gain  by  it. 

[Exit. 


*  Ant.  That  will  choak  you  ; 
I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me. 

Aim.  I  will  not.]  These  two  speeches  are  also  omitted, 
not  only  by  Coxetcr,  but  by  the  "  correctest"  of  editors,  Mr. 
M.  Mason  ! 

t  Run  through  her  heart  and  hands?]  For  hands,  Mr. 
M.  M-ison  reads  head.  Hands  is  not  likely  to  have  been 
corrupted,  and  is,  besides,  as  proper  as  the  word  which  he 
arbitrarily  introduces.  It  is  very  strange  that  this  i>entlcman 
should  give  his  reader  no  notice  of  his  variations  from  Cox- 
eter,  although  he  professes  to  do  it  in  his  Preface,  and,  stran- 
ger still,  that  he  should  presume  them  to  be  genuine,  and 
agreeable  to  the  old  copy,  which  he  never  deigns  to  consult. 


II.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


461 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Street. 
Enter  Pirates,  and  the  Slave  that  followed  PAULO. 

1  Pir.  Sold  for  a  slave,  say'st  thou? 

Slave.   'Twas  not  so  well ; 
Though  I  am  bad  enough,  I  personated 
Such  base  behaviour,  barbarism  of  manners, 
With  other  pranks,  that  might  deter  the  buyer, 
That  the  market  \ielded  not  one  man  that  would 
Vouchsafe  to  own  me. 

1  Pir.   What  was  thy  end  in  it? 

Slave.  To  be  given  away  for  nothing,  as  I  was 
To  the  viceroy's  doctor;  with  him  I've  continued 
In  such  contempt,  a  slave  unto  his  slaves  ; 
His  horse  and  dog  of  more  esteem:  and  from 
That  villauous  carriage  of  myself,  as  if 
I'd  been  a  lump  of  flesh  without  a  soul, 
I  drew  such  scorn  upon  me,  that  I  pass'd. 
And  pried  in  every  place  without  observance. 
For  which,  if  you  desire  to  be  made  men, 
And  by  one  undertaking,  and  that  easy, 
You  are  bound  to  sacrifice  unto  my  sufferings, 
The  seed  1  sow'd,  and  from  which  you  shall  reap 
A  plentiful  harvest. 

1  Pir.  To  the  point ;  I  like  not 
These  castles  built  in  the  air. 

Slave.   I'll  make  them  real, 
And  you  the  Neptunes  of  the  sea;  you  shall 
No  more  be  sea-rats*. 

1  Pir.   Art  not  mad  ? 

Slave.  You  have  seen 
The  star  of  Sicily,  the  fair  Almira, 
The  viceroy's  daughter,  and  the  beauteous  ward 
Of  the  duke  of  Messina? 

1  Pir.  Madam  Leonora. 

Slavs.  What  will  you  say ,  if  hoth  these  princesses, 
This  very  night,  for  I  will  not  delay  you, 
Be  put  in  your  possession  ? 

1  Pir.  Now  I  dare  swear 
Thou  hast  maggots  in  thy  brains  ;  thou  wouldst  not 

else, 
Talk  of  impossibilities. 

Slave.   Be  still 
Incredulous. 

1  Pir.  Why,  canst  thou  think  we  are  able 
To  force  the  court  ? 

Slave.  Are  we  able  to  force  two  women, 
And  a  poor  Turkish  slave?    Where  lies  your  pin- 
nace? 

1  Pir.  On  a  creek  not  half  a  league  hence. 
Slave.  Can  you  fetch  ladders 

To  mount  a  garden  wall  ? 

2  Pir.  They  shall  be  ready. 

Slave.   No  more  words  then,  but  follow  me  ;  and  if 
I  do  not  make  this  good,  let  my  throat  pay  for't. 

1  Pir.   What  heaps  of  gold  these  beauties  would 

bring  to  us 

From  the  great  Turk,  if  it  were  possible 
That  this  could  be  effected  ! 


you  shall 


A'o  more  be  sea-rats.]  "  There  be  lanH-rati  and  water-rats 
(say,  Shylock),  I  mean  pirates."  Hence,  I  suppose,  the 
allusion. 


Slave.  If  it  he  not, 
I  know  the  price  on't. 

1  Pir.  And  be  sure  to  pay  it.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  CUCULO'S  House. 
Enter  ANTONIO  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

Ant.  Her  fair  hand  threw  this  from  the  window 

to  me, 

And  as  I  took  it  up,  she  said,  Peruse  it, 
And  entertain  a  Jortune  ojfer'd  to  thee. — 
What  may  the  inside  speak  ? 

[Breaks  it  open,  and  reads. 
For  satisfaction 

Of  the  contempt  I  shoiv'd  don  John  Antonio, 
Whose  name  thou  bear';,!,  and  in  that  dearer  to  me, 
I  do  profess  I  love  thee — How  ! — 'tis  so — 
I  In-e  thee ;   this  night  wait  me  in  the  garden, 
There  thou  shult  know  more — subscribed, 

Thy  Almira 

Can  it  be  possible  such  levity 
Should  wait  on  her  perfections !  when  I  was 
Myself,  set  off  with  all  the  grace  of  greatness. 
Pomp,  bravery,  circumstance,  she  hated  me, 
And  did  profess  it  openly  ;  yet  now, 
Being  a  slave,  a  thing  she  should  in  reason 
Disdain  to  look  upon  ;  in  this  base  shape, 
And,  since  1  wore  it,  never  did  her  service, 
To  dote  thus  fondly  ! — And  yet  1  .should  glory 
In  her  revolt  from  constancy,  not  accuse  it, 
Since  it  makes  for  me.     But,  ere  1  go  further, 
Or  make  discovery  of  myself,  I'll  put  Ler 
To  the  utmost  trial.     In  the  garden  !  well, 
There  I  shall  learn  more.     Women,  giddy  women ! 
In  her  the  blemish  of  your  sex  you  prove, 
There  is  no  reason  for  your  hate  or  love.          [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — A  Garden  belonging  to  the  same. 
Enter  ALMIRA,  LEONORA,  and  two  Waiting  Women, 

Leon.  At  this 

Unseasonable  time  to  be  thus  brave*, 
No  visitants  expected  !  you  amaze  me. 

Aim.  Are  these  jewels  set  forth  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage 
To  take  the  eye  ? 

1  Worn.  With  our  best  care. 

2  Worn.  We  never 
Better  discharged  our  duties. 

Aim.  In  my  sorrows, 

A  princess'  name  (I  could  perceive  it)  struck 
A  kind  of  reverence  in  him,  and  my  beauty, 
As  then  neglected,  forced  him  to  look  on  me 
With  some  sparks  of  affection  ;  but  now, 
When  I  would  fan  them  to  a  glorious  flame, 
I  cannot  be  too  curious.     I  wonder 
He  stays  so  long. 

Leon.  These  are  strange  fancies. 


• to  be  that    brave,]  i.  e.    thns 

superbly  drest.  I  shall  be  blamed  for  recurring  so  fre- 
quently to  the  ancient  meaning  of  this  expression  ;  but  as  it 
is  used  in  a  different  sense  at  present,  there  may  be  some 
small  plea  offered,  perhaps,  for  recalling  the  reader's  atteii 
tion,  at  intervals,  to  its  criminal  signification. 


462 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


f  ACT  V 


Aim.  Go, 

Entreat — I  do  forget  myself — command 
My  governess'  gentleman — her  slave,  I  should  say, 
To  wait  me  instantly; — [Exit  1  Woman.'] — and  yet 

already 

He's  here  :  his  figure  graven  on  my  heart, 
Never  to  he  razed  out. 

Enter  Pirates,  and  the  Slave. 

Slave.  There  is  the  prize, 
Is  it  so  rich  that  you  dare  not  seize  upon  it  ? 
Here  I  begin.  [Seizes  Almira. 

Aim.  Help  !  villain  ! 

1  Pir.  You  are  mine.  [Seizes  Leonora. 

2  Pir.  Though   somewhat   coarse,   you'll    serve 
after  a  storm, 

To  hid  fair  weather  welcome.          [Seizes  2  Woman. 

Leon.  Ravisher ! 
Defend  me,  heaven! 

Aim.  No  aid  near  ! 

2  Worn.  Help  ! 

Slave.  Dispatch. 

No  glove  nor  handkerchief  to  stop  their  mouths? 
Their  cries  will  reach  the  guard,  and  then  we  are 
lost. 

lie-enter  1  Woman,  wllh  ANTONIO. 
Ant.  What  shrieks  are  these  ?  from  whence  1     0 

blessed  saints. 

What  sacrilege  to  beauty  !  do  I  talk, 
When  'tis  almost  too  late  to  do! — [Forces  a  sword 

from  the  Stare.  ] — Take  that. 
Slave.  All  set  upon  him. 
1  Pir.  Kill  him. 
Ant.   You  shall  buy 
Mj  life  at  a  dear  rate,  you  rogues. 

Enter  PF.DUO,  CUCULO,  BORACHIA,  and  Guard. 

Cue.  Down  with  them  ! 

Pedro.  Unheard-of  treason  ! 

B<>rn.  Make  in,  loggerhead  ; 

My  son  slave  fights  like  a  dragon :  take  my  bottle, 
Drink  courage  out  on't. 

Ant.  Madam,  you  are  free. 

Pedro.  Take  comfort,  dearest  mistress. 

Cue.  O  you  micher, 
Have  you  a  hand  in  this  ? 

Slave.  My  aims  were  high  ; 
Fortune's  my  enemy ;  to  die's  the  worst, 
And  that  I  look  for. 

1  Pir.  Vengeance  on  your  plots  ! 

Pedro.  The  rack  at  better  leisure  shall  force  from 

them 
A  full  discovery:  away  with  them. 

Cue.  Load  them  with  irons. 

Bora.  Let  them  have  no  wine 

[Eiif  Guard  with  Pirates  and  Slate. 
To  comfort  their  cold  hearts. 

Pedro.  Thou  man  of  men  ! 

Leon.  A  second  Hercules. 

Aim.  An  nngel  thus  disguised. 

Pedro.  What  thanks ! 

Leon.   What  service? 

Bora.  He  shall  serve  me,  by  your  leave,  no  ser- 
vice else. 

Ant.  I  have  done  nothing  but  my  duty,  madam; 
And  if  the  little  you  have  seen  exceed  it, 
The  thanks  due  for  it  pay  my  watchful  master, 
And  this  my  sober  mistress. 

Bora.  He  speaks  truth,  madam. 
I  am  very  sober. 


Pedro.  Far  beyond  thy  hopes 
Expect  reward. 

Aim.   We'll  straight  to  court,  and  there 
It  is  resolved  what  1  will  say  and  do. 
I  am  faint,  support  me. 

Pedro.  This  strange  accident 
Will  be  heard  with  astonishment.     Come,  friend. 
You  have  made  yourself  a  fortune,  and  deserve  it. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  IV. 

A  Room  in  the  Viceroy's  Palace. 

Enter  VICEROY,  Duke  of  MESSINA,  and  PAULO 

Duke.  Perfectly  cured ! 

Paul.  As  such  I  will  present  him  : 
'   The  thanks  be  given  to  heaven. 

Duke.  Thrice-reverend  man, 
!    What  thanks  but  will  come  short  of  thy  desert  ? 
I   Or  bounty,  though  all  we  possess  were  given  thee, 
Can  pay  thy  merit?  I  will  have  thy  statue 
Set  up  in  brass. 

Vice.  Thy  name  made  the  sweet  subject 
Of  our  best  poems;  thy  unequall'd  cures 
Recorded  to  posterity. 

Paul.  Such  false  glories 

(Though  the  desire  of  fame  be  the  last  weakness 
Wise  men  put  oft'*)  are  not  the  marks  I  shoot  at : 
But,  if  I  have  done  any  thing  that  may  challenge 
Your  favours,  mighty  princes,  my  request  is, 
That  for  the  good  of  such  as  shall  succeed  me, 
A  college  for  physicians  may  be 
With  care  and  cost  erected,  in  which  no  man 
May  be  admitted  to  a  fellowship, 
But  such  as  by  their  vigilant  studies  shall 
Deserve  a  place  ihere;  this  magnificence, 
Posterity  shall  thank  you  for. 

Vice.  Rest  assured, 

In  this,  or  any  boon  you  please  to  ask, 
You  shall  have  no  repulse. 

Paul.  My  humblest  service 
Shall  ne'er  be  wanting.     Now,  if  you  so  please, 
I'll  fetch  my  princely  patient,  and  present  him. 

Duke.  Do  ;  and  imagine  iti  what  I  may  serve  you, 
And,  by  my  honour,  with  a  willing  hand 
I  will  subscribe  to't.  [Exit  Paulo. 

Enter  PEnno,  ALMIRA,  LEONORA,  ANTONIO,  CUCULO, 
BORACHIA,  and  Guard. 

Cue.  Make  way  there. 

Vice.  My  daughter  ! 

How's  this  !  a  slave  crowh'd  with  a  civic  garland*. 
The  mystery  of  this  ? 

Pedro.  It  will  deserve 
Your  hearing  and  attention  :  such  a  truth 
Needs  not  rhetorical  flourishes,  and  therefore 
With  all  the  brevity  and  plainness  that 
I  can,  I  will  deliver  it.     If  the  old  Romans, 
When  of  most  power  and  wisdom  did  decree 
A  wreath  like  this  to  any  common  soldier 
That  saved  a  citizen's  life,  the  bravery 

•  Though  the  desire  of  fame  be  the  last  weakness 
Wise  men  put  nff).  ]  So  Milton  beautifully  calls  fame, 
"  That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds:"  a  thought  for  which 
he,  as  well  as  Massinger,  was  probably  indebted  to  Tacitus: 
Quando  etiam  sapientibus  cupido  glories  nnvissima  exui- 
tur. — Hist.  11.  6.  Or  rather  to  Simpliciiis:  Ato  (cm 
fa%aros  Xtyerai  TOJV  TraSuiv  %irwv  i'i  (f>t\odo*ia, 
Stori  rwv  aXXuiv  iroXXctKic,  Si  avrr\v  a-!rolvo^if.Vtiiv 
avrrj  7rpo£i(T;££rai  ri\  \l/vicn. — Comm,  ad  Epict.  xlviii 


SCENE  IV.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


463 


And  valour  of  this  man  may  justly  challenge 
Triumphant  laurel.     This  last  night  a  crew 
Of  pirates  brake  in  signior  Cuculo's  house, 
With  violent  rudeness  seizing  on  my  sister, 
And  my  fair  mistress  ;  both  were  in  their  power, 
And  ready  to  be  forced  hence,  when  this  man 
Unarm'd  came  to  their  rescue,  but  his  courage 
Soon  furnish 'd  him  with  weapons  ;  in  a  word, 
The  lives  and  liberties  of  these  sweet  ladies 
You  owe  him  for  :   the  rovers  are  in  hold, 
And  ready,  when  you  please,  for  punishment. 

Vice.  As  an  induction  of  more  to  come, 
Receive  this  favour. 

Duke.  With  myself,  my  son 

Shall  pay  his  real  thanks.     He  comes  ;  observe  now 
Their  amorous  meeting. 

Re-enter  PAULO  uith  CARDENES. 

Car.  I  am  glad  you  are  well,  lady. 

Aim.  I  grieve  not  your  recovery. 

Vice.  So  coldly ! 

Duke.  Why  fall  you  off? 

Car.  To  shun  captivity,  sir, 
I  was  too  long  a  slave,  I'll  now  be  free. 

Aim.  'Tis  my  desire  you  should.     Sir,  my  affec- 
tion 

To  him  was  but  a  trifle,  which  I  play'd  with 
In  the  childhood   of  my  love  j  which  now,   grown 

older, 
I  cannot  like  of. 

Vice.  Strange  inconstancy  ! 

Car.  'Tis  judgment,  sir,  in  me,  or  a  true  debt 
Tender'd  to  justice,  rather.     My  first  life, 
Louden  with  all  the  follies  of  a  man, 
Or  what  could  take  addition  from  a  woman, 
Was  by  my  headstrong  passions,  which  o'er-ruled 
My  understanding,  forfeited  to  death  : 
But  this  new  being,  this  my  second  life, 
Begun  in  serious  contemplation  of 
What  best  becomes  a  perfect  man,  shall  never 
Sink  under  such  weak  frailties. 

Duke.  Most  unlook'd  for  ! 

Paul.  It  does  transcend  all  wonders. 

Car.  'Tis  a  blessing 

I  owe  your  wisdom,  which  I'll  not  abuse  : 
But  if  you  envy  your  own  gift,  and  will 
Make  me  that  wretched  creature  which  I  was, 
You  then  again  shall  see  me  passionate, 
A  lover  of  poor  trifles,  confident 
In  man's  deceiving  strength,  or  falser  fortune  ; 
Jealous,  revengeful,  in  unjust  things  daring, 
Injurious,  quarrelsome,  stored  with  all  diseases 
The  beastly  part  of  man  infects  his  soul  with, 
And  to  remember  what's  the  worst,  once  more 
To  love  a  woman  :  bnt  till  that  time  never.      [Exit. 
Vice.  Stand  you  affected  so  to  men,  Almira? 

Aim.  No,  sir  ;  if  so,  I  could  not  well  discharge 
"What  I  stand  bound  to  pay  you,  and  to  nature. 
Though  prince  Martino  does  profess  a  hate 
To  womankind,  'twere  a  poor  world  for  women, 
Were  there  no  other  choice,  or  all  should  follow 
The  example  of  this  new  Hippolitus  : 
There  are  men,  sir,  that  can  love,  and  have  loved 

truly ; 

Nor  am  I  desperate  but  I  may  deserve 
One  that  both  can  and  will  so. 

Vice.  My  allowance 

Shall  rank  with  your  good  liking,  stili  provided 
Your  choice  be  worthy. 


Aim.  In  it  I  have  used 

The  judgment  of  my  mind,  and  that  made  clearer 
Wiih  calling  oit  to  henven  it  mighl  be  so. 
I  have  not  sought  a  living  comfort  from 
The  reverend  ashes  of  old  ancestors  ; 
Nor  given  myself  to  the  mere  mime  and  titles 
Of  such  a  man,  that,  being  himself  nothing, 
Derives  his  substance  from  his  grandsire's  tomb  : 
For  wealth,  it  is  beneath  my  birth  to  think  on't. 
Since  that  must  wait  upon  me,  being  your  daughter 
No,  sir,  the  man  1  love,  though  he  wants  all 
The  setting  forth  of  fortune,  gloss  and  git-utness, 
Has  in  himself  such  true  and  real  goodness, 
His  parts  so  far  above  his  low  condition, 
That  he  will  prove  an  ornament,  not  a  blemish, 
Both  to  your  name  and  family. 

Pedro    What  strange  creature 
Hath  she  found  out  1 

Leon.  I  dare  not  guess. 

A  'm.  To  hold  you 

No  longer  in  suspense,  this  matchless  man, 
That  saved  mv  life  and  honour,  is  my  husband, 
Whom  I  will  serve  with  duty. 

Bora.   My  son  slave  ! 

Vice.  Have  you  \our  wits  ? 

Bora.  I'll  not  part  with  him  so. 

Cite.   This  I  foresaw  too. 

Vice.  Do  not  jest  thyself 
Into  the  danger  of  a  father's  anger. 

Aim.  J«st.  sir !  by  all  my  hope  of  comfort  in  him, 
I  am  most  serious.     Good  sir,  look  upon  him  ; 
i    But  let  it  be  with  my  eyes,  and  the  care 
You  should  owe  to  your  daughter's  life  and  safety 
Of  which,  without  him,  she's  incapable, 
And  you'll  approve  him  worthy. 

Vice.  O  thou  shame 

Of  women  !  thy  sad  father's  curse  and  scandal ! 
With    what   an  impious    violence  thou   tak'st  from 

him 
His  few  short  hours  of  breathing  ! 

Paul.  Do  not  add,  sir, 
Weight  to  your  sorrow  in  the  ill-bearing  of  it. 

Vice.  From  whom,  degenerate  monster,  flow  these 

low 

And  base  affections  in  thee  ?  what  strange  philtres 
Hast  thou  received  1  what  witch  with  damned  spella 
Deprived  thee  of  thy  reason'!     Look  on  me, 
Since  thou  art  lost  unto  thyself,  and  learn, 
From  what  I  suffer  for  thee,  what  strange  tortures 
Thou  dost  prepare  thyself. 

Duke.  Good  sir,  take  comfort ; 
The  counsel  you  bestow'd  on  me,  make  use  of. 

Paul.   This  villain    (for  such   practices    in  that 

nation 

Are  very  frequent),  it  may  be,  hath  forced, 
By  cunning  potions,  and  by  sorcerous  charms, 
This  frenzy  in  her. 

Vice.  Sever  them. 

Aim.  I  grow  to  him. 

Vice.  Carry  the  slave  to  torture,  and  wrest  from 

him, 

By  the  most  cruel  means,  a  free  confession 
Of  his  impostures. 

Aim.  I  will  follow  him, 
And  with  him  take  the  rack. 

Bora.  No  :  hear  me  speak, 
I  can  speak  wisely  :  hurt  not  my  son  slave, 
But  rack  or  hang  my  husband,  and  I  care  nat  j 
For  I'll  be  bound  body  to  body  with  him, 
|   He's  very  honest,  that's  his  fault. 


464 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[AcrV. 


Vice.  Take  hence 
This  drunken  beast. 

Bora.  Drunk  !  am  I  drunk  ?  bear  witness. 

Cue.  She  is  indeed  disteraper'd. 

Vice.  Hang  them  both, 
If  e'er  more  they  come  near  the  court. 

Cue.  Good  sir, 

You  can  recover  dead  men;  can  you  cure 
A  living  drunkenness  ? 

Paul.   'Tis  the  harder  task  : 
Go  home  with  her,  I'll  send  you  something  that 
Shall  once  again  bring  her  to  better  temper, 
Or  make  her  sleep  for  ever. 

Cue.  Which  you  please,  sir. 

[Exeunt  Ciiculo  and  Borachia. 

Vice.  Why  linger  you  ?  rack  him  first,  and  after 

break  him 
Upon  the  wheel. 

Pedro.  Sir,  this  is  more  than  justice. 

Ant.  Is't  death  in  Sicily  to  be  beloved 
Of  u  fair  lady  ? 

Leon.  Though  he  be  a  slave, 
Remember  yet  he  is  a  man. 

Vice.  I  am  deaf 
To  all  persuasions  : — drag  him  hence. 

[The  Guard  carry  off  Antonio. 

Aim.  Do,  tyrant, 

No  more  a  father,  feast  thy  cruelty 
Upon  thy  daughter  ;  but  hell's  plagues  fall  on  me, 
If  I  inflict  not  on  myself  whatever 
He  can  endure  for  me. 

Vice.  Will  none  restrain  her? 

Aim.  Death  hath  a  thousand  doors  to  let  out  life, 
I  shall  find  one.     If  Portia's  burning  coals, 
The  knife  of  Lucrece,  Cleopatra's  aspics, 
Famine,  deep  waters,  have  the  power  to  free  me 
From  a  loath'd  life,  I'll  not  an  hour  outlive  him. 

Pedro.  Sister  ! 

Leon.  Dear  cousin  ! 

[_E.iit  A Imira,  followed  by  Pedro  and  Leon. 

Vice.  Let  her  perish. 

Paul.  Hear  me : 

The  effects  of  violent  love  are  desperate, 
And  therefore  in  the  execution  of 
The  slave  be  not  too  sudden.     I  was  present 
When  he  was  bought,  and  at  that  time  myself 
Made  purchase  of  another  ;  he  that  sold  them 
Said  that  they  were  companions  of  one  country  ; 
Something  may  rise  from  this  to  ease  your  sorrows. 
By  circumstance  I'll  learn  what's  his  condition ; 
In  the  mean  time  use  all  fair  and  gentle  means 
To  pacify  the  lady. 

Vice.  I'll  endeavour, 

As  far  as  grief  and  anger  will  give  leave, 
To  do  as  you  direct  me. 

Duke.  Ill  assist 


you. 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.—A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  PEDHO  and  Keeper. 

Pedro.  Hath  he  been  visited  already  1 

Keep.  Yes,  §ir, 

iJke  one  of  better  fortune  ;  and  to  increase 
My  wonder  of  it,  such  as  repair  to  him, 
In  their  behaviour,  rather  appear 
Servants,  than  friends  to  comfort  him. 

Pedro.  Go  fetch  him.  [Exit  Keeper. 

I  am  boun  J  in  jrmtitude  to  do  more  than  wish 
The  life  and  satiety  of  a  man  that  hath 
So  well  deserved  me. 


Re-enter  Keeper  with  ANTONIO  in  his  former  dress,  and 
Servant. 

Keep.  Here  he  is,  my  lord. 

Pedro.  Who's  here?  thou  art  no  conjuror  to  raise 
A  spirit  in  the  best  shape  man  e'er  appear'd  in, 
My  friend,  the  prince  of  'Parent!  doubts  forsake  me, 
I  must  and  will  embrace  him. 

Ant    Pedro  holds 

One  that  loves  life  for  nothing,  but  to  live 
To  do  him  service. 

Pedro.  You  are  he,  most  certain. 
Heaven  ever  make  me  thankful  for  this  bounty  ! 
Run  to  the  viceroy,  let  him  know  this  rarity. 

[Lxit  Keeper. 

But  how  came  you  here  thus? — Yet,  since  I  have  you, 
Is't  not  enough  I  bless  the  prosperous  means 
That  brought  you  hither? 

Ant.  Dear  friend,  you  shall  know  all ; 
And  though  in  thankfulness  I  should  begin 
Where  you  deliver'd  me 

Pedro.  Pray  you  pass  that  over. 
That's  not  worth  the  relation. 

Ant.  You  confirm 

True  friends  love  to  do  courtesies,  not  to  hear  them. 
But  I'll  obey  you.     In  our  tedious  passage 
Towards  Malta — I  may  call  it  so,  for  hardly 
We  had  lost  the  ken  of  Sicily,  but  we  were 
Becalm'd  and  hull'd  so  up  and  down  twelve  hours  ; 
When  to  our  more  misfortunes,  we  descried 
Eight  well-mann'd  gallies  making  amain  for  us, 
Of  which  the  arch  Turkish  pirate,  cruel  Dragut, 
Was  admiral :   I'll  not  speak  what  I  did 
In  our  defence,  but  never  man  did  more 
Than  the  brave  captain  that  you  sent  forth  with  me  : 
All  would  not  do  ;  courage  oppress'd  with  number, 
We  were  boarded,  pillaged  to  the  skin,  and  after 
Twice  sold  for  slaves  ;    by  the  pirate  first,  and  after 
By  a  Maltese,  to  signior  Cuculo, 
Which  I  repent  not,  since  there  'twas  my  fortune 
To  be  to  you,  my  best  friend,  some  ways  useful — 
I  thought  to  cheer  you  up  with  this  short  story, 
But  you  grow  sad  on't. 

Pedro.  Have  I  not  just  cause, 
When  I  consider  I  could  be  so  stupid 
As  not  to  see  a  friend  through  all  disguises  ; 
Or  he  so  far  to  question  my  true  love, 
To  keep  himself  conceal'd  ? 

Ant.  'Twas  fit  to  do  so. 

And  not  to  grieve  you  with  the  knowledge  of 
What  then  1  was  ;  where  now  I  appear  to  you*, 
Your  sister  loving  me,  and  Martino  safe, 
Like  to  myself  and  birth. 

Pedro.  May  you  live  long  so  ! 
How  dost  thou,  honest  friend  (your  trustiest  ser- 
vant)? 

Give  me  thy  hand  : — I  now  can  guess  by  whom 
You  are  thus  furnish'd. 

Ant.  Troth  he  met  with  me 
As  I  was  sent  to  prison,  and  there  brought  me 
Such  things  as  I  had  use  of. 

•  What  then  I  was  ;  where  now  I  appear  to  you,]  Ten 
times,  in  the  course  of  this  very  play,  to  say  nothing  of  all 
the  rest,  where  occurs  in  the  sense  of  whereas ;  yet  Mr 
M.  Mason  profits  nothing  by  it.  He  alters,  and  intet potato* 
at  will,  and  fabricates  a  line,  which  can  only  be  matched  by 
thai  which  I  have  alieady  noticed. 

What  then  I  wai  ;  for  whereas  now  J  appfnr  to  you  f 
To  use  his  just  and  modest   reproof   to  the  i-diturs  of  Bean- 
inont  and  Fletcher:  "  The  mode  of exprrs-si'  n  is  so  common, 
lh.it  lam  turprised  that   the  gentlem  ti)  should  have  arrived 
41  the  last  volume  without  being  better acauainted  with  it!" 


SCW»K  VI.] 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


469 


Pedro.  Let's  to  court ; 
My  father  never  saw  a  man  so  welcome 
As  you'll  be  to  him. 

Ant,  May  it  prove  so,  friend  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI. — A  Room  in  the  Viceroy's  Palace. 
Enter  VICEROY,  DuksoftHtmvA,  C.ARDKNES,  PAUI.O, 
Captain,    ALMIKA,    LEONORA,    Waiting   Women, 
and  Attendants. 

Vice.  The  slave  changed  to  the  prince  of  Tarent, 
says  he  1 

Capt.  Yes,  sir,  and  I  the  captain  of  the  fort, 
Worthy  of  your  displeasure,  and  the  effect  oft, 
For  my  deceiving  of  that  trust  your  excellency 
Reposed  in  me. 

Paul.   Yet  since  all  hath  fallen  out 
Beyond  your  hopes,  let  me  become  a  suitor, 
And  a  prevailing  one,  to  get  his  pardon. 

Aim.  O,  dearest  Ltonora,  with  what  forehead 
Dare  I  look  on  him  now  ?  too  powerful  Love, 
The  best  strength  of  thy  uisconfined  empire 
Lies  in  weak  women's  hearts:  thouart  feign'd  blind, 
And  yet  we  borrow  our  best  sight  from  thee. 
Could  it  be  else,  the  person  still  the  same, 
Affection  over  me  such  power  should  have, 
To  make  me  scorn  a  prince,  and  lore  a  slave  1 

Car.  But  art  thou  sure  'tis  he? 

Capt.   .Most  certain,  sir. 

Cur.  Is  he  in  health,  strong,  vigorous,  and  as  able 
As  «  hen  he  left  me  dead? 

C«/>(.   ^  our  own  eyes,  sir, 
Shall  make  good  my  report. 

Cur.  I  am  glad  of  it, 

And  take  you  comfort  in  it,  sir,  there's  hope, 
Fair  hope  left  for  me,  to  repair  mine  honour. 

Duke.   What's  that? 

Car.  L  will  do  something   that  shall   speak   me 
Messina's  son. 

Duke.  I  like  not  this  :  one  word,  sir 

Viet.  We'll  prevent  it. 
Nay,  look  up  my  Almira;  now  I  approve 
Thy  happy  choice  ;  I  have  forgot  my  anger  ; 
I  freelv  do  forgive  thee. 

Aim.  May  1  find 

Such  easiness  in  the  wrong'd  prince  of  Tarent! 
I  then  were  happy. 

Leon.  Rest  assured  you  shall. 

Enter  ANTONIO,  PEDRO,  and  Servant. 

Vice.  We  all  with   open  arms  haste  to  embrace 
you. 

Dnke.  Welcome,  most  welcome  ! 

Car.  Stay. 

Duke    'Twas  this  I  fear'd. 

Car.  Sir,  'tis  best  known  to  you,  on  what  strict 

terms 

The  reputation  of  men's  fame  and  honours 
Depends  in  this  so  punctual  age,  in  which 
A  word  that  may  receive  a  harsh  construction 
Is  answer'd  and  defended  by  the  sword  : 
And  you,  that  know  so  much,  will,  I  presume, 
Be  sensibly  tender  of  another's  credit, 
As  you  would  guard  your  own. 

Ant.  I  were  unjust  else. 

Cor.  I  have  received  from  your  hands  wounds 

and  deep  ones, 

Mv  honour  in  the  general  report 
Tainted  and  soil'd,  for  which  I  will  demand 
This  satisfaction — that  you  would  forgive 


My  contumelious  words  and  blow,  my  rash 
And  unadvised  wildness  first  threw  on  you. 
Thus  1  would  teacli  the  world  a  better  way, 
For  the  recovery  of  a  wounded  honour, 
Than  with  a  savage  fury,  not  true  courage, 
Still  to  run  headlong  on. 

Ant.  Can  this  be  serious? 

Car.  I'll  add  this,  he  that  does  wrong,  not  alone 
Draws,  but  makes  sharp,  his  enemy's  sword  against 
His  own  life  and  his  honour.     I  have  paid  for't ; 
And  wish    that  they  who  dare  most,  would  learn 

from  me. 
Not  to  maintain  a  wrong,  but  to  repent  it. 

Paul    Why,  this  is  like  yourself. 

Car.  For  further  proof, 
Here,  sir,  with  all  my  interest,  I  give  up 
This  lady  to  you. 

Vice.  Which  I  make  more  strong 
With  my  free  grant. 

Aim.  I  bring  mine  own  consent, 
Which  will  not  weaken  it. 

All.  All  joy  confirm  it ! 

Ant.  Your  unexpected  courtesies  amaze  me, 
Which  I  will  study  with  all  love  and  service 
To  appear  worthy  of. 

Paul.  Pray  you,  understand,  sir, 
There  are  a  pair  of  suitors  more,  that  gladly 
Would   hear   from   you   as   much   as    the    pleased 

viceroy 
Hath  said  unto  the  prince  of  Tarent. 

Duke.  Take  her, 

Her  dowry  shall  be  answerable  to 
Her  birth  and  your  desert. 

Pedro.  You  make  both  happy. 

Ant.  One   only   suit   remains ;    that  you   would 

please 

To  take  again  into  your  highness'  favour 
This  honest  captain :  let  him  have  your  grace  ; 
What's  due  to  his  much  merit,  shall  from  me 
Meet  liberal  rewards. 

Vice.  Have  your  desire. 

Ant.  Now  may  all  here   that  love,  as    they  are 

friends 
To  our  good  fortunes,  find  like  prosperous  ends. 

[Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 

CUSTOM,  and  that  a  law  we  must  obey, 

In  the  way  of  epilogue  bids  me  something  say, 

Howe'er  to  little  purpose,  since  we  know, 

If  you  are  pleased,  unbegg'd  you  will  bestow 

A  gentle  censure  :  on  the  other  side, 

If  that  this  play  deserve  to  be  decried 

In  your  opinions,  all  that  I  can  say 

Will  never  turn  the  stream  the  other  way. 

Your  gracious  smiles  will  render  us  secure ; 

Your  frowns  without  despair  we  must  endure*. 

*  This  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable  productions  of  Massin- 
gtr.  However  extravagant  the  principal  event  may  appear, 
the  manner  in  which  it  is  conducted  is  sullicieiitly  regular. 
With  such  occasional  interruptions  as  must  b  expected  and 
pardoned  in  all  these  dramas  (for  the  interludes  will  have 
their  admittance),  it  maintains  its  predominance,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  the  conclusion  which  is  provided  for  it  at  the  com- 
mencement. The  intermediate  parts  are  a  mixture  of 
attecling  seriousness, strong,  though  frequently  coai>e  humour, 
and  elegant  tenderness.  The  reader  must  have  particularly 
remarked  these  qualities  in  the  opening  of  the  sttond  act. 
in  the  sale  of  the  slaves,  and  the  charming,  but  too  short, 
scene  in  which  Leonora  endeavours  to  soothe  the  agitation! 
of  Almira.  Act  HI.  sc.  iv.  The  last  of  these  is  a  happy 


456 


A  VERY  WOMAN. 


[AcrV- 


fpecimrn  of  genuine  freling.  supporting  itself  on  the  jii«test 
principle;  .11, d  it  ..  i  I  he  tlKtirnli  to  produce  from  any  of  our 
poets  a  piss.me  uii'ten  with  iii-m-  be.>uty  of  expression, 
or  more  d.li-Mcy  diid  elevation  of  thought.  The  scene  first 
intniiuied  his  a  se  n  i  connexion  with  tlii-;  and  it  is  ho- 
nourable !••  the  ili-ci-rnment  of  Ma-singer  that  lie  lias  repre- 
senlfil  (he  ferliii'.-s  of  fneiidship  with  equ  il  n  nth  and  variety 
in  the  lender  *  .!i,-im<le  .it  Leonora,  and  the  in  ignaniinous 
|>ropo<al  of  I'edr.i. 

Eveiy  re  ,dei  must  feel  the  peculiar  charms  of  the  scene 
in  wiiirli  I)  'n  .h.li.i  n  I  itr-  10  Al  iiira  his  re-d  history,  under 
Hie  a|ipe,i:an  e  i  f  HI. oilier  person.  Her  strong  curiosity, 
prompted  In  h«r  love;  the  growing  conviction  of  her  own 
misconduct  ;  ;iud  the  ertect  of  his  discovery,  are  represented 
in  me  liveliest  in. inner;  and  tin-  is  the  more  remarkable,  ai 
]Mas-in-.>er  is  n..t  ;;eiier  .l!\  htpp>  in  the  management  of  ar- 
liliri.il  ineaiiiugj  -md  double  situations 

The  characters  an-  .studi<  u-ly  eontrasted,  and  throw  vivid 
lithts  on  each  other  by  iheir  oppii-ing  qualities.  The  Dignity 
and  moderation  o  the  virerny  (till  he  loses  his  own  con- 
itancv  in  lii.<  »ii|ipo-ed  misfortunes),  show,  with  increased 
effect ;  the  im.idvi-ed  iinpain  nee  of  the-  uke  :  the  courageous 
caLniies.-.  of  Dun  John  heightens  the  oti'ence  of  the  insnltins; 
temper  ot  Cardene-,— at.d  lln-  vehemence  of  Almira  becomes 
more  alarming  thron«h  the  very  checks  ottered  to  it  by  the 
prudence  of  Leonora.  There  is  a  further,  contrivance  in  the 
violence  <  f  spirit  \\lii  li  mark.*  Cardenes  and  Almira:  that  of 
the  former,  \\hilt:  it  indisposes  us  towards  him,  makei  him 


more  liable  to  the  strong  impression  which  ends  in  the  aban 
don  in  ei, t  of  his  passion;  and  thus  a  double  facility  is  created 
for  the  success  of  Don  John.  Almiia,  too,  prepares  for  her 
own  change  of  mind,  through  the  very  intemperance  with, 
which  she  declares  her  fixed  resolution.  This  is  one  of  the 
familiar  expedient*  of  Massinger.  Constancy  does  not  long 
dwell  with  the  outrageous  assertion  of  it,  and  the.  practised 
reader  knows,  from  the  very  first  act,  that  Cardenes,  thui 
violently  favoured  ami  indiscreetly  proclaimed,  is  certainly 
to  be  abandoned. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  maxim  upon  which  this  Play  is 
fo-nded,  that  women  have  no  reason  for  their  "  love  or 
hate."  If  its  severity  is  complained  of,  let  it  be  remembered 
that  Massinger  exposes,  with  much  more  frequency,  the 
wrong  conduct  of  the  men,  and  that  he  seems  to  take  a  plea- 
sure in  punishing  them  for  their  unreasonable  suspicions  and 
jealousies.  This  has  been  already  observed  in  The  Bond- 
man. Notwithstanding  this  iliit'ervncc  in  II  eir  object,  the 
two  Plays  have  several  points  of  resemblance.  The  reader 
will  remember  Cleora's  resolution  to  marry  a  supposed  slave 
— the  consternation  of  her  friends — the  reservation  of  the 
true  character  of  Pisander,  and  the  eticct  of  its  final  disclo- 
sure. The  peculiarity  of  the  present  Play,  is  tl.e  double  ap- 
pearance of  Don  John,  and  Almira's  whimsical  rejection 
and  unconscious  acceptance  of  the  same  person  ;  and  this  is 
contrived  with  equal  skill  and  novelty  of  ertect. 

DB.  IREI.ANU 


THE   BASHFUL    LOYER. 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER.]  Tbis  Tragi-comedy  was  licensed  by  the  Blaster  of  the  Revels,  May  9th,  1636 
It  is  the  last  of  Massinger's  pieces  which  are  come  down  to  us,  though  he  continued  to  write  for  the  stage 
to  the  period  of  his  death,  which  happened  about  four  years  after  the  date  of  the  present  Play. 

The  plot  is  wild  but  pleasing.  It  probably  originated  from  some  forgotten  collection  of  Italian  tales  ; 
where  the  events  bore  nearly  the  same  proportion  to  the  true  history  of  that  country,  as  the  circumstances 
recorded  by  the  supposititious  Dares  Phrygius  and  Dictys  Cretensis  bear  to  what  actually  took  place  in  the 
wars  of  Troy. 

The  Bash/ul  Liner  was  extremely  well  received  at  its  first  nppearance :  it  continued  to  be  a  favourite, 
and  was  "  often  acted,"  the  old  copy  says,  "  by  his  late  Majesty's  servants,  with  great  applause."  It  was 
performed  at  Blackfriars. 

There  is  but  one  edition  of  this  Play,  which,  with  The  Guardian  and  Bashful  Loier,  was  printed  in 
octavo,  by  H.  Moselv,  1655.  In  the  notes  to  The  Guardian,  it  is  spoken  of  as  a  quarto:  this  is  an  oversight 
occasioned  by  the  habitual  use  of  the  word  in  the  preceding  pages. 


PROLOGUE. 

THIS  from  our  author,  far  from  all  offence 
To  abler  writers,  or  the  audience 
Met  here  to  judge  his  poem.     He,  by  me, 
Presents  his  service,  with  such  modesty 
As  well  becomes  bis  weakness.     'Tis  no  crime, 
He  hopes,  as  we  do,  in  this  curious  time, 
To  be  a  little  diffident,  when  we  are 
To  please  so  many  with  one  bill  of  fare. 
Let  others,  building  on  their  merit,  say 
You're  in  the  wrong,  if  you  move  not  that 
way 


Which  they  prescribe  you ;  as  you  were  bound  to 

learn 

Their  maxims,  but  incapable  to  discern 
'Twixt  truth  and  falsehood.     Our's  had  rather  be 
Censured  by  some  for  too  much  obsequy, 
Than  tax'd  of  self-opinion.     If  he  hear 
That  his  endeavours  thrived,  and  did  appear 
Worthy  your  view  (though  made  so  by  your  grace, 
With  some  desert),  he  in  another  place 
Will  thankfully  report,  one  leaf  of  bays 
Truly  conferr'd  upon  this  work,  will  "raise 
More  pleasure  in  him,  you  the  givers  free,     ' 
Than  garlands  ravish 'd  from  the  virgin  tree. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONJS. 


GOXZAGA,  duke  of  Mantua. 

I.OKENZO,  duke  of  Tuscany. 

I  BERTI.  prince  of  Parma. 

FAUNEZE,  cmisin  to  Gonzaga. 

ALONZO,  the  ambassador,  nephew  to  Lorenzo. 

MANFIIOY,  a  lord  of  Mantua. 

OCTAVIO,  fonnei  ly  general  to  Gonzaga,  but  now  in  exile. 

GOTHRIO,  his  servant, 

GALEAZZO,  a  Milanese  prince,  disguised  under  the  name 

of  Honensio. 
Jicuo,  his  attendant. 


Florentine  Officer*. 


Pis  AND, 
MARTINO, 

Captains. 

Milanese  Ambauador. 

Doctor. 

MATILDA,  daughter  to  Gonzaga. 

BEATRICE,  her  waiting  u-oman. 

MARIA,  daughter  to  Octavio,  disguised  as  a  page,  and 

called  Ascanio. 
Waiting  Women. 

Captains,  Soldiers,  Guard,  Attendants,  Page,  fa. 


SCENE,  part/y  In  Mantua,  and  partly  in  the  duchy. 


468 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVE II. 


LAcr  I 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— Mantua.     A  Space  before  the  Palace. 
Enter  HORTENSIO  and  JULIO. 

Jul.  I  dare  not  cross  you,  sir,  but  I  would  gladly 
(Provided  you  allow  it)  render  you 
My  personal  attendance. 

Hort.  You  shall  better 
Discharge  the  duty  of  an  hones.t  servant, 
In  following  my  instructions,  which  you  have 
Received  already,  than  in  questioning 
What  my  intents  are,  or  upon  what  motives 
My  stay's  resolved  in  Mantua  :  believe  me, 
That  servant  overdoes,  that's  too  officious  ; 
And,  in  presuming;  to  direct  your  master, 
You  argue  him  of  weakness,  and  yourself 
Of  arrogance  and  impertinence. 

Jul.  I  have  done,  sir  ; 
But  what  my  ends  are 

Hort.  Honest  ones,  I  know  it. 
I  have  my  bills  of  exchange,  and  all  provisions 
Entrusted  to  you  ;  you  have  shown  yourself 
Just  and  discreet,  what  would  you  more  ?  and  yet, 
To  satisfy  in  some  part  your  curious  care, 
Hear  this,  and  leave  me :   I  desire  to  be 
Obscured  ;  and,  as  I  have  demean'd  myself 
These  six  months  past  in  Mantua,  I'll  continue 
Unnoted  and  unknown,  and,  at  the  best, 
Appear  no  more  than  a  gentleman,  and  a  stranger 
That  travels  for  his  pleasure. 

Jul.  With  your  pardon. 
This  hardly  will  hold  weight,  though  I  should  swear   i 

it, 
With  your  noble  friends  and  brother. 

Hort.  You  may  tell  them. 
Since  you  will  be  my  tutor,  there's  a  rumour, 
Almost  cried  up  into  a  certainty, 
Of  wars  with  Florence,  and  that  I'm  determined 
To  see  the  service  :   whatever  I  went  forth, 
Heaven  prospering  my  intents,  I  would  come  home 
A  soldier,  and  a  good  one. 

Jul.  Should  you  get 

A  captain's  place,  nay,  colonel's,  'twould  add  little 
To  what  you  are  ;  few  of  your  rank  will  follow 
That  dangerous  profession. 

Hort.  'Tis  the  noblest, 
And  monarchs  honour'd  in  it :  but  no  more, 
On  my  displeasure. 

[Exit. 

Jul.     Saints  and  angels  guard  you  ! 
Hort.  A  war,  indeed,  is  threatened,  nay,  expected, 
From  Florence  ;  but  it  is  'gainst  me  already 
Proclaim'd  in  Mantua  ;  I  find  it  here, 
No  foreign,  but  intestine  war  :  I  have 
Defied  myself*,  in  giving  up  my  reason. 


1  have 


Defkd  myself,  &r.]  So  the  old  copy :  for  defied,  the  last 
editor  reads  destroyed  myself.  It  is  evident  that  he  did  not 
enter  into  the  seirse  of  his  author,  who  is  describing  a  man 
in  a  state  of  warfare  with  himself.  Leading  a  man  into 
captivity  after  he  it  destroyed,  is  not  precisely  the  way  in 
which  Massinger  usually  proceeds,  whatever  may  be  thought 
of  it  by  Mr.  M.  Mason. 


A  slave  to  passion,  and  am  led  captive 
Before  the  battle's  fought :   I  fainted,  when 
I  only  saw  mine  enemy,  and  yielded, 
Before  that  I  was  charged  ;  and,  though  defeated, 
I  dare  not  sue  for  mercy.     Like  Is  ion, 
I  look  on  Juno,  and  feel  my  heart  turn  cinders 
With  an  invisible  fire  ;  and  yet,  should  she 
Deign  to  appear  clothed  in  a  various  cloud, 
The  majesty  of  the  substance  is  so  sacred, 
I  durst  not  clasp  the  shadow.     I  behold  her 
With  adoration,  feast  my  eye,  while  all 
My  other  senses  starve  ,  and,  oft  frequenting 
The   place  which  she  makes  happy  with  her  pre- 
sence, 

I  never  yet  had  power  with  tongue  or  pen 
To  move  her  to  compassion,  or  make  known 
What  'lis  I  languish  for;  yet  I  must  gaze  still, 
Though  it  increase  my  flame  : — however,  I 
Much  more  than  fear  I  am  observed,  and  censured 
For  bold  intrusion.  [Walks  by. 


Enter  BEATRICE  and  ASCANIO. 

Beat.  Know  you,  boy,  that  gentleman? 

Asc.  Who  ?  monsieur  melancholy  ?  hath  not  your 

honour 
Mark'd  him  before? 

Bent.  I  have  seen  him  often  wait 
About  the  princess'  lodgings,  but  ne'er  guess'd 
What  his  designs  were. 

Asc.  No  !  what  a  sigh  hebreath'd  now  ! 
Many  such  will  blow  up   the  roof:  on  my  small 

credit 
There's  gunpowder  in  them. 

Beat.  How,  crack  !  gunpowder? 
He's  flesh  and  blood,  and  devils  only  carry 
Such  roaring  stuff' about  them  :  you  cannot  prove 
He  is  or  spirit  or  conjuror. 

Asc.  That  I  grant, 

But  he's  a  lover,  and  that's  as  bad  ;  their  sighs 
Are  like  petnrds,  and  blow  all  up. 

Beat.  A  lover  ! 

I  have  been  in  love  myself,  but  never  found  yet 
That  it  could  work  such  strange  effects. 

Asc.  True,  madam, 

In   women  it  cannot ;  for  when  they  miss  the  en- 
joying 

Of  their  full  wishes,  all  their  sighs  and  heigh-hos, 
At  the  worst,  breed  tympanies,  and  these  are  cured 

too 

With  a  kiss  or  two  of  their  saint,  when  he  appears 
Between  a  pair  of  sheets  :  but  with  us  men 
The  case  is  otherwise. 

Beat.  You  will  be  breech 'd,  boy, 
For    your    physical  maxims.  —  But  how   are    you 

assured  ^ 

He  is  a  lover? 

Asc.  Who, 'I  ?    I  know  with  whom  too, 
But  that  is  to  be  whisper'd.  [Whispen. 

Beat.  How     the  princess  ! 
The  unparallel'd  Matilda!  some  proof  of  it ; 
1  i.  ]  i  \  for  my  intelligence. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


469 


Ate.  Let  me  kiss 

Your  honour's  liand  ;  'twas  ever  fair,  but  now 
Beyond  comparison. 

Beat.  1  guess  the  reason. 
A  giving  hand  is  still  fair  to  the  receiver. 

Asc.  Your  ladyship's  in  the  right ;  but  to  the  pur- 
pose. 

He  is  my  client,  and  pays  his  fees  as  duly 
As  ever  usurer  did  in  a  bad  cause 
To  his  man  of  law  ;  and  yet  I  get,  and  lake  them 
Both  easily  and  honestly  :  all  the  service 
I  do  him,  is,  to  give  him  notice  when 
And  where  the  princess  will  appear  ,  and  that 
I  hope's  no  treason.     If  you  miss  him,  when 
She  goes  to  the  vesper  or  the  matins,  hang  me ; 
Or  when  she  takes  the  air,  be  sure  to  find  him 
Iviear  her  coach,  at  her  going  forth,  or  coming  back  : 
But  if  she  walk,  he's  ravish'd.     I  have  seen  him 
Smell  out  her  footing  like  a  lime-hound,  and  nose  it* 
From  all  the  rest  of  her  train. 

Beat.  Yet  1  ne'er  saw  him 
Present  her  a  petition. 

Asc.  Nor  e'er  shall : 
He  only  sees  her,  sighs,  and  sacrifices 
A  tear  or  two — then  vanishes. 

Beat.  'Tis  most  strange  : 

What  a  sail  aspect  he  wears  !    but  I'll  make  use  oft. 
The  princess  is  much  troubled  with  the  threats 
That  come  from  Florence  ;  1  will  bring  her  to  him, 
The  novelty  may  afford  her  sport,  and  help 
To  purge  deep  melancholy.      Boy,  can  you  stay 
Your  client  here  for  the  third  part  of  an  hour  'i 
I  have  some  ends  in't. 

Asc.  Stay  him,  madam  !  fear  not: 
The  present  receipt  of  a  round  sum  of  crowns, 
And  that  will  draw  most  gallants  from  their  prayers, 
Cannot  drag  him  from  me. 

Beat.  See  you  do.  [Eii*. 

Aic.  Ne'er  doubt  me. 
I'll  put  him  out  of  hisdream.  Good  morrow,  signior. 

hart.  My  liitle  friend,  good  morrow.     Hath  the 

princess 
Slept  well  to-night  1 

Asc.  I  hear  not  from  her  women 
One  murmur  to  the  contrary. 

Hart.  Heaven  be  praised  for't! 
Does  she  go  to  church  this  morning? 

Asc.  Troth,  1  know  not ; 
I  keep  no  key  of  her  devotion,  signior. 

Hort.  Goes  she  abroad  ?  pray  tell  me. 

Asc.  Tis  thought  rather 
She  is  resolved  to  keep  her  chamber. 

Wort.  Ah  me  ! 

Asc.  Why  do  you  sigh?  if  that  you  have  a  busi- 
ness 

To  be  dispatch'd  in  court,  show  ready  money, 
You  shall  find  those  that  will  prefer  it  for  you. 

Hort.  Business  !  can  any  man  have  business  but 
To  see  her,  then  admire  her,  and  pray  for  her, 
She  being  composed  of  goodness?  for  myself, 
I  find  it  a  degree  of  happiness 
But  to  be  near  her,  and  I  think  I  pay 
A  strict  religious  vow,  when  I  behold  her ; 
And  that's  all  my  ambition. 

Asc.  I  believe  you  : 


and  nose  if.]    The  old  copy  reads 

knou-t  it.  I  have  little  doubt  but  that  the  former  was  Mas- 
linger's  word  ;  the  mistake  piobably  originated  at  the  press 
from  a  similarity  of  sound.  .,  o 


Yet,  she  being  absent,  you  may  spend  some  Lourf 
With  profit  and  delight  too.     A'fter  dinner, 
The  duke  gives  audience  to  a  rough  ambass 
Whom  yet  1  never  saw,  nor  heard  Ins  title, 
Kmploy'd  from  Florence  ;  I'll  help  you  to  a  place 
Where  v»u  shall  see  and  hear  all. 

Hort.   'Tis  not  worth 
My  observation. 

"j44C.  What  think  you  of 
An  excellent  comedy  to  he  presented 
For  his  entertainment  ?   he  that  penn'd  it  is 
The  poet  of  the  time,  and  all  the  ladies 
(I  mean  the  amorous  ami  learned  ones), 
Except  the  princess,  will  be  there  to  grace  it. 

Hort.   What's    ihat   to  me?    without   her  all  is 

nothing  ; 

The  light  that  shines  in  court  Cimmerian  darkness; 
1  will  to  bed  again,  and  there  contemplate 
On  her  perfections. 

Re-enter  BEATRICE  with  MATILDA,  and  tire  Waiting 
W  omen. 

Asc.  Stay,  sir,  see?  the  princess, 
Beyond  our  hopes. 

Hort,  'I  ake  tlr.it  : — as  Moors  salute 
The  rising  sun  with  joyful  superstition, 

I    1  could  fall  down  and  worship. O  my  heart ! 

I   Like  Phu  be  breaking  through  an  envious  cloud, 
:    Or  something  which  no  simile  can  express, 
She  shows  to  me  :  a  reverent  fear,  but  blended 
With  wonder  and  amazement,  does  possess  me  ; 
Now  glut  thyself,  my  famish'd  eve! 

Peat.   That's  he, 
An't  please  your  excellence. 

1  Worn.  Observe  his  posture, 
I    But  with  a  quarter-look. 

'2    Warn.   Your  eye  fix'd  on  him 
:    Will  breed  astonishment. 

Matit.  A  comely  gentleman  ! 
|   I  would  not  question  your  relation,  lady, 
Y'et  faintly  can  believe  it.     How  he  eyes  me. 
Will  he  not  speak  ? 

Beat.  Y'our  excellence  hath  deprived  him 
Of  speech  and  motion. 
Matil.  Tis  most  strange. 
Asc.  These  fits 
Are  usual  with  him. 

Matil.  Is  it  not,  Ascanio, 
A  personated  folly  ?  or  he  a  statue  *  ? 
If  it  be,  it  is  a  masterpiece  ;  for  man 
I  cannot  think  him. 


•  Matil.  Is  it  nnt,  Ascanio, 

A  personated  folly  ?  ur  he.  a  statue  ?]  So  the  old  copy  t 
the  modern  editors  read  — Or  is  he  a  statue?  An  interpo- 
lation neither  warranted  by  the  sense,  norilie  style  of  Mas- 
singer  and  his  cout-  mporaries.  But  this  iunorance  of  anciei.I 
phraseology  still  afflicts  Mr.  M.  Mason,  "in  The  Custom  oj 
the  Country,  Arnoldo  says : — 

"  And  I  forgot  to  like  her, 

And  ylad  I  was  deceived." 

Upon  which  he  observes  that  "  the  word  ylad  is  here  used 
as  a  verb,  and  means  rejoice!" — Commenti,  p.  52. 

Not  so  :  the  expression  is  elliptical;  And  1  am  glad,  &r., 
a  mode  of  writing  which  occurs  in  almost  every  page  of  our 
ancient  dramatists.  Thus: 

" I  lived 

Too  happy  in  my  holiday  trim  of  glory, 
And  courted  with  felicity." 

This  is  wrong,  say  the  commentators;  it  f  lion  Id  be— And 
sported  with  felicity.  Alas!  no:  it  is  perfectly  right;  and 
at  full,  and,  in  the  language  of  the  present  day,  is — And  wot 
courted  by  felicity.  1  note  this,  to  repress,  if  it  be  possible 
the  temerity  of  inexperience. 


THE  BASHFUL  F..OVF.R. 


[Acrl. 


Beat.  For  your  sport,  vouchsafe  him 
A  liule  conference. 

Mut'l.   In  compassion  rather  : 

For  should   lie  love  me   as  you  say  (though   hope- 
less), 

It  should  not  be  return'd  with  scorn  ;  that  were 
An  inhumanity,  which  mv  hirth  nor  honour 
Could  piivile-;e.  were  they  greater.    Now  I  perceive 
He  has  life  ini'l  mot  on  in  him  ;  to  wliom,  lady, 
Pays  he  that  duty  ? 

[Harteiifi'1,  b,<iting,  ojj'eri,  to  go  off. 

Kent.  Sans  doiibi,  to  yourself. 

Mutil.   And  whither  goes  he  now  ? 

A*c.   I  o  Ins  private  lodging, 
But  to  what  ei.d  i  know  not;  this  is  all 
I  ever  not<  d  i'i  him. 

Mutil.  (Ml  him  hack  : 
In  p-iv  1  stand  buiimi  to  counsel  him, 
Ilowe'er  1  am  denud,  though  1  were  willing, 
To  ease  his  sufferings. 

Asc.  Si»nn>r.  the  princess 
Coinniiinds  vou  to  attend  her. 

Hurt.   How  !  the  princess  ! 
Am  1  hetiay  d  ? 

Asc.  What  a  lump  of  fle.sh  is  this  ! 
You  lire  h-travM,  sir,  lo  a  hetier  fortune 
'\  han  \ou  durst  ever  hnpe  for.      What  a  Tantalus 
Do  you   make  yourself !  the  flying  fruit  stays  for 

you, 

And  t'  e  water  that  you  long'd  for,  rising  up 
A  hove  your  lip,  <!o  you  refuse  to  ia.ste  i1  ? 
JMove  faster,  sluggi-h  camel,  or  I'll  thrust 
This  goad  in  your  breach  ;  had  1  such  a  promising 

bra  d, 
I  should  iieed  the  reins,  not  spurs. 

Mulil.   Y««u  may  come  nearer. 
Why  do  \ou  shake,  sir?   If  I  flatter  not 
Myself,  there's  no  deformity  about  me, 
Nor  any  part  so  monstrous  to  beget 
An  ague  in  you. 

//HI/.  It  proceeds  not.  madam, 
From  guil',  but  reverence. 

Mutil.  I  believe  you,  sir  : 
Have  y  u  a  suit  to  me? 

Hint.  Your  .  xcellence 
Is  wondrous  fair. 

Mutil.  I  tlr.iuk  your  good  opinion. 

Hurt.  Ajid  I  beseech  you  that  I  may  have  license 
To  kneel  to  you. 

Matil.  A  suit  1  cannot  cross. 

Ho  t.  I  humbly  thank  your  excellence.       [Kneels. 

Mnt'1.   Hut  what, 

As  \ou  nre  prostrate  on  your  knee  before  me, 
Is  your  petition  ! 

llorl.  I  have  none,  great  princess. 

Mutil.  Do  you  kneel  for  i.oihing  ? 

Hurt    Yes,  1  have  a  suit, 
But  such  a  one,  as.  if  denied,  will  kill  me. 

Mutil.   Take  comfort ;  it  must  be  of  some  strange 

na'ure. 

Unfit  mg  you  to  ask,  or  me  to  grant, 
If  I  refuse  it. 

Hart.  It  is.  madam 

Mutil.  Out  « ith't. 

Hurt.  That  I  may  not  offend  you,  this  in  all, 
Wl  en  I  presume  to  look  on  you. 

Asc.   A  (la:  eunuch  ! 
To  look  on  her  ?  I  should  desire  myself 
To  move  a  little  further. 

Maiil.  Only  that) 


llort.  And  I  beseech  you,  madam,  to  believe 
1  never  did  vet  with  a  wanton  eye  ; 
Or  cherish  one  lascivious  wish  beyond  it. 

Heat.   You'll  never  make  good  courtier,  or  bo 
In  grace  with  ladies. 

1   H'«m.   Or  us  waiting  women, 
Jf  that  be  your  nil  ultra. 

12  Worn.  He.'s  no  gentleman, 
On  my  virginity,  it  is  apparent: 
My  tailor  has  more  boldness;  nay,  my  shoemaker 
Will  fumble  a  little  further,  he  could  not  have 
The  length  of  my  foot  else. 

Matil.  Only  to  look  on  me  ! 
Ends  your  ambition  there  ? 

Hort.  It  does,  great  lady, 
And  that  confined  too,  and  at  fitting  distance  : 
The  fly  that  plays  too  near  the  flame  burns  in  it*. 
As  I  behold  the  sun,  the  stars,  the  temples, 
I  look  on  you,  and  wish  it  were  no  sin 
Should  I  adore  you. 

Miitil.  Come,  there's  something  more  in't; 
And  since  that  you  will  make  a  goddess  of  me, 
As  such  a  one,  I'll  tell  you,  I  desire  not 
The  meanest  altar  raised  up  to  mine  honour 
To  be  pulled  down  :  I  can  accept  from  you, 
Be  your  condition  ne'er  so  far  beneath  me, 
One  grain  of  incense  with  devotion  offer'd, 
Beyond  all  perfumes,  or  Sabsean  spices, 
By  one  that  proudly  thinks  he  merits  in  it : 
I  know  you  love  me. 

Hort.  Next  to  heaven,  madam, 
And  with  as  pure  a  zeal.     That,  we  behold 
With  the  eyes  of  contemplation,  but  can 
Arrive  no  nearer  to  it  in  this  life: 
But  when  that  is  divorced,  my  soul  shall  serve  yours, 
And  witness  my  affection. 

Matil    Pray  you,  rise  ; 
But  wait  my  further  pleasure. 

Enter  FAHNEZE  and  UBERTI. 

Farn.  I'll  present  you, 

And  give  you  proof  1  am  your  friend,  a  true  one  ; 
And  in  my  pleading  for  you,  teach  the  age, 
That  calls,  erroneously,  friendship  but  a  name, 
It  is  a  substanee. — Madam,  I  am  bold 
To  trench  so  far  upon  your  privacy, 
As  to  desire  my  friend  (let  not  that  wrong  him, 
For  he's  a  worthy  one)  may  have  the  honour 
To  kiss  your  hand. 

Matil.  His  own  worth  challenges 
A  greater  favour. 

Farn.  Your  ackowledgment 
Confirms  it,  madam.    If  you  look  on  him 
As  he's  built  up  a  man,  without  addition 
Of  fortune's  liberal  favours,  wealth  or  titles, 
He  doth  deserve  no  usual  entertainment : 
But,  as  he  is  a  prince,  and  for  your  service 
Hath  left  fair  Parma,  that  acknowledges 
.No  other  lord,  and,  uncompell'd,  exposes 
His  person  to  the  dangers  of  thef  war, 


•  The  fly  that  plays  too  near  the  flame  burnt  in  it.] 
Cresset  lias  made  a  bc.mtiftil  use  of  (his  idea: 

Tel,  par  sa  pente  naturelle, 

far  une  crreur  toujnurg  nouvelle, 

Qtioiqii'il  gamble  chanaer  ion  court, 

Autour  de  la  flaming  mortelle 

be  papillon  revient  totiwurs. 

t  His  person  to  the  dangers  of  the  war,}  I  have  inserted 
the  article,  which  restores  the  metre.  Farneze  evidently 
iilliidfs  in  the  t>;ar  with  which  they  were  BOW  threatened  b) 
the  Florentines. 


SCENE  IT.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


471 


Ready  to  break  in  storms  upon  our  heads  ; 
In  noble  thankfulness  von  may  vouchsafe  him 
Nearer  respect,  and  such  grace  as  may  nourish, 
Not  kill,  his  amorous  hopes. 

Mulil.  Cousin,  you  know 
I  am  not  the  disposer  «f  myself. 
The  duke  my  father  chiillen.es  that  power  : 
Yet  thus  much  I  dare  promise  ;  prince  Uberti 
Shall  find  the  seed  of  service  that  he  sows 
Falls  not  on  barren  ground. 

fiber.   Fur  this  high  favour 
I  am  your  creature,  and  profess  1  owe  you 
Whatever  I  cull  mine.  [They  walk  aside. 

Hurt.  This  great  lord  is 
A  suitor  to  the  princess. 

Asc.  True,  he  is  so. 

Hurt.    Fame  gives  him  out  too  for  a  brave  com- 
mander. 

Asc.   And  in  it  does  him  but  deserved  right ; 
The  duke  hath  made  htm  general  of  his  horse 
On  i hat.  assurance. 

Hort.   And  the  lord  Farneze 
Pleads  for  him,  as  it  seems. 

Asc.   '  1'is  too  apparent : 
And,  this  consider'd,  give  me  leave  to  ask 
What  hope  have  you,  sir.' 

Hort.  I  may  still  look  on  her, 
Uowe'er  he  wear  the  garland. 

Ate.  A  th i ii  diet, 
And  will  not  feed  you  fat,  sir. 

Uber.   I  rejoice, 

Rare  princess,  that  you  are  not  to  be  won 
l!y  carpet-courtship,  but  the  sword  ;  with  this 
Steel  pen  I'll  write  on  Florence'  helm  how  much 
I  can,  and  dare  do  for  v»u. 

A/Vitii.  '  I'is  not  question  d. 

Some  priv.ite  business  of  mine  own  disposed  of, 
I'll  meet  you  in  ill*  presence. 

Uber.   hver  your  servant. 

[  Exeunt  Uberti  and  Farneze. 

Matit.  Now,  sir,  to  you.      You  have  observed,  I 

doubt  not, 

For  lovers  are  sharp-lighted,  to  what  purpose 
This  prince  solicits  me  ;  and  vet  I  am  not 
So  taken  with  his  worth,  but  that  1  can 
Vouchsafe  you  further  parle*.     The  first  command 
That  I'll  impose  upon  vou,  is  to  hear 
And  follow  rny  good  counsel :   I  am  not 
Offended  that  you  love  me  ;  persist  in  it, 
But  love  me  virtuously;  such  love  may  spur  you 
To  noble  undertakings,  which  achieved, 
Will  raife  you  into  name,  preferment,  honour  : 
1'or  all  which,  though  you  ne'er  enjoy  my  person 
'For  that's  impossible),  you  are  indebted 
"o  your  high  aims  :   visit,  me  when  you  please, 
.  do  allow  it,  nor  will  hiush  to  own  you, 
So  you  cnntine  yourself  to  what  you  promise, 
As  my  virtu, ins  servant. 

Beat.   Farewell,  sir!  you  have 
An  unexpected  cordial. 

Asc.   Rl.iv  it  work  well !  [Exeunt  all  but  Hort. 

H«-rt.   Your  lute — yes,   so  she  said,  may  spur  y*ru 

to 

P^ave  iindtrtuhngt:  adding  this,  You  may 
Visit  me  uht'ii  you  plen.\e.     Is  this  allow'd  me, 
And  any  act  within  the  power  of  man 


•  Vouchsafe  you  further  parle.]  So  the  old  copy,  and 
ri«litly.  The  modern  editors  have  parley,  which  spoils  the 
veree. 


Impossible  to  be  effected  ?     No  : 
1  will  break  through  all  oppositions  that 
May  stop  me  in  mv  full  career  to  honour  : 
And,  borrowing   strength    to   do   from  her  high  fa- 
vour, 
Add  something  to  Alcides'  greatest  labour.      [Exit. 


SCENE  II. — The  same.    A  Slate  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  GONZAGA,  UBERII,  FARNEZE,    MANFROY,   and 

Attendants. 

Gon.  This  is  your   place  ;  and,  were   it  in  our 

power, 

You  should  have  greater  honour,  prince  of  Parma ; 
The  rest,  know  theirs.     Let  some  attend  with  care 
On  the  ambassador,  and  let  my  daughter 
Be  present  at  his  audience,      llcach  a  chair, 
We'll  do  all  fit  respects;  and,  pray  you,  put  on 
Your   milder   looks;    you    are    in     a    place  where 

frowns 
Are  no  prevailing  agents. 

Enter  at  one  door  ALONZO  and  Attendants  :  MA- 
TILDA, BEATRICE,  ASCANIO,  HOIUKNISIO,  and 
Waiting  Women  at  the  other. 

ABC.  I  have  seen 
More  than  a  wolf,  a  Gorgon*  !  [Swoons. 

Gem.   What's  the  matter? 

Mutil.  A  page  of  mine  is  fallen  into  a  swoon  ; 
Look  to  him  carefully.  [Aicanio  is  carried  out. 

Gon.  Now,  when  you  please, 
The  cause  that  brought  you  hither? 

Alon.  The  protraction 
Of  my  dispatch  forgotten,  from  Lorenzo, 
The  Tuscan  dnke,  thus  much  to  you,  Gonzaga, 
The  duke  of  Mantua.     By  me,  his  nephew, 
He  does  salute  you  fairly,  and  entreats 
(A  word  not  suitable  to  his  power  and  greatness) 
You  would  consent  to  tender  that  which  he 
Unwillingly  must  force,  if  contradicted. 
Ambition,  in  a  private  man  a  vice, 
Is  in  a  prince  a  virtuef. 

Gon.  To  the  purpose  ; 
These  ambages  are  impertinent. 

Alon.  He  demands 
The  fair  Matilda,  for  I  dare  not  take 
From  her  perfections,  in  a  noble  way ; 
And  in  creating  her  the  comfort{  of 
His  royal  bed,  to  raise  her  to  a  height 
Her  nattering  hopes  could  not  aspire,  where  sue 


*  Asc.  /  have  seen 

More  than  a  wolf,  a  Gory  on  .']  It  may  be  just  necessary 
to  observe,  that  (he  tiiht  of  a  wolf  was,  anciently,  supposed 
to  deprive  a  person  of  speech;  that  of  a  Gorgon,  of  motion 
and  liie. 

t  J.t  in  a  prince  a  virtue.]  So  the  modern  editions.  In 
the  old  copy,  it  is  the  virtue  —  meaning,  perhaps,  as  M.issin 
ger  expresses  it  on  another  occasion,  the  virtue  KO.T 


And  in  creating  her  the  comfort  of 

Hi*  royal  bed.}  For  comfort,  C"xeler  and  Mr.  M.  Mason 
rea>i  consort,  as  u*ual.  One  ^oulil  think,  from  Hie  warfare 
main!  ihii-ii  .i^.iiiiM  this  gixKl  old  word,  which  is  thu.«  perpe- 
tually corrupted,  that  ihr  inarri.iije  bed  is  Its?  comfortable  at 
pro-fin  ihau  it  anciently  was:  however  lhi.»  be,  1  have  con- 
si  antly  resiored  it. 

In  the  next  line.fliey  have  invrtrd  to  al'li-r  aspire,  though 
the  word  is  cmiMantly  n>ed  i>y  our  old  ports  without  the  pre- 
poiilion,  and  though  it  injures,  or  r;.thcr  destroys  the  metre! 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


[Acr  I 


With  wonder  shall  be  gazed  upon,  and  live 
The  envy  of  her  sex. 

Con.  Suppose  this  granted. 

Ubei.  Or,  if  denied,  what  follows? 

Alon.  Present  war, 

With  all  extremities  the  conqueror  can 
Inflict  upon  the  variquish'd. 

Ubei:  Grant  me  license 
To  answer  this  defiance.     What  intelligence 
Holds  your  proud  master  with  the  will  of  heaveu*, 
That,  ere  the  uncertain  die  of  war  be  thrown, 
He  dares  assure  himself  the  victory? 
Are  his  unjust  invading-  arms  of  fire? 
Or  those  we  put  on  in  defence  of  right, 
Like  chaff,  to  be  consumed  in  the  encounter  7 
I  look  on  your  dimensions,  and  find  not 
Mine  own  of  lesser  size  ;  the  blood  that  fill* 
My  veins,  as  hot  as  yours  ;   my  sword  as  sharp  ; 
My  nerves  of  equal  strength  ;  my  heart  as  good  ; 
And  confident  we  have  the  better  cause, 
Why  should  we  fear  the  trial  ? 

Farn.  You  presume 
You  are  superior  in  numbers  ;  we 
Lay  hold  upon  the  surest  anchor,  virtue : 
Which,  when  the  tempest  of  the  war  roars  loudest, 
Must  prove  a  strong  protection. 

Gon.  Two  main  reasons 
(Seconding  those  you  have  already  heard) 
Give  us  encouragement;  the  duty  that 
I  owe  my  mother-country,  and  (lie  love 
Descending  to  my  daughter.     For  the  first, 
Should  I  betray  her  liberty.  I  deserved 
To  have  mv  name  with  infamy  razed  from 
The  catalogue  of  good  princes  ,  and  I  should 
Unnaturally  forget  I  am  a  father, 
If,  like  a  Tartar,  or  for  fe;ir  or  profit, 
I  should  consign  her  as  a  bondwoman, 
To  be  disposed  of  at  another's  pleasure  ; 
Her  own  consent  or  favour  nt-ver  sued  for, 
And  mine  by  force  exacted.     No,  Alonzo, 
She  is  my  only  child,  my  heir  ;  and,  if 
A  father's  eves  deceive  me  not,  the  hand 
Of  prodigal  nature  hath  given  so  much  to  her, 
As,  in  the  former  ages,  kings  would  rise  up 
In  her  defence,  and  make  her  cause  their  quarrel : 
IS' or  can  she,  if  (hat  any  spark  remain 


What  intelligence 


Holds  your  proud  master  tcith  the  will  of  heaven,  &c.] 
This  tine  speech,  which  is  equally  judicious  and  spirited,  in- 
voluntarily recals  to  my  mind  The  liattle  of  Xabla,  so 
beautifully  translated  by  iht  late  professor  of  Arabic,  whose 
death  the  public,  no  less  than  his  particular  friends,  will  long 
have  cause  to  regret. 

•  '    *  •  * 

"  Make  now  your  choice— the  terms  we  jjive. 

Desponding  victims,  hear ; 
These  fetters  on  your  handt  receive, 

Or  in  your  hearts  the  spear." 
"  And  is  the  conflict  o'er,"  we  cried, 

"  And  lie  we  at  your  feel  T 

And  dare  yon  vaumiiigly  decide 

The  fortune  we  must  meet  i" 


The  foe  advanced  :   in  firm  array 

We  rushed  o'er  S.iMa's  sands, 
And  the  red  sabre  inark'd  our  way 

Amid't  their  yielding  bands. 

Then,  a*  they  writh'd  in  death1!  cold  grasp, 

We  cried,  "  Our  choice  is  made, 
Thrsr  hands  the  sahie's  hilt  .-hall  clasp, 

Your  hr<ir!**\\M  have  the  blade." 

Carlyle's  £  eciiucntof  Arabian  Poetry,  p.  S5. 


[  To  kindle  a  desire  to  be  possess'd 
j  Of  such  a  beauty,  in  our  time,  want  swords 
To  guard  it  safe  from  violence. 

Uort.   I  must  speak, 

Or  I  shall  burst ;  now  to  be  silent  were 
A  kind  of  blasphemy  :  if  such  purity, 
Such  innocence  an  abstract  of  perfection, 
The  soul  of  beauty,  virtue,  in  a  word, 
A  temple  of  things  sacred,  should  groan  under 
The  burthen  of  oppression,  we  might 
Accuse  the  saints,  and  tax  the  Powers  above  us 

Of  negligence  or  injustice. Pardon,  sir, 

A  stranger's  boldness,  and  in  your  mercy  call  it 
True  zeal,  not  rudeness.     In  a  cause  like  this, 
The  husbandman  would  change  his  plou^hing-irons 
To  weapons  of  defence,  and  leave  the  earth 
Untill'd,  although  a  general  dearth  should  follow  : 
The  student  would  forswear  his  book  ;  the  lawyer 
Put  off  his  thriving  gown,  and  without  pay 
Conclude  this  cause  is  to  be  fought,  not  pleaded. 
The  women  will  turn  Amazons,  as  their  sex 
In  her  were  wrong'd;  and  boys  write  clown  their 

names 
In  the  muster-book  for  soldiers. 

Gon.  Take  my  hand  : 
Whate'er  you  are,  I  thank  you.     How  are  you  call'd  ? 

Hurt.   IJortensio,  a  Milanese. 

Gen.  I  wish 

Mantun  had  m;iny  such. — My  lord  ambassador, 
Some  privacy,  if  you  please;  Manfrov,  you  may 
Partake  it,  and  advise  us.  [They  walk  asiJt. 

Uker.   L)o  you  know,  friend, 
What  this  man  is,  or  of  what  country  ? 

Farn.  Neither. 

Uher.  I'll  question  him  myself.  What  are  you,  sir? 

Hort.  A  gentleman. 

Uber.  But  if  there  be  gradation 
In  gentry,  as  the  heralds  say,  you  have 
Been  over-bold  in  the  presence  of  your  betters. 

Hort.  My  betters,  sir  I 

Uher.   Your  betters.     As  I  take  it, 
You  are  no  prince. 

Hort.  Tis  fortune's  gift  you  were  born  one ; 
I  have  not  heard  that  glorious  title  crowns  you 
As  a  reward  of  virtue-   it  may  be 
The  first  of  your  house  deserved  it,  yet  his  merits 
You  can  but  faintly  call  your  own. 

Matil.  Well  answer'd. 

Uber.   You  come  up  to  me. 

Hort.  I  would  not  turn  my  back 
If  you   were   the   duke  of  Florence,  though   you 

charged  me 
I"  the  head  of  your  troops. 

Uber.  Tell  me  in  gentler  language, 
Your  passionate  speech  induces  me  to  think  so. 
Do  you  love  the  princess  1 

Hort.  Were  you  mine  enemy, 
Your  foot  upon  my  breast,  sword  at  my  throat, 
Even  then  1  would  profess  it.     The  ascent 
To  the  height  of  honour  is  by  arts  or  arms  ; 
And  if  such  an  unequall'd  pfiz«  might  fall 
On  him  that  did  deserve  best  in  defence 
Of  this  rare  princess,  in  the  day  of  battle, 
i  should  lead  you  a  way  would  make  your  greatness 
Sweat  diops  of  blood  to  follow. 

Uber.  Can  your  excellence 
Hear  this  without  rebuke  from  one  unknown? 
Is  he  a  rival  for  a  prince  ? 

Matil.  My  lord, 
You  take  that  liberty  I  never  gave  you. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


473 


In  justice  you  should  give  encouragement 

To  him,  or  siny  man,  that  freely  offers 

His  life  to  do  me  service,  not  deter  him  ; 

I  give  no  suffrage  to  it.     Grant  he  loves  me, 

As  he  professes,  how  are  you  wroug'd  in  it? 

Would  you  have  all  men  hate  me  but  yourself? 

No  more  of  this,  I  pray  you  :  if  this  gentleman 

Fight  for  my  freedom,  in  a  fit  proportion 

To  his  desert  and  quality,  I  can 

And  will  reward  him  ;  yet  give  you  no  cause 

Of  jealousy  or  envy. 

Hort.  Heavenly  lady  ! 

Gon.   No  peace  but  on  such  poor  and  base  condi- 
tions ! 

We  will  not  buy  it  at  that  rate  :  return 
This  answer  to  your  master  :  Though  we  wish'd 
To  hold  fair  quarter  with  him,  on  such  terms 
As  honour  would  give  way  to,  we  are  not 
So  thunderstruck  with  the  loud  voice  of  war, 
As  to  acknowledge  him  our  lord  before 
His  sword  hath  made  us  vassals  :   we  long  since 
Have  had  intelligence  of  the  unjust  gripe 
He  purposed  to  lay  on  us ;  neither  are  we 
So  unprovided  as  you  think,  my  lord ; 
He  shall  not  need  to  seek  us  ;  we  will  meet  him, 


And  prove  the  fortune  of  a  day,  perhaps 
Sooner  than  he  expects. 

Alon.  And  find  repentance, 
When 'tis  too  late.  Farewell.         [Exit  with  Famtte. 

Gon.  No,  mv  Matilda, 

We  must  not  part  so.     Beasts  and  birds  of  prey 
To  their  last  gasp  defend  their  brood  ;  and  Florence 
Over  thy  father's  breast  shall  march  up  to  thee, 
Before  he  force  affection.     The  arms 
That  thou  must  put  on  for  us  and  thyself 
Are  prayers  and  pure  devotion,  which  will 
Be  heard,  Matilda.    Manfroy,  to  your  trust 
We  do  give  up  the  city,  and  my  daughter;       [nous. 
On  both  keep  a  strong  guard  :  no  tears,  they  are  omi- 
O  my  Oc'avio,  my  tried  Octavio 
In  all  my  dangers !  now  I  want  thy  service, 
In  passion  recompensed  with  banishment. 
Error  of  princes,  who  hate  virtue  when 
She's  present*  with  us,  and  in  vain  admire  her 
When  she  is  absent !  'tis  too  late  to  think  on't. 
The  wish'd  for  time  is  come,  princely  Ubmi, 
To  show  your  valour  :  friends  being  to  do,  not  talk, 
All  rhetoric  is  fruitless,  only  this, 
Fate  cannot  rob  you  of  deserved  applause, 
Whether  you  win  or  lose  in  such  a  cause.     [Exeunt. 


ACT  II 


SCENE  I.— Mantua.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  MATILDA,  BEATRICE,  and  Waiting  Women. 
Matil.  No  matter  for  the  ring  I  ask'd  you  for 
The  boy  not  to  be  found  ? 
Beat.   Nor  heard  of,  madam. 

1  Worn.  He  hath  been   sought  and  searched  for, 

house  by  house, 
Nay,  every  nook  of  the  city,  but  to  no  purpose. 

2  Worn.  And    how  he  should  escape  hence,  the 

lord  Manfroy 

Being  so  vigilant  orer  the  guards,  appears 
A  thing  impossible. 

Matil.  I  never  saw  him 

Since  he  swoon'd  in  the  presence,  when  my  father 
Gave  audience  to  the  ambassador :  but  I  feel 
A  sad  miss  of  him  ;  on  any  slight  occasion 
He  would  find  out  such  pretty  arguments 
To  make  me  sport,  and  with  such  pretty  sweetness 
Deliver  bis  opinion,  that  I  must 
Ingenuously  confess  his  harmless  mirth, 
When   1  was   most  oppress'd  with   care,  wrought 

more 
In  the  removing  oft  than  music  on  me. 

Beat.  An  t  please  your  excellence,  1  have  observed 

him 

Waggishly  witty  ;  yet,  sometimes,  on  the  sudden, 
He  would  be  very  pensive,  and  then  talk 
So  feelingly  of  love,  as  if  he  had 
Tasted  the  bitter  sweets  oft. 

1  Worn.  He  would  tell,  too, 
A  pretty  tale  of  a  sister,  that  had  been 
Deceived    by  her  sweetheart ;    and  then  weeping, 

swear 
He  wonder'd  how  men  could  be  false* 


•  This  pretty  passage  contains  one  of  those  judicious  an 
tici nations  in  which  Maasinger  is  peculiarly  excellent. 


2  Worn.  And  that 

When  he  was  a  knight,  he'd  he  the  ladies' champion 
And  travel  o'er  the  world  to  kill  such  lovers 
As  durst  play  false  with  their  mistresses. 

Matil.  I  am  sure 
I  want  his  company. 

Enter  MANFROY. 

Man.  There  are  letters,  madam. 
In  post  come  from  the  duke  ;  but  I  am  charged 
By  the  careful  bringer  not  to  open  them 
But  in  your  presence. 

Matit.  Heaven  preserve  my  father ! 
Good  news,  an't  be  thy  will ! 

Man.  Patience  must  arm  you 
Against  what's  ill. 

Matil.  I'll  hear  them  in  my  cabinet.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.—  The  Duchy  of  Mantua.     Gonzaga's 
Camp. 

Enter  HORTENSIO  and  ASCANIO. 

Hort.  Why  have  you  left  the  safety  of  the  city 
And  service  of  the  princess,  to  partake 
The  dangers  of  the  camp  ?  and  at  a  time  too 
When  the  armies  are  in  view,  and  every  minute 
The  dreadful  charge  expected. 

Asc.  You  appear 

So  far  beyond  yourself,  as  you  are  now, 
Arm'd  like  a  soldier  (though  I  grant  your  presence 
Was  ever  gracious),  that  I  grow  enamour'd 

•  Error  of  princes,  who  hate  virtue,  when 
She'*  pretent,  &c.] 

— firtutem  mcolumen  odimus, 
Sid>la!am  ex  oKulis  qtuerimus  inviJi. 

But  this  pl.iy  abunnds  with  classical  allusions,  apt'y  and  ele- 
gantly introduced. 


474 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


[ACT  II 


Of  the  profession  :  in  the  horror  of  it 
There  is  a  kind  of  majesty. 

Hnrt.   Hut  too  heavy 

To  sit  on  thy  soft  shoulders,  youth  ;  retire 
Totlie  duke's  tent,  that's  guarded. 

Asc.  Sir,  I  come 

To  serve  you  ;  knight-adventurers  are  allow'd 
Their  pages,  and  I  bring  a  will  that  shall 
Supply  my  want  of  power. 

Hurt.  To  serve  me,  boy  ! 
I  wish,  believe  it,  that 'twere  in  my  nerves 
To  do  thee  any  service  ;  and  them  shall, 
If  1  survive  the  fortune  of  this  day, 
Be  satisfied  I  am  serious. 

A>c.  1  am  not 

To  be  put  off  so,  sir.     Since  you  do  neglect 
My  offer'd  duty,  I  must  use  the  power 
I  bring  along  with  me,  that  may  command  you  : 
You  have  seen  this  ring — • 

Hort.  Made  rich  by  being  worn 
Upon  the  princess'  finger. 

Asc.  'Tis  a  favour 

To  you,  by  me  sent  from  her  :  view  it  better  ; 
But  why  coy  to  receive  it1. 

Hort.  I  am  unworthy 

Of  such  a  blessing  ;  I  have  done  nothing  yet 
That  may  deserve  it ;  no  commander's  blood 
Of  the  adverse  party  have  yet  died  my  sword 
Drawn  out  in  her  defence.     I  must  not  take  it. 
This  were  a  triumph  for  me  when  I  had 
Made  Florence'  duke  my   prisoner,  and  compell'd 

him 
To  kneel  for  mercy  at  her  feet. 

Asc,  'Twas  sent,  sir, 

To  put  you  in  mind  whose  cause  it  is  you  fight  for ; 
And,  as  1  am  her  creature,  to  revenge 
A  wrong  tome  done. 

Hort.  By  what  man  ? 

Asc.  Alonzo. 

Hort.  The  ambassador  ? 

Asc.  The  same. 

Hart,  Let  it  suffice. 
1  knew  him  by  his  armour  and  his  horse , 

And  if  we  meet \Trwmpeli  sound.] — I  am  cut  off: 

the  alarum 
Commands  me  hence  :  sweet  youth,  fall  off. 

A&c.  I  must  not  ; 

You  are  too  noble  to  receive  a  wound 
Upon  your  back,  and,  following  close  behind  you, 
I  am  secure,  though  1  could  wish  my  bosom 
Were  your  defence. 

Hort.  Thy  kindness  will  undo  thee.  [.Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — The  same.     Lorenzo's  Camp. 
Enter  LORENZO,   ALONZO,  PISANO,  and  MAR-UNO. 

Lor.  We'll  charge  the  main  battalia,  fall  you 
Upon  the  van  ;  preserve  your  troops  entire 
To  force  the  rear :   he  dies  that  breaks  his  ranks 
Till  all  be  ours,  and  sure. 

Pi*.  Tis  so  proclaim'd.  [Eieunt. 

Fighting  and  Alarum.     Enter  HORIENSIO,  ASCANIO, 
and  ALONZO. 

Hort.  'Tis  he,  Ascanio  : — Stand 

Alon.  I  never  shunn'd 
A  single  opposition  ;  but  tell  me 
Why  in  the  battle,  of  all  men,  thou  hast 
Made  choice  of  me? 


Hort.  Look  on  this  youth  ;  his  cause 
Sits  on  my  sword. 

Alon.  1  know  him  not. 

Hort.  I'll  help 
Your  memory.  [They  fight. 

Asc.    What  have  I  done?  I  am  doubtful 
To  whom  to  wish  the  victory  ;  for,  still 
My  resolution  waveiing,  I  so  love 
The  enemy  that  wronjj'd  me,  that  I  cannot 
Without  repentance  wish  success  to  him 
That  seeks  to  do  me  right. — [Alonzo  fulls.'] — Alas! 

he's  fall'n  ! 

As  you  are  gentle,  hold,  sir  !  or,  if  I  want 
Power  to  persuade  so  far,  1  conjure  you 
By  her  loved  name  I  am  sent  from. 

Hort.  Tis  a  charm 

Too  strong  to  be  resisted  :  he  is  yours. 
Yet,  why  you  should  make  suit  to  save  that  life 
Which  you  so  late  desired  should  be  cut  off 
For  injuries  received,  begets  my  wonder. 

Asc.  Alas!  we  foolish,  spleenful  boys  would  have 
We  know  not  what  ;  I  have  some  private  reasons. 
But  now  not  to  be  told. 

Hort.  Shall  ]  take  him  prisoner? 

Asc.  By  no  means,  sir  ;   I  will  not  save  his  life 
To  rob  him  of  his  honour:   when  you  give, 
Give  not  by  halves.     One  short  word,  and  I  follow. 

[F.iit  Hortensio. 

My  lord  Alonzo,  if  yon  have  received 
A  benefit,  arid  would  know  to  whom  you  owe  it, 
Remember  what  your  entertainment  was 
At  Old  Octavio's  house,  one  you  call'd  friend, 
And  how  you  did  return  it.  [Exit. 

Alon.  I  remember 

I  did  not  well ;  but  it  is  now  no  time 
To  think  upon't  ;  my  wounded  honour  calls 
For  reparation  ;  1  must  quench  my  fury 
For  this  disgrace,   in  blood,  and   some  shall  smart 
for't.  [E«l. 

SCENE  lV.—The$ame.     A  JWst. 

Aluriim    continued.      Enter    UBF.RTI,    and    FARNEXB 

wounded. 

Farn.  O  prince  Uberti,  valour  cannot  save  us  j 
The  body  of  our  army's  pierced  and  broken, 
The  wings  are  routed,  and  our  scatter'd  troops 
Not  to  be  rallied  up. 

Uber.  Tis  yet  some  comfort 
The  enemy  must  say  we  were  not  wanting 
In  courage  or  direction  ;  and  we  may 
Accuse  the  Powers  above  as  partial,  when 
A  good  cause,  well  defended  too,  must  suffer 
For  want  of  fortune. 

Farn.   All  is  lost ;  the  duke 
Too  far  engaged.  I  fear,  to  be  brought  off: 
Three  times  I  did  attempt  his  rescue,  but 
With  odds  was  beaten  back  ;  only  the  stranger, 
I  speak  it  to  my  ^hame,  still  follow'd  him, 
Cutting  his  way  •,  but  'tis  beyond  my  hopes 
That,  either  should  return. 

Ulier.  That  noble  stranger, 
Whom  I  in  my  proud  vanity  of  greatness 
As  one  unknown  contemn'd,  when  I  was  thrown 
Out  of  my  saddle  by  the  great  duke's  lance, 
Horsed  me  again,  in  spi:e  of  all  that  made 
Resistance  ;  and  then  whisper'd  in  mine  ear, 
Fight  bravely,  prince  Uberti,  there's  noway  elst 
To  the  fair  Matilda's  favour. 

Farn.  'Twas  done  nobly. 


SctWE  V.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


473 


Uber,  In  you,  my   bosom-friend,  I  had  call'd  it 

noble : 

But  such  a  courtesy  from  a  rival  merits 
The  highest  attribute. 

Enter  HORTENSIO  and  GONZAOA. 

Furn.  Stand  on  your  guard, 
We  are  pursued. 

Uber.  Preserved  !   wonder  on  wonder. 
Far/i.  The  duke  in  safety  ! 
Gon.    Pay  your  thanks,  Farneze, 
To  this  brave  man,  if  I  mav  call  him  so 
Whose  acts  were  ir.ore  than  human.     If  thou  art 
My  better  angel,  from  my  infancy 
Design 'd  to  guard  me,  like  thyself  appear, 
For  sure  thou'rt  more  than  mortal. 

Kort.  No,  great  sir, 

A  weak  and  sinful  man ;  though  I  have  done  you 
Some   prosperous    service    that    hath    found   your 

favour, 

I  am  lost  to  myself:  but  lose  not  you 
The  offer'd  opportunity  to  delude 
The  hot-pursuing  enemy  ;  these  woods, 
Nor  the  dark  veil  of  night,  cannot  conceal  you, 
If  you  dwell  long  here.     You  may  rise  again, 
But  I  am  fallen  forever. 

Farn.  Rather  borne  up 
To  the  supreme  sphere  of  honour. 

Ulier.  \  confess 
My  life  your  gift. 
G<>».  My  liberty. 
C 'her.  You  have  snatch'd 

The  wreath  of  conquest  from  the  victor's  head, 
And  do  alone,  in  scorn  of  Lorenzo's  fortune, 
Though  we  are  slaved,  by  true  heroic  valour 
Deserve  a  triumph. 

Gon.  From  whence  then  proceeds 
This  poor  dejection  I 

Hort.  In  one  suit  I'll  tell  you. 

Which  1  beseech  you  grant : — I  loved  your  daughter, 
But  how  ?  as  beggars  in  their  wounded  fancy 
Hope  to  be  monarchs:   I  long  languish'd  for  her, 
But  did  receive  no  cordial,  but  what 
Despair,  my  rough  physician,  prescribed  me. 
At  length  her  goodness  and  compassion  found  it; 
And,  whereas  1  expected,  and  with  reason, 
The  distance  and  disparity  consider'd 
Between  her  birth  and  mine,  she  would  contemn  me, 
The  princess  gave  me  comfort. 
Gon.  In  what  measure? 

Hort.  She  did  admit  me  for  her  knight  and  servant, 
And  spurr'd  me  to  do  something  in  this  batile, 
Fought  for  her  liberty,  that  might  not  blemish 
So  fair  a  favour. 

Con.  This  you  have  perform 'd 
To  the  height  of  admiration. 

I' her.  I  subscribe  to't, 
That  am  your  rival. 

Hort.  You  are  charitable  ; 
But  how  short  of  my  hopes,  nay,  the  assurance 
Of  those  achievements  which  my  love  and  youth 
Alreadv  held  accomplish 'd,  this  day's  fortune 
Must  sadly  answer.     What  I  did,  she  gave  me 
The  strength  to  do  ;  her  piety  preserved 
Her  father,  and  Ler  gratitude  for  the  dangers 
You  threw  yourself  into  for  her  defence, 
Protected  you  by  me  her  instrument : 
But  when  I  came  to  strike  in  mine  own  cause, 
And  to  do  something  so  remarkable, 
That  should  at  my  return  command  her  thanks 


And  gracious  entertainment,  then,  alas  ! 
I  fainted  like  a  coward  ;   I  made  a  vow,  too, 
(And  it  is  register 'd),  ne'er  to  presume 
To  come  into  her  presence  if  1  brought  not 
Her  fears  and  dangers  bound  in  fetters  to  her, 

Which  now's  impossible. Hark  !  the  <-nemv 

Makes  his  approaches  :    save  yourselves  :    ibis  only 

Deliver  to  her  sweetness  ;   I  have  done 

My  poor  endeavours,  and  pray  her  not  repent 

Her  goodness  to  me.     May  you  live  to  serve  her, 

This  loss  recover'd,  with  a  happier  fate ! 

And  make  use  of  this  sword  :  arms  I  abjure, 

And  conversation  of  men  ;  I'll  seek  out 

Some  unfrequented  cave,  and  die  love's  martyr. 

[Exit. 

Gon.  Follow  him. 

Uber.  'Tis  in  vain  ;  his  nimble  feet 
Have  borne  him  from  my  sight. 

Gon.  I  suffer  for  him. 

Farn.   We  share  in  it,  but  must  not,  sir,  forget 
Your  means  of  safeiv. 

Uber.  Iii  the  war  I  have  served  you, 
And  to  the  death  will  follow  you. 

Gon.  'Tis  not  fit, 

We  must  divide  ourselves.      My  daughter ' 

If  I  retain  yet* 

A  sovereign's  power  o'er  thee,  or  friend's  with  you, 
Do,  and  dispute  not ;  by  my  example  change 
Your  habits:  as  I  thus  put  off  m\  purple, 
Ambition  dies  ;  this  garment  of  a  shepherd. 
Left  here  by  chance,  will  serve  ;  in  lieu  of  it, 
I  leave  this  to  the  owner.     Raise  new  forces, 
And  meet  me  at  St.  Leo's  fort ;  my  daughter, 
As  1  commanded  Manfroy,  there  will  meet  us.     ' 
The  city  cannot  hold  out,  we  must  part : 
Farewell — thy  hand. 

Farn.  You  still  shall  have  my  heart.         [Exeunt 

SCENE    V.— The  same.      Another  part  of  tht 
Forest.  , 

Enter  LORENZO,  ALONZO,  PISANO,  MARTINO,  Captain* 
and  Soldiers. 

Lor.  The  day  is  ours,  though  it  cost  dear;  yet'tia 

not 

Enough  to  get  a  victory,  if  we  lose 
The  true  use  of  it.     We  have  hitherto 
Held  back  your  forward  swords,  and  in  our  fear 
Of  ambushes,  deferr'd  the  wish'd  reward 
Due  to  your  bloody  toil :  but  now  give  freedom, 
Nay,  license  to  your  fury  and  revenge ; 

*   We  mutt  divide  ourselves.    My  daughter 

If  1  retain  yet 

A  sovereign's  power  o'er  ther,&c.}  The  rid  copy,  which 
is  faithfully  followed  by  Coxeter,  with  the  exception  of  mis- 
printing mot  for  yet,  reads, 

We  must  divide  ourselvet. 
My  daughter,if  I  reta  n  yet 
A  tovcreiyn's  poicer  o'er  thee,  &c. 

Mr.  M.  Mason  omits  My  daughter,  «hich  he  presnmpto- 
ously  says  the  last  editor  inserted  by  mistake  :  the  mi-take, 
however,  if  it  be  one,  is,  as  the  reader  now  sre«,  of  an  older 
date.  In  ihe  sixth  line,  he  ventures  on  another  improve- 
ment, and  fur  Ambition  dies,  prints  Ambition'*  dytl 
"  which,"  he  continues,  "  is  the  name  Gonz;i!>a  poetically 
gives  his  purple."  He  is  wrong  in  both  inst.mci-s.  The  ex- 
clamation, My  daughter,  shows  lliat  she  was  uppermost  in 
Gonzaga's  thoughts:  he  interrnpis  himsilf  to  provide  for  the 
safety  of  his  friends,  and  then  rcMimeswhat  lie  was  tir»t 
about  to  say  :  it  should  not,  therefore,  be  omitted.  Nor 
should  Ambition  'ties  he  changed  to  Atnbilian't  dye;  be- 
canse  such  a  rlu-ttniral  flourish  is  unnecessary,  and  btranse 
it  deprives  a  passage  of  sense  ami  grammar,  which  the  author 
invested  wilh  boih.  It  requires  no  explanation. 


4T6 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


[Arrr  II. 


Now  glut  yourselves  with  prey  ;  let  not  the  night, 

Nor  these  thick  woods,  give  sanctuary  to 

The  fear-struck  hares,  our  enemies  :  fire  these  trees, 

And  force  the  wretches  to  forsake  their  holes, 

And  offer  their  scorch'd  bodies  to  your  swords, 

Or  burn  them  as  a  sacrifice  to  your  angers. 

Who  brings  Gonzaga's  head,  or  takes  him  prisoner 

(Which  I  inclii.e  to  rather,  that  he  may 

be  sensible  of  those  tortures  which  I  vow 

To  inflict  upon  him  for  denial  of 

His  daughter  to  our  hed),  shall  have  a  Wank, 

With  our  hand  and  signet  made  authentical, 

In  which  he  may  %vrite  down  himself  what  wealth 

Or  honours  he  desires. 

Aton.  The  great  duke's  will 
Shall  be  obey'd. 

Pisan.  Put  it  in  execution. 

Mart.  Begirt  the  wood,  and  fire  it. 

Said.  Follow,  follow  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI  —  The  same.     A  noiher  part  of  the  same. 
Enter  FARNEZE,  disguised  a»  a  Florentine  Soldier. 

Farn.  Uberti,  prince  Uberti !   O  my  friend, 
Dearer  than  life  !  I  have  lost  thee.     Cruel  fortune, 
Unsatisfied  with  our  sufferings  !  we  no  sooner 
Were  parted  from  the  duke,  and  e'en  then  ready 
To  take  a  mutual  farewell,  when  a  troop 
Of  the  enemy's  horse  fell  on  us  ;  we  were  forced 
To  take  the  woods  again,  but  in  our  flight 
Their  hot  pursuit  divided  us  :  we  had  been  happy 
If  we  had  died  together.     To  survive  him 
To  me  is  worse  than  death,  and  therefore  should  not 
Embrace  the  means  of  my  escape,  though  offer'd. 
.When  nature  gave  us  life  she  gave  a  burthen, 
'But  at  our  pleasure  not  to  he  cast  off, 
Though  weary  of  it ;  and  my  reason  prompts  me, 
This  habit  of  a  Florentine,  which  I  took 
From  a  dying  soldier,  may  keep  me  unknown, 
Till  opportunity  mark  me  out  a  way 
For  flight,  and  with  security. 

Enter  UBERTI. 

Uber.  Was  there  ever 
Such  a  night  of  horror '} 

Farn.  My  friend's  voice  !  I  now 
In  part  forgive  thee,  fortune. 

Uber.  The  wood  flames, 
The  bloody  sword  devours  all  that  it  meets, 
And  death  in  several  shapes  rides  here  iu  triumph. 
1  am  Lke  a  stag  closed  in  a  toil,  my  life, 
As  soon  as  found,  the  cruel  huntsman's  prey : 
Why  fliest  thou,  then,  what  is  inevitable  ? 
Better  to  fall  with  manly  wounds  before 
Thy  ciuel  enemy,  than  survive  tlnne  honour: 
And  yet  to  charge  him,  and  die  unrevenged. 
Mere  desperation. 

Furn.  Heroic  spirit ! 

Uber.  Mine  own  life  I   contemn,  and  would  not 

save  it 

But  for  the  future  service  of  the  duke, 
And  safety  of  his  daughter;  having  means, 
If  1  escape,  to  raise  a  second  army, 
And,  what  is  nearest  to  me,  to  enjoy 
JMy  friend  Farneze. 

1'Hfii.  I  am  still  his  care. 

Uber.  What  shall  I  do  ?  if  I  call  loud,  the  foe 
That  hath  begirt  the  wood,  will  hear  the  sound, 
fchall  1  retuin  by  the  same  path?  I  cannot, 
The  darkness  of  the  night  conceals  it  from  me ; 
Something  I  must  resolve. 


Farn.  Let  friendship  rouse 
Thy  sleeping  soul,  Farneze  :  wilt  thou  suffer 
Thy  friend,  a  prince,  nay,  one  that  may  set  free 
Thy  captived  country,  perish,  when  'tis  in 
Thy  power,  with  this  disguise,  to  save  his  life? 
Thou  hast  lived  too  long,  therefore  resolve  to  die: 
Thou  hast  seen  thy  country  ruin'd,  and  thy  master 
Compell'd  to  shameful  flight ;  the  fields  and  woods 
Strew'd  o'er  with  carcases  of  thy  fellow-soldiers  ; 
The  miseries  thou  art  fallen  in,  and  before 
Thy  eyes  the  horror  of  this  place,  and  thousand 
Calamities  to  come  r  and  after  all  these, 
Can  any  hope  remain  ?  shake  off  delays  . 
Dost  thou  doubt  yet?  To  save  a  citizen, 
The  conquering  Roman  in  a  general 
Esteem 'd  the  highest  honour:  can  it  be  then 
Inglorious  to  preserve  a  prince  ?  thy  friend  ? — 
Uberti,  prince  Uberti  !  use  this  means 
Of  thy  escape  ; — 

[Pulls  off'  his  Florentine  uniform,  and   catts  it 
before  Uberti. 

conceal'd  in  this,  thou  mayst 

Pass  through  the  enemy's  guards :  the  time  denies 
Longer  discourse  ;   thou  hast  a  noble  end*, 
Live,  therefore,  mindful  of  thy  dying  friend. 

I  Exit. 

Uber.  Farnezp,  stay  thy  hasty  steps  !  Faroeze  ! 
Thy  friend  Uberti  calls  thee :  'tis  in  vain  ; 
He's  gone  to  death  an  innocent,  and  makes  life, 
The  benefit  he  confers  on  me,  my  guilt. 
Thou  art  too  covetous  of  another's  safety, 
Too  prodigal  and  careless  of  thine  own. 
'Tis  a  deceit  in  friendship  to  enjoin  me 
To  put  this  garment  on,  and  live,  that  he 
May  have  alone  the  honour  to  die  nobly. 

0  cruel  pietyt,  in  our  equal  danger 

To  rob  thyself  of  that  thou  giv'st  thy  friend  ! 

It  must  not  be  ;  I  will  restore  his  gift, 

And   die   before  him.     How  ?    where  shall  I   find 

him? 

Thou  art  o'ercome  in  friendship  ;  yield,  Uberti, 
To  the  extremity  of  the  time,  and  live: 
A  heavy  ransome !  but  it  must  be  paid. 

1  will  put  on  this  habit:  pitying  heaven, 
As  it  loves  goodness,  may  protect  my  friend, 
And  give  me  means  to  satisfy  the  debt 

I  stand  engaged  for  ;  if  not,  pale  despair, 

I  dare  thy  worst ;  thou  canst  but  bid  me  die, 

And  so  much  I'll  force  from  mine  enemyj.        [Eril. 

SCENE  VII.— The  same.     Lorenzo's  Camp. 

Enter   ALONZO   and    PISANO,  with  FAUNEZE  bound; 

Soldiers  with  torches,  FARNEZE'S  sword  in  one  of  the 

Soldiers'  hands. 

Alon.  I  know  him,  he's  a  man  of  ransome. 

P'san.  True ; 
But  if  he  live,  'tis  to  be  paid  to  me. 

*  Thou  hast  a  noble  end,]  Alluding  to  what  Uberti  had 
jiiit  said,  of  raising  a  second  army,  &c. 

t  O  cruel  piety,]  So  ihe  old  copy:  the  modern  editions 
have  O  cruel  pity,  a  tame  and  unpoetical  sophistication. 

}  This  short  scene  is  very  well  written  ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  must  strike  the  reader  as  extremely  inartificial.  The 
two  friends  speaking  on  opposite  sides  of  a  tree  is  somewhat 
too  similar  to  what  occurs  so  often  on  the  Roman  stage, 
where  people  in  mutual  quest  always  jostle  before  they  catch 
each  other's  eye  or  ear.  As  Farneze  had  taken  the  generous 
resolution  to  save  his  friend,  at  thee.xpenst;  of  his  own  life, 
it  was  improper  to  discover  himself;  but  all  that  is  done 
mi«ht  he  effected  with  fewer  words,  and  a  greater  portion  of 
dexterity. 


SCENE  VII.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


477 


Alon.  I  forced  liim  to  the  woods. 

Pisan.  But  my  art  found  him, 
Nor  will  I  brook  a  partner  in  the  prey 
My  fortune  gave  me. 

Al/fn.  Render  him,  or  expect 
The  point  of  this. 

Pisan.   Were  it  lightning,  I  would  meet  it, 
Rather  than  be  outbraved. 

Alon.  I  thus  decide 
The  difference. 

Pisan.  My  sword  shall  plead  my  title. 

[They  fight. 

Enter  LORENZO,  MARTINO,  Captains,  and  Attendants. 

Lor.  Ha  !  where  learn'd  you  this  discipline  ?  my 

commanders 

Opposed  against  one  another  !  what  blind  fury 
Brings  forth  this  brawl  ?  Alonzo  and  Pisano 
At  bloody  difference  !  hold,  or  I  tilt 
At  both  as  em-mies. —  Now  speak;  how  grew 
This  strange  division? 

Pisan.   Against  all  right, 
By  force  Alonzo  strives  to  reap  the  harvest 
Sown  bv  mv  labour. 

Alon.  Sir,  this  is  mv  prisoner, 
The  purchase  of  my  sword,  which  proud  Pisano, 
That  hath  no  interest  in  him,  would  take  from  me. 

Pisan.  Did  not  the  presence  of  the  duke  forbid 

me, 
I  would  say 

Alon.  What? 

Puan.  "I  is  false. 

Lor.  Before  mv  face  ! 

Keep  them  asunder.     And  was  this  the  cause 
Of  such  a  mortal  quarrel,  this  the  base 
To  raise  your  fury  on  ?  the  ties  of  blood, 
Of  fellowship  in  arms,  respect,  obedience 
To  me,  your  prince  and  general,  no  more 
Prevailing  on  \ou?  this  a  price  for  which 
You  would  betray  our  victory,  or  wound 
Your  reputation  with  mutinies. 
Forgetful  of  yourselves,  allegiance,  honour? — 
This  is  a  cmirse  to  threw  us  headlong  down 
From  that  proud  height  of  empire  upon  which 
We  were  securely  seated.     Shall  division 
O'erturn  what  concord  built?  If  you  desire 
T»  bathe  yiir  swords  in  blood,  the  enemy 
Still  flies  before  you  :  would  you  have  spoil  ?  the 

country 

Lies  open  to  you.     O  unheard-of  madness  ! 
What  greater  mischief  could  (jonzaga  wish  us, 
Than   you    pluck   on   our   heads?    no,    my    brave 

leaders, 

Let  unity  dwell  in  our  tents,  and  discord 
Be  banish'd  to  our  enemies. 

Alan.  Take  the  prisoner, 
1  do  give  up  my  title. 

Putin.   1  desire 
Your  friendship,  and  will  buy  it ;  he  is  yours. 

[They  embrace. 

Aim.  No  man's  a  faithful  judge  in  his  own  cause, 
Let  the  dut-e  determine  of  him  ;  we  are  friends,  sir. 

Lor.  Show  it  in  emulation  to  o'eitake 
The  flying  foe  ;  this  cursed  wretch  disposed  of, 
With  our  whole  strength  we'll  follow. 

[  Kieiint  Alonzo  and  Pisano.  embracing. 

Farn.  Dea'h  at  length 
Will  set  a  period  to  calamity  : 
I  see  it  in  this  tyrant's  frowns  haste  to  me. 


Enter  UBEHTI,  habite.i  like  a  Florentine  Soldier*,  and 

mixes  with  >he  rest. 

Lor.  Thou  machine  of  this  mischief,  look  to  feel 
Whate'er  the  wrath  of  an  incensed  prince 
Cnn  pour  upon  thee :   with  thy  blood  I'll  quench 
(  But  drawn  tbrth  slowly)  the  invisible  flames 
Of  discord — bv  thy  charms  first  fetch'd  from  hell, 
Then  forced  into  the  breasts  of  my  commanders. 
Bring  forth  the  tortures. 

Uher.  Hear,  victorious  duke, 
The  story  of  my  miserable  fortune. 
Of  which  this  villain  (by  your  sacred  tongue 
Condemned  to  die)  was  the  immediate  cause  : 
And,  if  my  humble  suit  have  justice  iu  it, 
Vouchsafe  to  grant  it. 

Lor.   Soldier,  be  brief,  our  anger 
Can  brook  no  long  delayf. 

Uber.  I  am  the  last 

Of  three  sons,  by  one  father  got,  and  train'd  up 
With   his  best  care,  for  service  in  vour  wars  : 
My  father  died  under  his  fatal  hand. 
And  two  of  my  poor  brothers.      Now  I  hear, 
Or  fancy,  wounded  bv  mv  grief,  deludes  me, 
Their  pale  and  mangled  ghosts  crying  for  vengeance 
On  perjury  and  murder.     Thus  the  case  stood  : 
My  father  (on  whose  face  he  durst  not  look 
In  equal  martf)  by  his  fraud  circumvented, 
Became  his  captive  ;  we,  his  sons,  lamenting 
Our  old  sire's  hard  condition,  freely  offer'd 
Our  utmost  for  his  rarsome  :  that  refused, 
The  subtle  tyrant,  for  his  cruel  ends, 
Conceiving  that  our  piety  might  ensnare  us, 
Proposed  my  father's  head  to  be  redeem'd. 
If  two  of  us  would  yield  ourselves  his  slaves. 
We,  upon  any  terms,  resolved  to  save  him, 
Though  with  the  loss  of  life  which  he  gave  to  us, 
With  an  undaunted  constancy  drew  lots 
("For  each  of  us  contended  to  be  one) 
Who  should  preserve  cur  father;  I  was  exempted^ 
But  to  my  more  affliction.     My  brothers 
Deliver'd  up,  the  perjured  homicide 
Laughing  in  scorn,  and  by  his  hoary  locks 
Pulling  my  wretched  father  on  his  knees, 
Said,   Thus  receice  the  father  v»u  have  ransomed! 
And  instantly  struck  ofT  his  head. 

Lor.  Most  barbarous  ! 

Farn.  1  never  saw  this  man. 

Lor.  One  murmur  more, 
I'll  have  thy  tongue  pulled  out. — Proceed. 

Ul>er.  Conceive,  sir, 

How  thunderstruck  we  stood,  being  made  spectators 
Of  ^ch  an  unexpected  tragedy  : 
Yet  this  was  a  beginning,  not  an  end 
To  his  intended  cruelty  ;  for,  pursuing 
Such  a  levenye  as  no  Hyrcanian  tigress 
Hobb'd  of  her  whelps,  durst  aim  at,  in  a  moment, 
Treading  upon  my  father's  trunk,  he  cut  oft' 
My  pious  brothers'  heads,  and  threw  them  at  me. 

* habited  like  a  Florentine  sol- 
dier,] \.  e.  in  the  dress  which  Farne/.e  had  thrown  lo  him. 
t  Lor.  tioldier.   be  brirf;  our  anyer 

Can  brook  n<>  long  delay]    So  the  old  copy.    Coxcter  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  iea:,  with  equal  litlelity  and  iiarmouy, 
iSoldifr,  be  brirf' ; 
Our  anyrr  cannot  broo     a  lony  delay. 

I  In  equal  man,)]  A  vile  transition  of  atquo  marte,  in 
equal  jiyht. 

j  7  was  exempted 

But  to  my  more  affliction,  &c.\  Tlie  strange  pointing  of 
tl:i>  tpwdl  b)  t'o\tt<-r  and  Mi.  M.  Mason,  shows  that  the 
uitt.tmng  01' it  was  totally  misunderstood  by  them. 


473 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


FAcT  II. 


Ob,  what  a  spectacle  was  this  \   what  mountain 
Of  sorrow  overwhelni'd  me!   my  poor  heart-strings, 
As  teuter'd  l-y  liis  tyranny,  crack'd  :  my  knees 
Bea'ing  Vainst  om-  another,  groans  and  tears 
(Mended  together  fn'Jow'd  ,  not  one  passion 

Calntnity  ever  yer  oxr>r'jss'd,  forgotten. 

Now,  miuhty  sir  (bathing  vour  feet  with  tears), 
N  our  suppliant's  suit  is,  that  he  may  have  leave, 
With  any  cruelty  revenue  can  fancy, 
To  sat  rifice  this  monster,  10  appease 
Mv  father's  "'host  and  brothers'. 

Li»r.  Thou  hast  obtain'd  it: 
Choose  anv  'ortiire,  let  (he  memory 
Of  what  thy  father  and  thy  brothers  suffer'd, 
Make  thee  ingenious  in  it ;  such  a  one 
As  Phalli-is  would  wish  to  he  call'd  his. 
Miirtino.  guarded  with  your  soldiers,  see 
The  execution  done';   l>ut  bring  his  head, 
On  forfeiture  of  your  own,  to  us  :  our  presence 
Long  since  was  elsewhere  look'd  for. 

[Erif,  with  Captains  and  Attendants. 

Mart.  Soldier,  to  work  ; 
Take  any  way  thou  wilt  for  thy  revenge, 
Provided  that  he  die  :  his  body's  thine, 
Huf  I  must  have  his  head. 

Uber.   I  have  already 

Concluded  of  the  manner.     O  just  heaven, 
The  instrument  1  wish'd  foroffer'd  me  ! 

Mart.   Why  art  thou  rapt  thus? 

Uber.  In  this  soldier's  hand 
I  see  the  murderer's  own  sword,  I  know  it ; 
Yes,  this  is  it  by  which  my  father  and 
My  brothers  were  beheaded  :   noble  caplain, 
Command   it  to  my  hand.— [Takes  Farneze's  Sword 
from  the  Soldier.] — Stand  forth  and  tremble  : 
This  weapon,  of  late  drunk  with  innocent  hood, 
Shall  now  carouse  thine  own  •  pray,  if  thou  can>t, 
For,  though  the  world  shall  not  redeem  thy  body, 
I  would  not  kill  thy  soul. 


Farn.  Canst  thou  believe 

There  is  a  heaven  or  hell,  or  soul  ?  thou  hast  none, 
In  death  to  rob  me  of  my  fame,  my  honour, 
With  such  a  forged  lie.     Tell  me,  thou  han°-man, 
Where  did  I  ever  see  thy  face  ?  or  when 
Murder'd  thy  sire  or  brothers  ?  look  on  me, 
And  make  it  good  :  thou  dar'st  not. 

Uber.  Yes,  I  will,  [He  unbind*  his  arms. 

In  one  short  whisper  ;  and  that  told,  thou  art  dead. 
I  am  Uberti:   take  thy  sword,  fight  bravely  ; 
We'll  live  or  die  together. 

Mart.   We  are  betray 'd. 

[Martina  is  struck  diiwn,  the  Soldiers  run  of. 

Farn.  And  have  I  leave  once  more,  brave  prince, 

to  ease 
My  head  on  thy  true  bosom? 

Uber.  I  glory  more 

To  be  thy  friend,  than  in  the  name  of  prince, 
Or  any  higher  title. 

Farn.  My  preserver ! 

Uber.  The  life  you  gave  to  me  I  but  return ; 
And  pardon,  dearest  friend,  (he  bitter  language 
Necessity  made  me  use. 

F»*~.  O,  sir,  1  am 

Outdone  in  all  ;  but  comforted,  that  none 
But  you  can  wear  the  laurel. 

Uber.  Here's  no  place 
Or  time  to  argue  this  ;  let  us  fly  hence. 

Farn.  I  follow.  [Exeunt. 

Mart.  [rises.']  A  thousand   furies  keep  you  com- 
pany ! 

I  was  at  the  gate  of  [hell*,]  but  now  1  feel 
My  wound's  not  mortal  ;  1  was  but  astonish'd  ; 
And,  coming  to  m\  self,  I  find  I  am 
.Reserved  for  the  gallows  :  there's  no  looking  on 
The  enmged  duke,  excuses  will  not  serve  ; 
I  must  do  something  that  may  get  my  pardon  ; 
If  not,  I  know  the  worst,  a  halter  ends  all.       [Exit. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— The  Duchy  of  Mantua.    A  part  of  the 
Country  near  Octavio's  Cottage. 

Enter  OCTAVIO,  a  book  in  his  hand. 

Oct.  'Tis  true,  by  proof  I  find  it*,  human  reason 
Views  with  such  dim  eyes  what  is  good  or  ill. 
That  if  the  great  Disposer  of  our  being 
Should  offer  to  our  choice  all  worldly  blessings, 
We  know  not  what  to  take.     When  I  was  young, 
Ambition  of  court-preferment  fired  me: 
And,  as  there  were  no  happiness  beyond  it, 
I  labour'd  for't,  and  got  it ;  no  man  stood 
In  greater  favour  with  his  prince ;  1  had 
Honours  and  offices,  wealth  flowed  in  to  me, 
And,  for  my  service  both  in  peace  and  war, 


•  Oct.  "/'a  true  ;  by  proof  1  find  it,  &c.]  It  appears 
from  tli;s,  that  the  book  which  Ortavio  had  been  reading 
was  Juvenal,  an  ami. or  with  \vl i  Massinuer  was  pecu- 
liarly well  acquainted,  as  thru-  ii,  scaiceK  one  of  his  drama- 
tic pieces  in  which  several  hap,  )  .illn.-i..M>  to  him  do  iiot 
occur:  these,  as  well  as  these  to  Cicero,  Horace,  Ovid,  Se- 
neca, Cl.iiidi.in,  ai!d  others,  a*  M.isMii^er  <k,es  not  ambi- 
tioii'ly  obtrude  them  on  the  eye,  I  have  commonly  kit  to 
the  exercise  of  the  leader's  own  gagadty. 


The  general  voice  gave  out  I  did  deserve  them. 

But,  O  vain  confidence,  insubordinate  greatness  ! 

When  I  was  most  secure  it  was  not  in 

The  power  of  fortune  to  remove  me  from 

The  flat  I  firmly  stood  on,  in  a  moment 

My  virtues  were  made  crimes,  and  popular  favour 

(To  new-raised  men  still  fatal)  bred  suspicion 

That  I  was  dangerous  :  which  no  sooner  enter'd 

(jonzaga's  breast,  but  sttaight  my  ruin  follow'd; 

My  offices  were  ta'en  from  me,  my  state  seized  on  ; 

And,  had  I  not  prevented  it  by  flight, 

The  jealousy  of  the  duke  bad  been  removed 

With  the  forfeiture  of  my  head. 

Hort.  [within.']  Or  show  compassion, 
Or  I  will  force  it. 

Oct.  Ha !  is  not  poverty  safe  ? 

I  thought  proud  war,  that  aim'd  at  kingdoms'  ruins, 
The  sack  of  palaces  and  cities,  scorn 'd 
To  look  on  a  poor  cottage. 


*  /  was  at  the  gate  of  [hell,]  The  dicad  of  a  puritanic.nl 
tribunal  induced  the  printer  In  make  a  break  hcie.  II*H 
was  the  word  omitted,  without  doubt;  it  u  characteristic 
and  becoming  the  rest  of  the  speech. 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


479 


Li.ttr  HORTENSIO  with  ASCANIO  in  his  arms,  GOTHRIO 
jolliniing. 

Gotli.  What  would  vou  have*? 
The  devil  sleeps  in  my  pocket  ;  I  have  no  cross 
To  drive  him  from  it.     Be  you  or  thief  or  soldier, 
Or  such  a  beggar  as  will  not  be  denied, 
My  scrip,  my  tar-box,  hook,  and  coat,  will  prove 
But  a  tliin  purchase  ;  if  you  turn  my  inside  out- 
wards, 

ou'll  h'nd  it  true. 

Hort.  Not  any  food  ?  [Starches  his  scrip. 

Goth.  Alas  !    sir, 

I  nm  no  glutton,  but  an  under-sliepherd  ; 
The  very  picture  of  famine;  judge  by  my  cheeks 

else  : 

I  hare  my  pittance  by  ounces,  and  starve  myself, 
When  I  pay  a  pensioner,  an  ancient  mouse, 
A  crumb  a  meal. 

Hort.   No  drop  left?  [Takes  his  bottle. 

Drunkard  !  hast  thou  swill'd  up  all  ? 

Goth.  How  !  drunkard,  sir  ? 
I  am  a  poor  mun,  you  mistake  me,  sir, 
Drunkard's  a  title  for  the  rich,  my  betters  ; 
A  calling  in  repute  :  some  sell  their  lands  for't, 
And   roar,   Wine's  better  than  money.     Our  poor  be- 
verages 

Of  buttermilk  or  whey  allay 'd  with  water, 
Ne'er   raise  our  thoughts  so  high.     Drunk  !  I  had 

never 
The  credit  to  be  so  yet. 

Hort.  Ascanio, 

Look  up,  dfar  youth  ;  Ascnnio,  did  thy  sweetness 
Command  the  greedy  enemy  to  forbear 
To  prey  upon  it,  and  I  thank  my  fortune 
For  suffering  me  to  live,  that  in  some  part 
I  misht  return  thy  courtesies,  and  now, 
To  heighten  my  afflictions,  must  I  be 
Enforced,  no  pitying  angel  near  to  help  us, 
Heaven  deaf  to  my  complaints,  too,  to  behold  tbee 
Die  in  my  arms  for  hunger?  no  means  left 
To  lengthen  life  a  little !     I  will  open 
A  vein,  and  pour  my  blood,  not  yet  corrupted 
With  any  sinful  act,  but  pure  as  he  is, 
Into  his  famish'd  mouth. 

Oct.  [Comes  forward.]  Young  man,  forbear 
Thy  savage  pity  ;  I  have  better  means 
To  call  back  flying  life. 

[Pours  a  cordial  into  the  mouth  of  Ascanio. 

Goth.  You  may  believe  him  ; 
It  is  his  sucking-bottle,  and  confirms, 
An  old  man's  twice  a  child  ;  his  nurse's  milk 
Was  ne'er  so  chargeable,  should  you  put  in  too 
For  soap  and  candles  :  though  he  sell  his  flock  for't. 
The  baby  must  have  this  dug  :  be  swears  'tis  ill 
For  my  complexion,  but  wonderous  comfortable 
For  an  old  man  that  would  never  die. 

Oct.  Hope  well,  sir  ; 

A  temperate  heat  begins  to  thaw  his  numbness  ; 
The  blood  too  by  degrees  takes  fresh  possession 

•  Goth.  FfTtaf  teoti'd  you  have?  &c.l    The  modern  edi- 
tors hHve  set  their  wit  against  poor  Gothrio,  and    deprived 
him  or  all  pretensions  to  verse.     Certainly  Massinger  mca  • 
him  to  speak  in  measure,  and  though   it  be  not  such   as  t 
superior  characters    use,  ytt    it    suits   ihe  person,  and  rn 
glibly  off  the  tongue.     What  is  more,  the  old  copy  prims-  I 
speeches  as  they  stand  here,  so  that  there   is  no  accoumi 
for  Ihis  vagary  of  Coxeter  and  M.  Mason. 

*  Goth.  You  may  believe  him ;}  This  speech,  which,  like 
most  of  the  rest,  is  strangely  put  into  prose,  is   so  carelessly 
printed,  and  so  ridiculously*  pointed,  ia  the  former  editions, 
thai  it  is  impossible  to  understand  it. 


On  his  pale  cheeks ;  his  pulse  beats  high  :  stand  off. 
Give  him  more  air,  he  stirs. 

[Gothno  steals  the  bottle. 

Goth.  And  have  1  got  tbee, 
Thou  bottle  of  immortality  ! 

Asc.   Where  am  I  ? 

What  cruel  band  hath  forced  back  wretched  life? 
Is  rest  in  death  denied  me  ? 

Goth.  O  sweet  liquor  ! 

Were  here  enough  to  make  me  drunk,  I  might 
Write  myself  gentleman,  and  never  buy 
A  coat  of  the  heralds. 

Oct.  How  now,  slave? 

Goth.   I  was  fiiinting, 

A  clownlike  qualm  seized  on  me,  but  I  am 
Recover'd,  thanks  to  your  bottle,  and  begin 
To  feel  new  stirrings,  gallant  thoughts  :  one  draught 

more 
Will  make  me  a  perfect  signior. 

Oct.  A  tough  cudgel 

Will  take  this  gentle  itch  off;  home  to  my  cottage, 
See  all  things  handsome. 

Goth.  Good  sir,  let  me  have 
The  bottle  along  to  smell  to :  O  rare  perfume  ! 

[Exit. 

Hort.  Speak  once  more,  dear  Ascanio. — How  he 

eyes  you. 

Then  turns  away  his  face  !  look  up,  sweet  youth  ; 
The  object  cannot  hurt  you  ;  this  good  man, 
Next  heaven,  is  your  preserver. 

Asc.  Would  I  had  perish'd 
Without  relief,  rather  than  live  to  break 
His  good  old  heart  with  sorrow.     O  my  shame  ! 
My  shame,  my  never-dying  shame  ! 

Oct.  I  have  been 
Acquainted   with    this    voice,    and  know   the    face 

too : 

Tis  she,  'tis  too  apparent ;  O  my  daughter ! 

I  mourn 'd  long  for  thy  loss,  but  thus  to  find  thee, 

Is  more  to  be  lamented. 

Hort.  How  !  your  daughter  ? 

Oft.  My  only  child ;  1  nnirmur'd  against  heaven 
Because  I  had  no  more,  but  now  I  find 
This  one  too  many. — Is  Alonzo  glutted 

[Maria  weep$ 
With  thy  embraces  ? 

Hort.  At  his  name  a  shower 
Of  tears  falls  from  her  eyes  ;  she  faints  again. 
Grave  sir,  o'er-rule  your  passion,  and  defer 
The  story  of  her  fortune*.     On  my  life 
She  is  a  worthy  one  ;  her  innocence 
Might  be  abused,  but  mischief's  self  wants  power 
To  make  her  guilty.     Show  yourself  a  father 
In  her  recovery;  then  as  a  judge, 
When  she  hath  strength  to  speak  in  her  own  cause, 
You  may  determine  of  her. 

Oct.  I  much  thank  you 
For  your  wise  counsel :  you  direct  me,  sirf. 
As  one  indebted  more  to  years,  and  I 
As  a  pupil  will  obey  you  :  not  far  hence 
1  have  a  homely  dwelling  ;  if  you  please  there 
To  make  some  short  repose,  your  entertainment, 
Though  coarse,  shall  relish  of  a  gratitude, 


*  The  story  of  her  fortune.]  AH  the  editions  real  your 
instead  01  her.  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  the  latter  was  the 
author's  word,  while  the  former  was,  probabh,  in.-erttd  by 
a  very  common  mistake,  from  the  expre*Mun  immediately 
over  it. 

t  • You  direct  me,  fir,]  Me.  which 

completes  both  the  metre  and  the  sense,  is  inserted  irom  the 
old  copy. 


480 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


[AtT 


And  that's  all  I  can  pay  you.     Look  up,  girl, 
Tl'ou  art  in  thy  father's  arms. 

Hort.  She's  weak  and  faint  still — 

0  spare  your  age !     I  am  young  and  strong,  and 

this  way 
To  serve  her  is  a  pleasure,  not  a  burthen  : 

[Takes  her  in  his  arms. 
Pray  you,  lead  the  way. 

Oct.  The  saints  reward  your  goodness  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Tlie  same.    Another  part  of  the  Country. 
Enter  MANFHOY  and  MATILDA  disguised. 

Matil  No  hope  of  safety  left  ? 
Man.  We  are  descried. 

Matil.  I   thought  that,  covered   in  this  poor  dis- 
guise, 

1  might  have  pass'd  unknown. 

Man.  A  diamond, 

Though  set  in  horn,  is  still  a  diamond. 
And  sparkles  as  in  purest  gold.     We  are  follow'd : 
Out  of  the  troops  that  scour'd  the  plains,  I  saw 
Two  gallant  horsemen  break  forth  (who,  by  their 
Brave  furniture  and  habiliments  for  the  war, 
Seem'd  to  command  the  rest),  spurring  hard  to- 
wards us. 

See  with  what  winged  speed  they  climb  the  hill, 
Like  falcons  on  the  stretch  to  seize  the  prey  ! 
Now  they  dismount,  and  on  their  hands  and  knees 
O'ercomethe  deep  ascent*  that  guards  us  from  them. 
Your  beauty  hath  betrayed  you  ;  for  it  can 
No  more  be  night  when  bright  Apollo  shines 
In  our  meridian,  than  that  be  conceal'd. 

Matil.  It  is  my  curse,  not  blessing  ;  fatal  to 
My  country,  father,  and  myself.     Why  did  you 
Forsake  the  city  "t 

Man.  "Twas  the  duke's  command  : 
No  time  to  argue  that ;  we  must  descend. 
If  undiscovered  your  soft  feet,  unused 
To  such  rough  travel,  can  but  carry  you 
Haifa  league  hence,  I  know  a  cave  which  will 
Yield  us  protection. 

Matit.  I  wish  I  could  lend  you 
Part  of  my  speed  ;  for  me,  I  can  outstrip 
Daphne  or  Atalanta. 

Man.  Some  good  angel 
Defend  us,  and  strike  blind  our  hot  pursuers  ! 

[Exeunt. 
Enter  ALONZO  and  PISANO. 

Alon.  She  cannot  be  far  off;  how  gloriously 
She  show'd  to  us  in  the  valley ! 

Pisan.  In  my  thought, 
Like  to  a  blazing  comet. 

Alon.  Brighter  far : 

Her  beams  of  beauty  made  the  hills  all  fire  ; 
From  whence  removed  'tis  cover'd  with  thick  clouds. 
But  we  lose  time  ;  I'll  take  that  way. 

Pinan.  I,  this.  [Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  III.— The  same.     A  Wood. 
Enter  HORTENSIO. 

Hort.  'Tis  a  degree  of  comfort  in  my  sorrow, 
I  have  done  one  good  work  in  reconciling 

*  O'wr.omt  the  deep  ascent.}  So  the  old  copy  :  the  mo- 
dern editions  read  steep  ascent,  which  is  not  so  good,  and 
Which,  indeed,  if  it  were  better,  has  no  business  in  the  text. 


Maria,  long  hid  in  Ascanio's  habit, 
To  grieved  Octavio.     What  a  sympathy 
I  found  in  their  affections  !  she  with  tears 
Making  a  free  confession  of  her  weakness, 
In  yielding  up  her  honour  to  Alonzo, 
Upon  his  vows  to  marry  her  ;  (Jctavio, 
Prepared  to  credit  her  excuses,  nay, 
To  extenuate  her  guilt ;  she  the  delinquent, 
And  judge,  as  'twere,  agreeing. —  But  to  me, 
The  most  forlorn  of  men,  no  beam  of  comfort 
Deigns  to  appear;  nor  can  1,  in  my  fancy, 
Fashion  a  means  to  get  it:  to  my  country 
I  am  lost  for  ever,  and  'twere  impudence 
To  think  of  a  return  ,  yet  this  I  could 
Endure  with  patience ;  but  to  be  divorced 
From  all  my  joy  on  earth,  the  happiness 
To  look  upon  the  excellence  of  nature, 
That  is  perfection  in  herself,  and  needs  not 
Addition  or  epithet,  rare  Matilda*. 
Would  make  a  saint  blaspheme.     Here,  Galeazzo, 
In  this  obscure  abode,  'tis  fit  thou  shouklst 
Consume  thy  youth,  and  grow  old  in  lamenting 
Thy  star-cross'd  fortune,  in  this  shepherd's  habit; 
This  hook  thy  best  defence,  since  thou  couldst  use, 
When  thou  didst  fight  in  such  a  princess'  cause, 
Thy  sword  no  better.  ( Lies  down 

Enter  ALONZO  and  PISANO  with  MATILDA. 

Matil.  Are  you  men  or  monsters  ? 
Whither  will  you  drag  me?  can  the  open  ear 
Of  heaven  be  deaf,  when  an  unspotted  maid 
Cries  out  for  succour  ! 

Pisan.  'Tis  in  vain  ;  cast  lots 
Who  shall  enjoy  her  first. 

Alon.  Flames  rage  within  me, 

And,  such  a  spring  of  nectar  near  to  quench  them; 
My  appetite  shall  be  cloy'd  first :  here  I  stand, 
Thy  friend,  or  enemy  ;  let  me  have  precedence, 
I  write  a  friend's  name  in  my  heart ;  deny  it, 
As  an  enemy  I  defy  thee. 

Pisan.  Friend  or  foe 
In  this  alike  I  value,  I  disdain 
To  yield  priority  ;  draw  thy  sword. 

Alon.  To  sheath  it 
In  thy  ambitious  heart. 

Matil.  O  curb  this  fury, 
And  hear  a  wretched  maid  first  speak. 

Hort.  I  am  marble. 

Matil.  Where  shall  I  seek  out  words  or  how  re- 
strain 

My  enemies'  rage  or  lovers'  ?  Oh,  the  latter 
Is  far  more  odious  :   did  not  your  lust 
Provoke  you,  for  that  is  its  proper  name, 
My  chastity  were  safe  ;  and  yet  I  tremble  more 
To  think  what  dire  effects  lust  may  bring  forth, 
Than  what,  as  enemies,  you  can  inflict, 
And  less  I  fear  it.     Be  friends  to  yourselves. 
And  enemies  to  me  ;  better  I  fall 
A  sacrifice  to  your  atonement,  than 
Or  one  or  both  should  perish.     I  am  the  cause 
Of  your  division  ;  remove  it,  lords, 
And  concord  will  spring  up :  poison  this  face 


•  Addition  or  epithet,  rare  Matilda,}  To  say  that  Ma- 
tilda required  no  epithet,  and  immediately  to  give  her  one, 
serms  an  oversight  which  I  am  unwilling  to  attribute  to  the 
author.  Perhaps  the  comma  should  be  placed  alte 


rare,  or 
ay  be  an 
>mprtcal 

mi:;lit  be 
or  rare 
ool,  who 
were  accustomed  to  pioni/unce  addition  as  a  quadrisyllable. 


the  word  itself  (though  tlsis  1  do  not  build  on),  n 
addition  of  tlie  players,  not  always  the  most  c 
judges  of  propriety,  or  even  of  poetry.  The  line 
improved  to  a  modern  ear  by  reading — Addition 
epithet,  but  not  to  that  of  Maninger  and  his 


SCENE  II I.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


4P1 


That  hath  bewitch'd  you,  this  grove  cannot  want 

Aspics  or  toads  ;  creatures,  though  justly  call'd 

For  their  deformity,  the  scorn  of  nature, 

More  happy  than  myself  with  this  false  beauty 

(The  seed  and  fruit  of  mischief)  you  admire  so. 

I  thus  embrace  \our  knees,  and  yours,  a  suppliant 

If  tigers  did  not  nurse  you,  or  you  t-uck 

The  milk  of  a  fierce  lioness,  show  compassion 

Unto  yourselves  in  being  reconciled. 

And  pity  to  poor  me,  my  honour  safe, 

In  taking  loath'd  life  from  me. 

Piian.   What  shall  we  do? 
Or  end  our  difference  in  killing  her, 
Or  fight  it  out? 

Aton.  To  the  last  gasp.     I  feel 
The  moist  tears  on  my  cheeks,  and  blus'u  to  find 
A  virgin's  plaints  can  move  so. 

Pisan.  To  prevent 

Her  flight  while  we  contend,  let's  bind  her  fast 
To  this  cypress-tree. 

Alon.  Agreed. 

Mutil.  It  does  presage 
My  funeral  rites*.  [.They  bind  Matilda. 

Hort.  I  shall  turn  atheist 
If  Heaven  see  and  suffer  this  :  why  did  I 
Abandon  my  good  sword  ?  with  unarm 'd  hands 
I  cannot  rescue  her.     Some  angel  pluck  me 
From  the  apostacy  I  am  falling  to, 
And  by  a  miracle  lend  me  a  weapon 
To  underprop  falling  honour. 

Pisan.  t-he  is  fast : 
Resume  your  arms. 

Alon.  Honour,  revenge,  the  maid  too, 
Lie  at  the  stake. 

Pisun.  Which  thus  I  draw. 

[Theyfght,  Pisano  fails. 

Alon.  All's  mine, 

But  bought  with  some  blood  of  my  own.     Pisano, 
Thou  wert  a  noble  enemy,  wear  that  laurel 
In  death  to  comfort  thee :  for  the  reward, 
'Tis  mine  now  without  rival. 

[Hortensiu  snatches  up  Piano's  sword, 

Ho'-t.  Thou  art  deceived  ; 
Men  will  grow  up  like  to  the  dragon's  teeth 
From  Cadmus'  helm,  sown  in  the  field  of  Mars, 
To  guard  pure  chastity  from  lust  <ind  rape. 
Libidinous  monster,  satyr,  faun,  or  what 
Does  better  speak  thee,  slave  to  appetite, 
And  sensual  baseness  ;  if  thy  profane  hand 
But  touch  this  virgin  temple,  thou  art  dead. 

Matil.  1  see  the  aid  of  heaven,  though  slow,  is 
sure. 

ALon.  A  rustic  swain  dare  to  retard  my  pleasure  ! 

Hart.  No    swain,    Alonzo,   but   her   knight  and 

servant 

To  whom  the  world  should  owe  and  pay  obedience  ; 
One  that  thou  hast  encounter'd,  and  shrunk  under 
His  arm  ;  that  spared  thy  life  in  the  late  battle, 
At  the  intercession  of  the  princess'  page. 
Look  on  me  belter. 


*  Malil.  Jt  doft  presage 

My  funeral  rites.]  To  understand  this,  it  may  be  neces- 
•»ry  lo  observe  lh.it  llie  Komans,  and  some  other  nations, 
always  c.uried  cypress  boughs  in  tluir  funeral  precessions. 
To  this  Horace  alludes  in  a  strain  of  beautiful  pathos: 

neque  harum  quat  colis  arborum 

7'e,  prtzterinvisatcupreisiit, 

Vila  brerem  dominum  si-qvettir. 

It  was  an  ill-timi-d  recollection  of  this  circumstance  which 
drew  npon  Dryden  the  clumsy  sneer  of  the  stupid  Milboiirne. 
—See  his  Obtervationi  on  the  Trantlation  of  the  Georgia. 


Matil.  Tis  my  virtuous  lover  ! 
Under  his  guard  'twere  sin  to  doubt  my  safety. 

Alnn.  I  know  thee,  and  with  courage  will  redeem 
What  fortune  then  took  from  me. 

Hort.  Raiher  keep  [They  fight,  AlonzofalU 

Thy  compeer  company  in  death. — Lie  by  him, 
A  prey  for  crows  and  vultures  ;  these  fuir  anus, 

[He  nntiiitilf  Matilda 

Unfit  for  bonds,  should  have  been  chains  to  nuike 
A  bridegroom  happy,  though  a  prince,  and  proud 
Of  such  captivity  :  whatsoe'er  you  are, 
I  glory  in  the  service  1  have  done  you  ; 
But  I  entreat  you*  pay  your  vows  and  piayers, 
For  preservation  of  your  life  and  honour, 
To  the  most  virtuous  princess,  chaste  Matilda. 
I  am  her  creature,  and  what  good  1  do, 
You  truly  may  call  her's  ;  what's  ill,  mine  own. 

Matil.  You  never  did  do  ill,    my   virtuous  ser- 
vant ; 

Nor  is  it  in  the  power  of  poor  Matilda 
To  cancel  such  an  obligation  as. 
With  humble  willingness,  she  must  subscribe  to. 

Hort.  The  princess  ?  ha  ! 

Matil.  Give  me  a  fitter  name, 
Your  manumised  bondwoman,  but  even  now 
In  the  possession  of  lust,  from  which 
Your  more  than  brave — heroic  valour  bought  me: 
And  can  1  then,  for  freedom  unexpected, 
But  kneel  to  you,  my  patron? 

Hort.  Kneel  to  me  ! 
For   heaven's   sake   rise  ;  I    kiss   the   ground   you 

tread  on, 

My  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth  ;  for  I  confess 
I  am  a  thing  not  worthy  to  look  on  you, 
Till  you  have  sign'd  my  pardon. 

Matil.  Do  you  interpret 
The  much  good  you  have  done  me,  an  offence  ? 

Hort.  The  not  performing  your  injunctions  to  me. 
Is  more  than  capital  :  your  allowance  of 
My  love  and  service  to  you,  with  admission 
To  each  place  you  made  paradise  with  your  pre- 
sence. 

Should  have  enabled  me  to  bring  home  conquest: 
Then,  as  a  sacrifice,  ta  offer  it 
At  the  altar  of  your  favour  :  had  my  love 
Answer'd  your  bounty,  or  my  hopes,  >m  army 
Had  been  as  dust  before  me  ;  whereas  1, 
Like  a  coward,  turn'd  my  back,  and  durst  not  stand 
The  fury  of  the  enemy. 

Mutil.  Had  you  done 

Nothing  in  the  battle,  this  last  act  deserves  more 
Than  1,  the  duke  my  father  joining  with  me, 
Can  ever  recompense.     But  take  your  pleasure ; 
Suppose  you  have  offended  in  not  grasping 
Your  bound  less  hopes,  1  thus  seal  on  your  lips 
A  full  remission. 

Hort.  Let  mine  touch  your  foot. 
Your  hand's  too  high  a  favour. 

Matil.   Will  you  force  me 
To  ravish  a  kiss  from  you  ? 

Hort.  I  am  entranced. 
Matit.  So   much   desert   and    bashfulness    should 

not  march 

In  the  same  file.     Take  comfort ;  when  you  have 
brought  me 

•  But  I  entreat  you,  &c  ]  This  is  in  the  true  spirit  of 
kniglit-irrantry  ;  and,  indeed,  nothing  but  constantly  bear- 
ing in  mind  tire  Linguae  and  m.iniieis  ..f  thi-g-dl.uit  but  TO- 
m:iniic  description  of  men.  can  lei-onci  e  us  t..  llie  profouad 
reverence  with  which  Gulcazzo  regards  hi,  mistress. 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


[Aer  IIT. 


To  some  place  of  security,  you  shall  find 
You  have  a  seat  here,  in  a  heart  that  hath 
Already  studied  and  vowed  to  be  thankful. 

Hurt.  Heaven    make    me   so !    oh,    1   am   over- 

whelm'd 

With  an  excess  of  joy  !  Be  not  too  prodigal, 
Divinest  lady,  of  your  grace  and  bounties 
At  once,  if  you  are  pleased  I  shall  enjoy  them, 
Not  taste  them  and  expire. 

Matil.  I'll  be  more  sparing.  [Ereunt. 

Enter  OCTAVIO,  GOTHHIO,  and  MARIA. 

Oct.  What  noise  of  clashing  swords,  like  armour 

fashion'd 

Upon  an  anvil,  pierced  mine  ears ;  the  echo 
Redoubling  the  loud  sound  through  all  the  rallies  ? 
This  way  the  wind  assures  me  that  it  came. 

Goth.  Then  with  your  pardon,  I'll  take  this. 

Oft.   Why,  sirrah? 

Gut/i.  Because,  sir,  I  will  trust  my  heels  before 
All  winds  that  blow  in  the  sky :  we  are  wiser  far 
Than  our  grantisires  were,  and  in  this  I'll  prove  it; 
They  said,  Haste  tn  the  beginning  of  a  feast, 
There  I  am  with  them,  but  to  the  end  of  a  fray — 
That  is  apocryphal,  'tis  more  canonical 
Not  to  come  there  at  all ;  after  a  storm 
There  are  still  some  drops  behind. 

Mar.  Pure  fear  hath  made 
The  fool  a  philosopher. 

Oct.  See,  Maria,  see ! 

I  did  not  err ;  here  lie  two  brave  men  weltering 
In  iheir  own  gore. 

Mar.    A  pitiful  object. 

doth.  I  am  in  a  swoon  to  look  on't. 

Oct.  They  are  stiff  already. 

Goth.  But  are  you  sure  they  are  dead  ? 

Oct.  Too  sure,  I  fear. 

Goth.  But  are  they  stark  dead  ? 

Oct.   Leave  prating.  [them. 

Goth.  Then  I  am  valiant,  and  dare  come  nearer  to 
This  fellow  without  a  sword  shall  be  my  patient. 

[Goes  to  Pisano. 

Oct.  Whate'er  they  are,  humanity  commands  us 
To  do  our  best  endeavour.     Run,  Maria,        [there 
To  the  neighbour  spring   for  water  ;  you  will  find 
A  wooden  dish,  the  beggar's  plate,  to  bring  it . 

[Exit  Maria. 

Why  dost  not,  dull  drone,  bend  his  body",  and  feel 
If  any  life  remain  ? 

Goth.  By  your  leave,  he  shall  die  first, 
And  then  I'll  be  his  surgeon. 

Oct.  Tear  ope  his  doublet, 
And  prove  if  his  wounds  be  mortal. 

Goth.   Fear  not  me,  sir : 
Here's  a  large  wound.— [Feels  his  pocket.']  —  How  it 

is  swoln  and  imposthumed  ! 

This  must  be  cunningly  drawn  out,  should  it  break, 
[Pulls  out  his  purse. 

'Twould  strangle  him  ;  what  a  deal  of  foul  matter's 

here !  [too 

This  haih   been  long  a-gathering.      Here's  a  gash 

On  the  rim  of  his  belly, — [Feels  his  side  pocket.'] — 

it  may  have  matter  in  it. 

He  was  a  choleric  man,  sure  ;  what  comes  from  him 
[Takes  out  his  money. 

Is  yr;llow  as  gold  ! — how,  troubled  with  the  stone 
too  !  [Seeing  a  diamond  ring  on  hisjinger. 

I'll  cut  vou  for  this. 


•  See  Note,  p.  72. 


Pisan.  Oh,  oh  !  [Starts  vp* 

G«th.  He  roars  before  I  touch  him. 

Pisan.  Robb'd  of  my  life  ? 

Goth.  No,  sir,  nor  of  vour  monny, 
Nor  jewel  ;   1  keep  them  for  you  : — if  I  had  been 
A  perfect  mountebank,  he  had  not  lived 
To  call  for  his  fees  ngain. 

Oc(.   Give  me  leave  -there's  hope 
Of  his  recovery.        [Q«'<«  PiS'ino  and  goes  to  Alonzo. 

Goth.  I  hud  rather  bui  v  him  quick 
Than  part  with  my  purchase ;  let  his  ghost  walk, 
1  care  not. 

He-enter  MAIIIA  with  a  dish  of  water. 

Oct.  Well  done,  Maria  ;  lend  thy  helping  hand : 
He  hath  a  deep  wound  in  his  head,  wash  off 
The  clotted  blood  :   he  comes  to  himself. 

A  ton.  My  lust  ! 

The  fruit  that  grows  upon  the  tree  of  lust ! 
With  horror  now  I  taste  it. 

Oct.   Do  you  not  know  him  ? 

Mar.   Too  soon.    Alonzo  !    oh  me  !    though  dis- 
loyal, 
Still  dear  to  thy  Maria. 

Goth.  So  they  know  not 
My  patient,  all's  cocksure  ;  I  do  not  like 
The  Homanish  restitution. 

Oct.  Rise,  and  leave  him. 
Applaud  heaven's  justice. 

Afar.  'Twill  become  me  better 
To  implore  its  saving  mercy. 

Oct.   Hast  thou  no  gall  ? 
No  feeling  of  thy  wrongs? 

Mar.  Turtles  have  none  ; 
Nor  can  there  be  such  poison  in  her  breast 
That  truly  loves,  and  lawfully. 

Ort.  True,  if  that  love 

Be  placed  on  a  worthy  subject.     What  he  is, 
In  thy  disgrace  is  published ;  heaven  bath  mark'd 

him% 

For  punishment,  and  'twere  rebellious  madness 
In  thee  to  attempt  to  alter  it :  revenge, 
A  sovereign  balm  for  injuries,  is  more  proper 
To  thy  robb'd  honour.     Join  with  me,  and  thou 
Shalt  be  thyself  the  goddess  of  revenge, 
This  wretch  the  vassal  of  thy  wrath  :   I'll  make  him, 
While  yet  he  lives,  partake  those  torments  which 
For  perjured  lovers  are  prepared  in  hell, 
Before  his  curs'd  ghost  enter  it.     This  oil, 
Extracted  and  sublimed  from  all  the  simples 
The  earth,   when  swoln   with  venom,  e'er  brought 

forth, 

Pour'd  in  his  wounds,  shall  force  such  anguish  as 
The  furies'  whips  but  imitate;  and  when 
Extremity  of  pain  shall  hasten  death, 
Here  is  another  that  shall  keep  in  life, 
And  make  him  feel  a  perpetuity 
Of  lingering  tortures. 

GotK.  Knock  them  both  o'  th'  head,  I  say, 
An  it  be  but  for  their  skins  ;  they  are  embroider'd, 
And  will  sell  well  in  the  market. 

Mar.  Ill-look 'd  devil, 

Tie  up  thy  bloody  tongue.     O  sir  !  I  was  slow 
In  beating  down  those  propositions  which 
You  urge  for  my  revenge ;  my  reasons  being 
So  many,  and  so  forcible,  that  make 
Against  yours,  that  until  I  had  collected 
My  scatter'd  powers,  I  wavered  in  my  choice 
Which  I  should  first  deliver.     Fate  hath  brought 
My  enemy  (I  can  faintly  call  him  sol 


SCKNB  I.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


483 


Prostrate  before  -my  feet ;  shall  I  abuse 

The  bounty  of  my  fate,  by  trampling  on  him  ? 

He  alone  ruin'd  me,  nor  can  any  hand 

But  his  rebuild  my  late  demolish 'd  honour. 

If  you  deny  me  means  of  reparation, 

To  satisfy  your  spleen,  you  are  more  cruel 

Thau  ever  yet  Alonzo  was;  you  stump 

The  name  of  strumpet  on  my  forehead,  which 

Heaven's  mercy  would  take  off;  you  fan  the  fire 

E'en  ready  to  go  out,  forgetting  that 

'Tis  truly  noble,  having  power  to  punish, 

Kay,  kinglike,  to  forbear  it.     I  would  purchase 

My  husband  by  such  benefits  as  should  make  him 

Confess  himself  my  equal,  and  disclaim 

Superiority. 

Oct.  My  blessing  on  thee  ! 


\Vh;it  I  urged  was  a  trial ;  an<i  my  grant 
To  thy  desires  shiill  now  appear,  if  art 
Or  long  experience  can  do  l.iui  service. 
Nor  shall  my  charity  to  this  be  wanting, 
Howe'er  unknown:  help  me,  Maria  :  you,  sir. 
Do  your  best  to  raise  him. — So. 

Goth     He's  wond'rous  heavy  ; 
But  tiie  porter's  paid,  there's  the  comfort. 

Ort.  'Tis  but  a  trance, 
And  'twill  forsake  boih. 

Mar.  If  he  live,  J  tear  not 
lie  will  redeem  all,  and  in  thankfulness 
Confirm  he  owes  you  for  a  second  life, 
And  pay  the  debt  in  making  me  his  wife. 

[Exeunt  Octaviu  and   Maria  with  Alonzo,  and 
Gothrio  u'lih  Pisano. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — Lorenzo's    Camp  under   the    Walls   of 
Mantua. 

Enter  LORENZO  and  Captains. 
Lor.  Mantua   is   ours ;   place  a  strong  garrison 

in  it 

To  keep  it  so  ;  and  as  a  due  reward 
To  your  brave  service,  be  our  governor  in  it. 

1  dipt.  I  humbly  thank  your  excellence.     [Eiif. 
Lor.  Gon/aga 

Is  yet  out  of  our  gripe  ;  but  his  strong  fort, 

St.  Leo,  which  he  holds  impregnable 

By  the  aids  of  art,  as  nature,  shall  not  long 

Retard  our  absolute  conquest.     The  escape 

Of  fair  Matilda,  my  supposed  mistress 

(  For  whose  desired  possession  'twas  given  out 

1  made  this  war),  I  value  not ;  alas  ! 

Cupid's  too  feeble-eyed  to  hit  my  heart, 

Or  could  he  see,  his  arrows  are  too  blunt 

To  pierce  it ;  his  imagined  torch  is  quench'd 

With  a  more  glorious  fire  of  my  ambition 

To  enlarge  my  empire  :  soft  and  silken  amours, 

With  carpet  courtship,  which  weak  princes  style 

The  happy  issue  of  a  flourishing  peace, 

My    toughness   scorns.       Were   there   an   abstract 

made 

Of  all  the  eminent  and  canonized  beauties 
By  truth  recorded,  or  by  poets  feia;n'd, 
1  could  unmoved  behold  it ;  as  a  picture, 
Commend   the   workmanship,   and  think  no   more 

on't ; 

I  have  more  noble  ends.     Have  you  not  heard  yet 
Of  Alonzo,  or  Pisano  ? 

2  Capt.  My  lord,  of  neither. 

Lor.  Two  turbulent  spirits  unfit  for  discipline, 
Much  less  command  in  war  ;  if  they  were  lost, 
1  should  not  pine  with  mourning. 

Enter   MARTINO   and    Soldiers  with    MATILDA    and 

HontENsio. 

Mart.  Bring  them  forward  ; 
This  will  make  my  peace,  though  I  had  kill'd  his 

father, 

Besides  the  reward  that  follows 
Lor.  Ha,  Martino  ! 


Where  is  Farneze's  head  ?   dost  thou  stare  !    and 

where 
The  soldier  that  desired  the  torture  of  him  1 

Mart.  An't  please  your  excellence     •    • 

Lor.  It  doih  not  please  us  ; 
Are  our  commands  ohey'd  ? 

Mart.  Farneze's  head,  sir, 
Is  a  thing  not  worth  your  thought,  the  soldier's 

less,  sir  : 

I  have  brought  your  highness  such  a  head  !  a  head 
So  well  set  on  too  !  a  fine  head 

Lor.  Take  that  [Strikes  him. 

For  thy  impertinence  :  what  head,  you  rascal  .' 

Mart.  My  lord,  if  they  that  bring  such  presents 

to  you 

Are  thus  rewarded,  there  are  few  will  strive 
To  be  near  your  grace's  pleasures  :  but  1  know 
You  will  repent  your  choler.      Here's  the  head  : 
And  now  I  draw  the  curtain,  it  hath  a  face  too, 
And  such  a  face 

Lot-.  Ha  ! 

Mart.  View  her  all  o'er,  my  lord, 
My  company  on't,  she's  sound  of  wind  and  limb, 
And  will  do  her  labour  tightly,  a  bona  roka  ; 
And  for  her  face,  as  I  said,  there  are  five  hundred 
City-dubb'd  madams  in  the  dukedom,  that  would 

part  with 

Their  jointures   to   have  such  another: — hold  up 
your  head,  maid, 

Lor    Of  what  age  is  the  day  1 

Mart.  Sir,  since  sunrising 
About  two  hours. 

Lor.  Thou  liest ;  the  sun  of  beauty. 
In  modest  blushes  on  her  cheeks,  but  now 
Appear'd  to  me,  and  in  her  tears  breaks  forth 
As  through  a  shower  in  April ;  every  drop 
An  orient  pearl,  which,  as  it  fulls,  congeal'd. 
Were  ear-rings  for  the  catholic  king,  [to  be*] 
Worn  on  his  birth-day. 


•    H'rrr  ear-rinijs  for  the  catholic  king,  [to  be] 

Horn  on  his  h'irth-day.]  1    lia%e   \e.,im.-<l   lo    Iwwl  the 

words    in   brackets,    soim-tlmi"    !ik<    ihi-n,,  H>   I  conjtc  me 

from  tin-  deficiency  of   >ens»:  *n<l  ii.flrt-,  dating  atrul.  null) 

dropt  out  at  tlic  press.     The  nclies  of  tlie  Suaii^b  10004:  cJi 


484 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


[AcrlV 


Mart.  Here's  a  sudden  change  ! 

Lor.  Incensed  Cupid,  whom  even  now  I  scorn'd, 
Hath  ta'en  his  stand,  and  by  reflection  shines 
(As  if  he  had  two  bodies,  or  indeed 
A  brother-twin  whom  sight  cannot  distinguish) 
Jn  her  fair  eyes  :  see  how  they  head  their  arrows 
With  her  bright  beams  !  now  frown,  as  if  my  heart, 
Rebellious  to  their  edicts,  were  unworthy, 
Should  I  rip  up  my  bosom,  to  receive 
A  wound  from  such  divine  artillery  ! 

Mart.  I  am  made  for  ever. 

Matil.  We  are  lost,  dear  servant. 

/fort.  Virtue's  but  a  word  ; 
Fortune  rules  all. 

MaiiV.   We  are  her  tennis-balls. 

Lor.  Allow  her  fair,  her  symmetry  and  features 
So  well  proportion'd,  as  the  heavenly  object 
With  admiration  would  strike  Ovid  dumb, 
Nay,  force  him  to  forget  his  faculty 
In  verse,  aud  celebrate  her  praise  in  prose*. 
What's  this  to  me?     1  that  have  pass'd  my  youth 
Unscorch'd  with  wanton  fires,  my  sole  delight 
In  glittering  arms,  my  conquering  sword  my  mis- 
tress, 

Neighing  of  barbed  horse,  the  cries  and  groans 
Of  vanquish'd  foes  suing  for  life,  my  music  : 
And  slmll  I,  in  the  autumn  of  my  age 
Now,  when  I  wear  the  livery  of  time 
Upon  my  head  and  beard,  suffer  myself 
To  be  transform'd,  and  like  a  puling  lover, 
With  arms  thus  folded  up,  echo  Ah  me's! 
And  write  myself  a  bondman  to  my  vassal? 
It  must  not,  nay,  it  shall  not  be  :  remove 
The  object,  and  the  effect  dies:.     Nearer,  Martino. 

Mart,  i  sball  have  a  regiment :  colonel  Martino, 
I  cannot  go  less*- 

Lnr.  What  thing  is  this  thou  hast  brought  me? 

Mart.  What  thing  1  heaven  bless  me  !  are  you  a 
Florentine, 

Nay,  the  great  duke  of  Florentines,  and  having 

had  her 

So  long  in  your  power,  do  you  now  ask  what  she  is? 
'1  ake  her  aside  and  learn  ;  I  have  brought  you  that 
I  look  to  be  dearly  p.iid  for. 

Lor.  1  am  a  soldier, 
And  use  of  women  will,  Martino,  rob 
My  nerves  of  strength. 

Mart.  All  armour  and  no  smock  ? 
Abominable  !  a  little  of  the  one  with  the  other 
Is  excellent :   I  ne'er  knew  general  yet, 
Nor  prince  that  did  deserve  to  be  a  worthy, 
But  he  desired  to  have  his  sweat  wash'd  off 
By  ajuicy  bedfellow. 

Lor.   But  say  she  be  unwilling 
To  do  that  office  i 

Mart.  Wrestle  with  her,  I  will  wager 
Ten  to  one  on  your  grace's  side. 


were    now  proverbial,    and,    indeed,   with    justice,  for  the 
mines  of  Chili   and   of  Peru  were,  at  this  time,  incessantly 
pouring  into  his  treasury  masses  ol  wealth,  which  formed  at 
eace  the  envy  imil  tl\c  astonishment  of  Europe. 
•    If  ith  admiration  would  strike  Ovid  dumb; 
Nay  farce  him  to  forget  his  faculty 
Jn  terse,  and  celebrate  her  praise  in  prose]      I  doubt 
whetl  er  the  Duke  was  sufficiently  conversant  with   Ovid  to 
decide  on  this  matter.     Whatever  his  admiration  might  be, 
he  w»uld!ia\c  expressed  it  with  mure  facility  in  verse  than 
in  pro:e,   tor,    as   he    tells  ui  himself,  "  he  lisped  in  num- 
bers:" 

Et  quod  trntabam  dicer f,  versus  erat. 
t  /  cannot  go  less.]     I  cannot  accept  of  less. 


Lor.  Slave,  hast  thou  brought  me 
Temptation  in  a  beauty  not  to  be 
With  prayers  resisted  ;  and,  in  place  of  counsel 
To  master  my  affections,  and  to  guard 
My  honour,  now  besieged  by  lust,  with  the  arms 
Of  sober  temperance,  mark  me  out  a  way 
To  be  a  ravisher  ?   Would  thou  hadst  shown  me 
Some  monster,  though  in  a  mort-  uglv  form 
Than  Nile  or  Afric  ever  bred  !  The  basilisk, 
Whose  envious  eye  yet  never  brook'd  a  neighbour. 
Kills  but  the  body  ;  her  more  potent  eve 
Buries  alive  mine  honour  :   Shall  I  yield  thus  ? 
And  all  brave  thoughts  of  victory  and  triumphs, 
The  spoils  of  nations,  the  loud  applauses 
Of  happy  subjects  made  so  by  my  conquests  ; 
And  what's  the  crown  of  all,  a  glorious  name 
Inseulp'd  on  pyramids  to  posterity, 
Be  drench'd  in  Lethe,  and  no  object  take  me 
But  a  weak  woman,  rich  in  colours  only, 
Too  delicate  a*  touch,  and  some  rare  features 
Which  age  or  sudden  sickness  will  take  from  her! 
And  where's  then  the  reward  of  all  my  service, 
Love-soothing  passions,  nay,  idolatry, 
I  must  pay  to  her?  Hence,  and  with  thee  take 
This  second  but  more  dangerous  Pandora, 
Whose  fatal  box,  if  open'd,  will  pour  on  mo 
All  mischiefs  that  mankind  is  subject  to. 
To  the  deserts  with  this  Circe,  this  Calypso, 
This  fair  enchantress!  let  her  spells  and  charms 
Work  upon  beasts  and  thee,  than  whom  wise  nature 
Ne'er  made  a  viler  creature. 

Matil.  Happy  exile ! 

/fort.  Some  spark  of  hope  remains  yet. 

Mart.  Come,  you  are  mine  now. 
I  will  remove  her  where  your  highness  shall  not 
Or  see  or  hear  more  of  her :   what  a  sum 
Will  she  yield  for  the  Turk's  seraglio! 

Lor.  Stay  ;  I  feel 
A  sudden  alteiation. 

Mart.  Here  are  fine  whimsies. 

Lor.  Why   should   I   part  with    her?    can  any 

foulness 

Inhabit  such  a  clean  and  gorgeous  palace? 
The  fish,  the  fowl,  the  beasts,  may  safer  leave 
The  elements  they  were  nourish 'd  in,  and  live, 
Than  I  endure  her  absence  ;  yet  her  presence 
Is  a  torment  to  me :  why  do  1  call  it  so? 
My  sire  enjoy'd  a  woman,  I  had  not  been  else ; 
He  was  a  comple'e  prince,  and  shall  I  blush 
To  follow  his  example  ?  Oh  !  but  my  choice, 
Though  she  gave  suffrage  to  it,  is  beneaih  me  : 
But  even  now  in  my  proud  thoughts  I  scorn'd 
A  princess,  fair  Matilda ;  and  is't  decreed 
For  punishment,  I  straight  must  dote  on  one, 
What,  or  from  whence,  1  know  not  ?  Grant  she  be 
Obscure,  without  a  coat  or  family, 
Those  I  can  give :   and  yet,  if  she  were  noble, 
My  fondness  were  more  pardonable.     Mar'.ino, 
Dost  thou  know  thy  prisoner  ? 

Mart.  Do  I  know  myself  ? 
I  kept  that  for  the  1'envoyt  ;  tis  the  daughter 
Of  your  enemy,  duke  Gonzaga. 

Lor.  Fair  Matilda ! 

I  now  call  to  my  memory  her  picture, 
And  find  this  is  the  substance  ;  but  her  painter 
Did  her  much  wrong,  I  see  it. 

•  Too  delicate  a  touch,]  I  know  not  how  the  modern  edi 
tors  understood  this  passage,  but  they  read,  Too  delicate  to 
touch,  which  quite  perverts  the  sense  of  their  author. 

t  1  kept  that  for  the  1'envoy  ;]  i.  e.  for  the  last. 


CENE  II.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVFR. 


48 


Mart.  1  am  sure 

I  tugg'd  hard  for  her,  here  are  wounds  can  witness, 
Before  I  could  call  her  mine. 

Lor.  No  matter  how  : 
Make  thine  own  ransome,  I  will  pay  it  for  her. 

Mart.  I  knew  'twould  come  at  last. 

Matil.  We  are  lost  again. 

Hort.  Variety  of  afflictions  ! 

Lor.  'J  hut  his  knee, 

That  never  yet  bow'd  to  mortality,  [Kneels. 

Kisses  the  earth  happy  to  hear  your  weight, 
J  know,  begets  your  wonder  ;  hear  the  reason, 
And  cast  it  oft': — your  beauty  does  command  it. 
Till  now,  I  never  saw  you  ;  fume  hath  been 
Too  sparing  in  report  of  your  perfections, 
Which  now  with  admiration  1  gaze  on. 
Be  not  afraid,  fair  virgin  ;  h<td  you  been 
Em  ploy  *d  to  mediate  your  father's  cause, 
My  drum  had  been  unbraced,  my  trumpet  hungup  ; 
ft  or  had  the  terror  of  the  war  e'er  frighted 
His  peaceful  confines  :  your  demands  had  been, 
As  soon  as  spoke,  agreed  to  :  but  you'll  answer, 
And  may  with  reason,  words  make  no  satisfaction 
For  what's  in  fact  committed.      Vet,  take  comfort, 
Something  my  pious  love  commands  me  do, 
Which  may  call  down  your  pardon. 

Matil.  This  expression 
Of  jeverence  to  your  person  better  suits 

[Raises  Lorenzo,  and  kneels. 

With  my  low  fortune.     That  you  deign  to  love  me, 
Mv  weakness  would  persuade  me  to  believe, 
'J  hough  conscious  of  mine  own  unworlhiness  : 
You  being  as  the  liberal  eye  of  heaven, 
Which  may  shine  where  it  pleases,  let  your  beams 
Ot  favour  warm  and  comfort,  not  consume  me  ! 
For,  should  your  love  grow  to  excess,  1  dare  not 
Deliver  what  1  fear. 

Lor.  Dry  your  fair  eyes; 

I  apprehend  your  doubts,  and  could  be  angry, 

II  humble  love  could  \varrant  it,  you  should 
Nourish  such  base  thoughts  of  me.     Heaven  bear 

witness, 

And,  if  I  break  my  vow,  dart  thunder  at  me, 
You  are,  and  shall  be,  in  my  tent  as  free 
From  fear  of  violence,  as  a  cloister'd  nun 
Kneeling  before  the  altar.     What  I  purpose 
Is  yet  an  embryon  ;  but,  grown  into  form, 
I'll  give  you  power  to  be  the  sweet  disposer 
Of  blessings  unexpected  ;  that  your  father, 
Your  country,  people,  children  yet  uuboru  too, 
In  holy  hymns,  on  festivals,  shall  sing 
The  triumph  of  your  beauty.     On  your  hand 
Once  more  i  swear  it : — O  imperious  Love, 
Look  down,  and,  as  I  truly  do  repent, 
Prosper  the  good  ends  of  thy  penitent! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Duchy. — A  Room  in  Octavio's  Cottage. 
Enter  OCTAVIO,  difguised  as  a  Priest,  and  MARIA. 

Oct.  You  must  not  be  too  sudden,  my  Maria, 
In  being  known  :   I  am,  in  this  friar's  habit, 
As  yet  conceal'd.     Though  his  recovery 
Be  almost  certain,  1  must  work  him  to 
Repentance  by  degrees  ;  when  I  would  hare  you 
Appear  in  your  true  shape  of  sorrow,  to 
34 


Move  his  compassion,  I  will  stamp  thus, then 

You  know  to  act  your  part 

Mar.   I  shall  be  careful.  [£«'!. 

Oct.  If  I  can  cure  the  ulcers  of  his  mind, 
As  1  despair  not  of  his  body's  wounds, 
Felicity  crowns  my  labour. — Gothrio! 

Enter  GOTHRIO. 

Goth.  Here,  sir. 

Oct.  Desire  my  patients  to  leave  their  chamber. 
And  take  fresh  air  here  :  how  have  they  slept  ? 

Goth.  Very  well,  sir, 
I  would  we  were  so*  rid  of  them. 

Oct.  Why? 

Goth.  \  fear  one  hath 
The  art  of  memory,  and  will  remember 
His  gold  and  jewels  :    could  you  not  minister 
A  potion  of  forgetfulness  ?     What  would  gallants 
That  are  in  debt  give  me  for  such  a  receipt 
To  pour  in  their  creditors'  drink  ? 

Oct.   You  shall  restore  all, 
Believe't  you  shall : — will  you  please  to  walk? 

Goth.   Will  you  please  to  put  off 
Your  holy  habit,  and  spiced  conscience?  one 
1  think,  infects  the  other.  [Exit 

Oct.  I  have  observed 

Compunction  in  Alonzo  ;  he  speaks  little, 
But  full  of  retired  thoughts  :  the  other  is 
Jocund  and  merrv,  no  doubt  because  he  hath 
The  less  accompt  to  make  here  f« 

Enter  ALONZO. 

Alon.  Reverend  sir, 

I  come  to  wait  your  pleasure  ;  but,  my  friend. 
Your  creature  1  should  say,  being  so  myself. 
Willing  to  take  further  repose,  entreats 
your  patience  a  few  minutes. 

Oct.  At  his  pleasure  ; 
Pray  i»*u  sit  down  ;  you  are  faint  still. 

Alon.  Growing  to  strength, 

I  thank  your  goodness  :  but  my  mind  is  troubled, 
Very  much  troubled,  sir,  and  1  desire, 
Your  pious  habit  giving  me  assurance 
Of  your  skill  <ind  power  that  way,  that  you  would 

please 
To  be  my  mind's  physician. 

Oct.  Sir,  to  that 

My  order  binds  me  ;  if  you  please  to  unload 
The  burthen  of  your  conscience,  I  will  minister 
Such  heavenly  cordials  as  I  can,  and  set  you 
In  a  path  that  leads  to  comfort. 

Aion.  I  will  open 

My  bosom's  secrets  to  you$.     That  I  am 
A  man  of  blood,  being  brought  up  in  the  vrara, 
And  cruel  executions,  my  profession 
Admits  not  to  be  question'd  ;  but  in  that, 
Being  a  subject,  and  bound  to  obey 
Whate'er  my  prince  commanded,  1  have  left 


*  J  would  tee  were  so  rtrf  of  them.}  So  the  oM  copy:  the 
modern  editors  read,  1  would  we  were  soon  rid  of  them  j 
which,  in  ti.e  language  of  the  author,  is  faintly  English  ;  but 
they  did  not  understand  the  passage. 

t  The  If  a  accompt  to  wmAehere.]  AaKriKaiC.,  layiugbi* 
band  on  his  bteast. 

J  Alon.  1  will  open. 

My  host.m's  secrets  to  you.}  This  is  the  old  reading, 
aud  far  more  elegant  than  that  which  the  modern  editor* 
hav*  introduced  in  iu  stead, — My  bosom-secrets  to  you.  . 


486 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


[Acr  IV 


8ome  shadow  of  excuse  :  with  other  crimes, 
As  pride,  lust,  gluttony,  it  must  be  told, 
1  a- ii  bt'smear'd  nil  over. 

Oft.  On  repentance, 

Mercy  will  wash  it  off. 

Ainu.  O  sir,  1  j;rant 

These  sins  are  deadly  ones  ;  yet  their  frequency 
With  wicked  men  makes  them  less  dreadful  to  us. 
l'>ut  I  urn  conscious  of  one  crime,  with  which 
All  ills  1  h;ive  committed  from  my  youth 
Put  in  the  scale,  weigh  nothing  ;  such  a  crime, 
Ko  odious  to  heaven  and  man,  and  to 
Mv  scar'd-up  conscience  so  full  of  horror, 
As  penance  cannot  expiate. 

Oct.  Desp:ur  not. 

*Ti»  impious  in  nnin  to  prescribe  limits 
To  the  divine  compassion  :  out  with  it. 

Alan    Ile.ar  then,  good  man,  and  when  that  I  have 

given  you 

Tho  character  of  it,  and  confessed  myself 
The  wretch  that  acted  it,  you  must  repent 
The  charity  you  have  extended  towards  me. 
Not  long  before  these  wars  began,  I  had 
Acquaintance  ('tis  not  fit  I  style  it  friendship*) 
That,  being  a  virtue,  and  not  to  be  blended 
With  vicious  breach  of  faith)  with  the  lord  Octavio, 
The  minion  of  his  prince  and  court,  set  off 
\\  it  Ii  all  the  pomp  and  circumr-tance  of  greatness  : 
To  this  then  happy  man  I  offer'd  service, 
And  with  insinuation  wrought  myself 
Into  his  knowledge,  grew  familiar  with  him, 
Kver  a  welcome  guest.     This  noble  gentleman 
Was  Wess'd  with  one  fair  daughter,  so  be  thought, 
And  boldly  might  believe  so,  for  she  was 
In  iill  tilings  excellent  without  a  rival, 
Till  I.  her  father's  mass  of  wealth  before 
Mv  greedy  eye*,  but  hoodwink'd  to  mine  honour, 
V\  itli  fur  more  subtle  atts  than  perjured  Paris 
E'er  piHctised  on  poor  credulous  Oenone, 
Uesit-ged  her  virgin  fort,  in  a  word,  took  it, 
No  vows  or  imprecation  forgotten 
With  speed  to  marry  her. 

Oct.   Perhaps  she  gave  you 
Just  cause  to  break  those  vows. 

A  Ion.  She  cause!  alas, 

Her  innocence  knew  no  guilt,  but  too  much  favour 
To  me,  unworthy  of  it:   'twas  my  baseness, 
My  foul  ingratitude — what  shall  I  say  more  ? 
The  good  Octavio  no  sooner  fell 
In  the  displeasure  of  his  prince,  his  state 
Confiscated,  and  he  forced  to  leave  the  court, 
And  «>he  exposed  to  want ;  but  all  my  oaths 
And  protestation  of  service  to  her, 
Like   seeming    flames   raised   by  enchantment,  va- 

nish'd  ! 
This,  this  sits  heavy  here. 

Oct..  He  speaks  as  if 
He    were   acquainted    with    my   plot.— You   have 

reason 

To  feel  compunction,  for  'twas  most  inhuman 
Bo  to  betray  a  maid. 
Alan.  Most  barbarous. 

Oct.  But  does  your  sorrow  for  the  fact  beget 
An  aptness  in  you  to  make  satisfaction 
For  the  wrong  you  did  her  ? 


• 'tit   not  Jit    1   ttyle    it  friendthip,    &c  J 

Mr.  M.  Ma  son  read.- — to  style  it  friendthip,  which  is  les* 
in  MajsiDger's  manner,  and,  to  my  the  least  of  it,  a  c.ipri- 
«luu»  thermion. 


Alan.  Gracious  heaven  !  an  aptness? 

It  is  my  only  study  :   since  I  tasted 

Of  your  compassion,  these  eyes  ne'er  were  closed, 

Hut  fearful  dreams  cut  off  my  little  sleep  j 

And,  being  awake,  in  my  imagination 

Her  apparition  haunted  me. 

Oct.  'I'was  mere  fancy.  [He  stampt 

Alon.  'Twas  more,   grave   sir  —  nay,    'tis  -  now 
it  appears  ! 

Enter  MARIA. 

Oct.  Where? 

Alon.  Do  you  not  see  there  the  gliding  shadow 
Of  a  fnir  virgin?  that  is  she,  and  wears 
The  very  garments  that  adorn  'd  her  when 
She  yielded  to  my  crocodile  tears:  a  cloud 
Of  fears  and  diffidence  then  so  chaced  away 
Her  purer  white  and  red,  as  it  foretold 
That  1  should  be  disloyal.     Blessed  shadow  ! 
For  'twere  a  sin,  far,  far  exceeding  all 
1  have  committed,  to  hope  only  that 
Thou  art  a  substance  ;  look  on  my  true  sorrow, 
Nay,  soul's  contrition  :  hear  again  those  vows 
My  perjury  cancell'd  stamp'd  in  brass,  aud  never 
To  be  worn  out. 

Re-enter   GOTHUIO,  v.ith   the  purses   nf  ALONZO  and 
PISANO. 

Mar.  I  can  endure  no  more  ; 
Action,  not  oaths,  must  make  me  reparation: 
I  am  Maria. 

Alon.  Can  this  be  ? 

Oct.  It  is, 
And  I  Octavio. 

Alon.   Wonder  on  wonder! 

How  shall  1  look  on  you,  or  with  what  forehead 
Desire  your  pardon  ? 

Mar.  You  truly  shall  deserve  it 
In  being  constant. 

Oct.  If  you  fall  not  off, 
But  look  on  her  in  poverty  with  those  eyea 
As,  when  she  was  my  heir  in  expectation, 
You  thought  her  beautiful. 

Alon.  She  is  in  herself 
Both  Indies  to  me. 

Goth    Stay,  she  shall  not  come 
A  beggar  to  you,  my  sweet  young  mistress  !  no, 
She  shall  not  want  a  dower  :  here's  white  and  red 
Will  ask  a  jointure  ;  but  how  you  should  make  her 

one, 

Being  a  captain,  would  beget  some  doubt, 
If  you  should  deal  with  a  lawyer. 

Alon.  1  have  seen  this  purse. 

Goth.  How  the  world's  given  —  I  dare  not  say,  to 

tying. 

Because  you  are  a  soldier;  you  may  say  as  well, 
This  gold  is  mark'd  too:  you,  being  to  receive  it, 
Should  ne'er  ask  how   I   got   it.    I'll  run    for  a 

priest 

To  dispatch  the  matter;  you  shall  not  want  a  ring, 
1  have  one  for  the  purpose.  —  [G'icfs  Pisano's  ring 
ta  Alonzo.]  —  Now,  sir,  1  think  I'm  honest, 


Alon.  This  ring  was  Pisano's. 

Oct.  I'll  dissolve  this  riddle 
At  better  leisure  :   the  wound  given  to  my  daughter 
V\  hich  in  your  honour  you  are  bound  to  cure, 
Exacts  our  present  care. 

Alon.  i.  am  all  yours,  sir. 

f  Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.J 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


46, 


SCENE  III.—  The  same.     The  Castle  of  St.  Leo. 
Enter  GONZAGA,  L'BERTI,  and  MANFROY. 

G->n.  Tliou  Last  told  too  much  to  give  assurance 

that 

Her  honour  was  too  far  engaged,  to  be 
By  liuman  help  redeeinM  :  if  thou  hadst  given 
Tdv  saJ  narration  this  full  period, 
Slie's  ilead,  I  had  been  happy. 

Utter.   Sir.  these  tears 
Do  well  become  a  father,  and  my  eyes 
\Vi,ul«i  keep  you  company  as  a  forlorn  lover, 
But  that  the  burning  fire  of  my  revenge 
Dries  up  those  drops  ot'  sorrow.      We  once  more, 
Our  broken  forces  rallied  up.  and  with 
Full   u umbers  sirengthen'd,   stand  prepared  t'  en- 

liure 

A  second  trial  ;  nor  let  it  dismay  us 
That  we  are  once  again  to  affront  the  fury 
Ol  a  victorious  army  ;  their  abuse 
Of  conquest  hath  disarm'd  them,  and  call'd  down 
'I  he  I'owers  above  to  aid  us.     1  'iave  read* 
Some  piece  of  storv,  yet  ne'er  found  but  that 
'I  !IH  gf-i;eral,  that  trave  way  to  cruelty, 
The  profanation  of  things  sacred,  rapes 
Ot  virgins,  butchery  of  infants,  and 
The  massacre  in  cold  blood  of  reverend  age, 
Against  llie  discipline  and  law  of  arms, 
l):d  feel  ihe  hand  ot"  heaven  lie  heavy  on  him. 
When  most  secure.      We  have  had  a  late  example, 
Aid  let  us  not  despair  but  that,  in  Lorenzo, 
It  will  be  seconded. 

Hon.   You  arsjue  well, 
And  'twere  a  MII  in  me  10  contradict  you  : 
Yet  we  must  not  neglect  the  means  that's  lent  us 
To  be  the  ministers  of  justice. 

Ulier.  .No,  sir  : 

One  nay  given  to  refre'h  our  wearied  troops 
Tired  i\ith  a  tedious  march,  we'll  be  no  longer 
Coop'd  up,  but  charge  the  enemy  in  his  trenches, 
Ami  force  him  to  a  battle.  [S/iou(s  within. 

Gun.  Ha  !   how's  this  ? 

In  such  a  general  time  of  mourning,  shouts, 
And  acclamations  of  joy  ? 

[try  u-ithin,  Long  live  the  princess!  long 
live  .Manilla  ! 


•  1  have  reti'l,  &c.]  Tl>e  dreadful  description  in  the  text 
errrespoiids  with  (lie  account  given  of  tlie  stormii.g  of 
Madgehurg,  by  Tilly  (the  imperial  general)  in  1032,  in  winch, 
lay  our  old  iii-torians  "He  cut  t  c  throats  of  2 ',000  per- 
B"iis, . t  jni.-erii-  whirh  is  impos-ible  10  be  described  or 
thought  H pun  without  horror  aud  detestation."  Tilly,  how- 
ever, was  mortally  wounded  hy  A  cannon  shot  at  the  pa.--sai;e 
of  the  Lech,  i  lew  months  af'erwards;  and  \\li.it  follows  n 
the  text  t-leai'ly  sho.vs  that  Ma-si  nuer  alludes  to  the  Duke  of 
Friedlaiid,  w ho  succeeded  to  the  command  of  theimpeii.il 
torcfi,  and  was  noted  fort-very  fpecies  of  cruelly,  in  *h  rt, 
for  .ill  the  die,idt'nl  enormities  »vhicli  the  p"ct  enumerates. 
Thi.-  i-hii  I,  who  was  too  powerful  for  contr.  1,  was  treacher- 
O'i.-ly  assassinated,  iclim  mo*/  urcutr,  by  -lA-.r  of  the  Km- 
peror  Ferdinand.  Tins  event  took  place  at  Kgra,  on  the 
*.'>lli  of  Ki  biuary,  1034.  an  •  was  d.-lail. .1  in  se\er.<l  petty 
painpliKts,  by  Nathaniel  Butler,  the  general  publisher  of 
iu-w>  at  that  period  The  example,  then-tore,  as  Massinger 
f.i\»,  teas  a  late  one.  Alexander  Gill  has  some  tolerable 
vei-«e*  on  the  subject,  prefixed  to  Clapthorii's  'I'rayedy  of 
Albertu*  ll'allfnxtfin  :— 

Ulii  ilia,  tan'trm  yaza,  qua  Bohrmuim 
S.  Irtiamquf,  ai/>  itxyue  Urandfittiuryicos, 
h'rrtu*i>riambuta*ti .'  tibi  r»t  fjrtrcitil* 
Mini  tuorum  quo  >nin:s'rofac;iiorum 
ft ••micidia,  *tv[ira,j'itrta,  t'nmrninia 
fla:perin-rntai-*t,rt  l/rc  Jrnburyi  situs  ?   \c. 
*  [fryt.ithin:]  Long  live  the  prince**  !      Limy  lire  Ma- 
tilda I 

Uber.  Matilda  ! 

T!u- princes*  name,  Matilda, oft  re-echo'd.]  Solheqn»rto. 


Uber.  Matilda  ! 
The  princess'  name,  Matilda,  oft  re-echoed  !  t 

Enter  FAKNEZE. 

Gem.    What  speaks  thy  haste? 

Farn.  M'Tejoy  and  hapjiiness 
Than  weak  words  can  deliver,  or  strong  faith 
Almost  give  credit  to  :  the  princess  lives; 
I  saw  her,  kiss'd  her  hand. 

Gon.   By  whom  deliver'd  ? 

Farn.  That  is  not  to  be  staled  by  my  report*  ; 
This  only  must  be  told  :— As  I  rode  forth 
With  some  choice  troops,  to  make  discovery 
Where  the  enemr  lay,  and  how  entrench'd,  a  leader 
Of  the  adverse  party,  but  unarm'd,  and  in 
His  hand  an  olive  branch,  encounter'd  me: 
He  show'd  the  great  duke's  seal  that  gave  him  power 
To  parley  with  me  ;  his  desires  were,  that 
Assurance  for  his  bafety  might  be  granted 
To  his  royal  master,  who  came  as  a  friend, 
And  not  as  an  enemy,  to  offer  to  you 
Conditions  of  peace.     I  \ielded  to  it. 
This  being  retunvd,  the  duke's  prretorium  open'd, 
When  suddenly,  in  a  triumphant  chariot 
Drawn  by  such  soldiers  of  his  own  as  were, 
For  insolence  after  victory,  coudemn'd 
Unto  this  slavish  office,  the  fair  princess 
Appear'd,  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  her  head, 
Her  robes  majestical,  their  richness  far 
Above  ull  value,  as  the  present  agef 
Contended  that  a  woman's  pomp  should  dim 
The  glittering  triumphs  of  the  Roman  Ca?surs. 
— I  am  cut  off;  no  cannon's  throat  now  thunders 
Nor  fife  nor  drum  beat  up  a  charge  ;  choice  music 
Ushers  the  parent  of  security, 
Long-absent  peace. 

3/aii.   I  know  not  what  to  think  on't. 
Uber.  May  it  poise  the  expectation  ! 

Loud  music.  Enter  Soldiers  warmed,  bearing  olive 
branches.  Captain*,  LORENZO,  MVTII.I>A  crowned 
trif/i  a  wreath  of  laurel,  and  seated  in  n  chariot 
drawn  by  Soldiers;  Joltoued  by  HOUTENTIO  and 
MARTINO. 

Gon.  Thus  to  meet  you, 

Great  duke  of  Tuscany,  throws  amazement  on^me  ; 
But  to  behold  my  daughter,  long  since  mourn'd  for, 
And  lost  even  to  my  hopes,  thus  honour'd  by  you, 
With  an  excess  of  comfort  overwhelms  me  : 
And  yet  I  cannot  truly  call  myself 
Happy  in  this  solemnity,  till  your  highness 
Vouchsafe  to  make  me  understand  the  motive. 
That,  in  this  peaceful  way,  hath  brought  you  to  us. 

Lor.  1    must    crave    license     first  ;  for     know, 

(jonzaga, 

1  am  subject  to  another's  will,  and  can 
Nor  speak  nor  do  without  permission  from  her. 
My  curled  forehead,  of  late  terrible 
To  those  that  did  acknowledge  me  their  lord, 

The  editor*  have  contrived  to  blunder  in  every  possible 
wav  ;  th.-y  tirM  advance  a  margin..!  note  into  I  lie  text,  am 
tUeu  dej;ra.le  the  text  into  a  marginal  note  ! 

•   Farn.  That  i,not    to   be   .-taled  by  my    report,      S>o  . 
read  ;  the  old  ,'op)   IMS  Mall  d,    which   is  printed  by  th 
.lei  n  e,lilor,«ilh4    m.rk  of  ,pha.Teiiil  It  they  supposed  I 
to  be  ai.ridnMl  from  Jorrttalld,  they  must  have   pretty    n 
tions  of  langnaee.  „      M_r   -...i 

t  Ahuw  In  valve,  as  the  pretent  aye,  &c.}       Coxeter,  ami 
Mr  M.  Mason,    ,,OL   >et   «q«ain!ed   with   the    language    of 
Heir  author,  inwrl  if  before   the,  "  at  t/,"  &c.       Even 
ll.it  inn.)   attempt  af  imp.ovemeut  they  were  compelled  lo 
ticri&ve  tm  meue. 


488 


T.HE  BASHFUL  LOVKR. 


[Ac-r  IV 


Is  now  as  smooth  as  rivers  when  no  wind  stirs; 
My  frowns  or  smiles,  that  kiU'd  or  saved,  have  lost 
Their    potent    awe,  and    sweetness :    I  am    trans- 

form'd 

(But  do  not  scorn  the  metamorphosis) 
From  that  fierce  tiling  men  held  me  ;  I  am  captived, 
And,  by  the  unresistible  force  of  beauty, 
Led  hither  as  a  prisoner.     Is't  your  pleasure  that 
1  shall  deliver  those  injunctions  which 
Your  absolute  command  imposed  upon  me, 
Or  deign  yourself  to  speak  them? 

MatiL  Sir,  I  am 

Your  property,  you  may  use  me  as  you  please  ; 
But  what  is  in  your  power  and  breast  to  do, 
No  orator  can  dilate  so  well. 

Lor.  I  obey  you. 
That  I  came  hither  as  an  enemy, 
With  hostile  arms  to  the  utter  ruin  of 
Your  country,  what  I  have  done  makes  apparent; 
That  fortune  seconded  my  will,  the  late 
Defeature  will  make  good  ;  that  I  resolved 
To  (brce  the  sceptre  from  your  hand,  and  make 
Your  dukedom  tributary,  my  surprisal 
Of  Mantua,  your  metropolis,  can  well  witness  ; 
And  that  I  cannot  fear  the  change  of  fate, 
My  army  flesh'd  in  blood,  spoil,  glory,  conquest, 
Stand  ready  to  maintain  :  yet,  I  must  tell  you 
By  whom  I  am  subdued,  and  what's  the  ransome 
I  am  commanded  to  lay  down. 

Cow.  My  lord, 

You  bumble  yourself  too  much  ;  it  is  fitter 
You  should  propose,  and  we  consent*. 

Lor    Forbear, 

The  articles  are  here  subscribed  and  sign'd 
By  my  obedient  hand  :  all  prisoners, 
Without  a  ransome,  set  at  liberty  ; 
Mantua  to  be  deliver'd  up,  the  rampires 
Ruiu'd  in  the  assault  to  be  repair'd  ; 
The  loss  the  husbandman  received,  his  crop 
Burnt  up  by  wanton  license  of  the  soldier, 
To  be  made  good  ; — with  whatsoever  elae 
You  could  impose  on  me  if  you  had  been 
The  conqueror,  1  your  captive. 

Con.  Such  a  change 

Wants  an  example :  I  must  owe  this  favour 
To  the  clemency  of  the  old  heroic  valour, 
That  spared  when  it  had  power  to  kill ;  a  virtue 
Buried  long  since ;  but  raised  out  of  the  grave 
By  you,  to  grace  this  latter  age. 

Lor.  Mistake  not 

The  cause  that  did  produce  this  good  effect, 
If  as  such  you  receive  it :  'twas  her  beauty 
Wrought  first  on  my  rough  nature  ;  but  the  virtues 
Of  her  fair  soul,  dilated  in  her  converse, 
That  did  confirm  it. 

Matil.  Mighty  sir,  no  more : 


it  i*  Jitter 


You  thoitld  propotf,  and  we  content.]  So  the  eld  copy : 
it  seems  perfect  as  it  stands,  yet  Coxetur  and  Mr.  Al .  Mason 
kave  iulerposed  their  assistance  ;  (hey  read— 

it  in  fitter  you 

Should  first  propone,  &c. 


You  honour  her  too  much,  that  is  not  worthy 
To  be  your  servant. 

Lor.   I  have  done,  and  now 
Would  gladly  understand  that  you  allow  of 
The  articles  propounded. 

Gun.  Do  not  wrong 

Your  benefits  with  such  a  doubt ;  they  are 
So  great  and  high,  and  with  such  reverence 
To  be  received,  that,  if  [  should  profess 
I  hold  my  dukedom  from  you  as  your  vassal, 
Or  offer'd  up  my  daughter  as  you  please 
To  be  disposed  of,  in  the  point  of  honour, 
And  a  becoming  gratitude,  'twould  not  cancel 
The  bond  I  stand  engaged  for : — but  accept 
Of  that  which  I  can  pay,  my  all  is  yours,  sir; 
Nor  is  there  any  here  (though  I  must  grant 
Some  have  deserved  much  from  me),  for  so  far 
I  claie  presume,  but  will  surrender  up 
Their  interest  to  that  your  highness  shall 
Deign  to  pretend  a  title. 

Uher.  I  subscribe  not 
To  this  condition. 

Farn.  The  services 
This   prince  hath  done  your  grace  iti  your  moat 

danger, 
Are  not  to  be  so  slighted. 

Hort.  'Tis  far  from  me 
To  urge  my  merits,  yet,  I  must  maintain, 
Howe'er  my  power  is  less,  my  lore  is  more ; 
Nor  will  the  gracious  princess  scorn  to  acknow- 
ledge 
I  have  been  her  humble  servant. 

Lor.  Smooth  your  brows, 

I'll  not  encroach  upon  your  right,  for  that  were 
Once  more  to  force  affection  (a  crime 
With  which  should  I  the  second  time  be  tainted, 
I  did  deserve  no  favour),  neither  will  I 
Make  use  of  what  is  offer'd  by  the  duke, 
Howe'er  I  thank  his  goodnes.     I'll  lay  by 
My  power,  and  though  I  should  not  brook  a  rival 
(What  we  are,  well  consider'd),  I'll  descend 
To  be  a  third  competitor  ;  he  that  can 
With  love  and  service  best  deserve  the  garland, 
With  your  consent  let  him  wear  it ;  I  despair  not 
The  trial  of  my  fortune. 

Con.  Bravely  offer'd, 
And  like  yourself,  great  prince. 

Uber.  I  must  profess 
I  am  so  taken  with  it,  that  I  know  not 
Which  way  to  express  my  service. 

Hort.  Did  I  not  build 

Upon  the  princess'  grace,  I  could  sit  down, 
And  hold  it  no  dishonour. 

Matil.   How  I  feel 

My  soul  divided  !  all  have  deserved  so  well, 
I  know  not  where  to  fix  my  choice. 

Con.  You  have 

Time  to  consider  :  will  you  please  to  take 
Possession  of  the  fort  ?  then,  having  tasted 
The  fruits  of  peace,  you  may  at  leisure  prove 
Whose  plt-a  will  prosper  in  the  court  of  Love. 

[Euunt 


SCBNI  I.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


48? 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— Mantua.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  ALONZO,  OCTAVIO,  PISANO,  MARIA,  and 
GOIHRIO. 

AUm.  You  need  not  doubt,  sir,  were  not  peace 

proclaim'd 

And  celebrated  with  a  general  joy, 
The  Lisjh  displeasure  of  the  Maniuan  duke, 
Raised  on  just  grounds,  not  jealous  suppositions, 
The  saving  of  our  lives  (which,  next  to  heaven, 
To  you  alone  is  proper)  would  force  mercy 
For  an  offence,  though  capital. 

Pisan.    W  lien  the  conqueror 
Uses  entreaties,  they  are  arm'd  commands 
The  vanquish'd  must  not  check  at. 

Mai:  My  pietv  pay  the  forfeit, 
If  danger  come  hut  near  you  !  1  have  heard 
My  gracious  mistress  often  mention  you, 
Wbea  I  served  her  as  a  page,  and  feelingly 
Relate  how  much  the  duke  her  sire  repented 
His  hasty  doom  of  banishment,  in  bis  rage 
Pronounc'd  against  you. 

Oct.  In  a  private  difference, 
I  grant  that  innocence  is  a  wall  of  brass, 
And  scorns  the  hottest  battery  ;  but  when 
The  cause  depends  between  the  prince  and  subject, 
'Tis  an  unequal  competition  ;  Justice 
Must  lay  her  balance  by,  and  use  her  sword 
For  his  ends  that  protects  it.     I  was  banish'd, 
And,  till  revoked  from  exile,  to  tread  on 
My  sovereign's  territories  with  forbidden  feet, 
The  severe  letter  of  the  law  calls  death ; 
Which  1  am  subject  to  in  coming  so  near 
His  court  and  person.     But  my  only  child 
Being  provided  for,  her  honour  salved  too, 
I  thank  your  noble  change,  I  shall  endure 
Whate 'er  can  fall,  with  patience. 

Almi,  You  have  used 
That  medicine  too  long  ;  prepare  yourself 
Fur  honour  in  your  age,  and  rest  secure  oft. 

Mar,  Ot  what  is  your  wisdom  musing? 

(.'nith.  I  am  gazing  on 

This  gorgeous  house  ;  our  cote's  a  dishclout  to  it; 
It  has  no  sign, whatdoyou  call't? 

Mar.  The  court; 
I  have  lived  in't  a  page. 

Goth.   Page  !  very  pretty  : 
May  1  not  be  a  page  ?  Iain  old  enough, 
Well-timber'd  too,  and  I've  a  beard  to  carry  it ; 
Pray  you,  let  me  be  your  page ;  1  can  swear  already 
Upon  your  pantofte. 

Mar.    What? 

(;,  t!i.    That  I'll  he  true 
Unto  your  smock. 

3/ar.  How,  rascal! 

Oct.  Hence,  and  pimp 

To  your  rams  and  ewes  ;  such  foul  pollution  is 
To  be  whipt  from  court ;  I  have  now  no  more  use 

of  you  ; 
Return  to  your  trough. 

Goth,  Must  I  feed  on  husks 
Before  1  have  play'd  the  prodigal? 


Oct.  No,  I'll  reward 
Your  service  ;  live  in  your  own  element 
Like  an  hanest  man;  all  that  is  mine  in  die  cottage 
I  freely  give  you. 

Goth.  Your  bottles  too,  that  I  carry 
For  your  own  tooth  T 
Oct,  Full  as  they  are. 

Mar.  And  gold,  [Gives  him  her  purse. 

That  will  replenish  them. 

Gi>th.  I  am  made  for  ever. 
This  was  done  i'tlie  nick. 
Oct,  Why  in  the  nick? 
Goth,  O  sir ! 

Twas  well  for  me  that  you  did  reward  my  service 
Before  you  enter'd  the  court ;  for  'tis  reported 
There  is  a  drink  of  forget  fulness,  which  once  tasted, 
Few  masters  think  of  their  servants,  who,  grown 

old, 
Are   turn'd    off,    like    lame  bounds   and    hunting 

horses. 

To  starve  on  the  commons.  [Exit. 

Alon.  Bitter  knave  ! 

Enter  MARTINO. 

There's  craft 
In  the  clouted  shoe.     Captain  ! 

Mart.  I  am  glad  to  kiss 
Your  valiant  hand,  and  yours  ;  but  pray  you,  take 

notice, 
My  title's  changed,  I  am  a  colonel. 

Pisan,  A  colonel!  where 's  your  regiment? 

Mart.  Not  raised  yet; 

All  the  old  ones  are  cashier'd,  and  we  are  now 
To  have  a  new  militia :  all  is  peace  here. 
Yet  I  hold  my  title  still,  as  many  do 
That  never  saw  an  enemy. 

Alan.  You  are  pleasant, 
And  it  becomes  you.     Is  the  duke  stirring  ? 

Mart.  Long  since. 
Four  hours  at  least,  but  yet  not  ready. 

Pisan,  How  ! 

Mart.  Even   so;    you  make  a  wonder  oft,  but 

leave  it : 

Alas,  he  is  not  now,  sir,  in  the  camp, 
To  be  up  and  arm'd  upon  the  least  alarum  ; 
There's  something  else  to  be  thought  on  •  here  he 

comes, 
With  his  officers,  new  rigg'd. 

Enter  LORENZO,  as  from  his  chamber ;  Doctor,  Gentle* 
man,  and  Page  employed  about  his  person. 

Alon,  A  looking-glass  ! 
Upon  my  head,  he  saw  not  his  own  face 
These  seven  years  past,  but  by  reflection 
From  a  bright  armour. 

Mart.  Be  silent,  and  observe. 

Lor.  So,  have  you  done  yet? 
Is  your  building  perfect  ? 

Duct,  If  your  highness  please, 
Here  is  a  water. 

Lor.  To  what  use  *  my  barber 
Hath  wash'd  my  face  already. 

Doct,  But  this  water 


490 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


[Acr  V 


Hath  a  strange  virtue  in't,  beyond  his  »rt  > 
It  is  a  sacred  relic,  part  of  that 
Most  powerful  juice,  with  which  Medea  made 
Old  .Eson  young. 

Lor.  A  fable  !  but  suppose 
I  should  give  credit  to  it,  will  it  work 
The  same  effect  on  me  ? 

Doct.  I'll  undertake 

This  will  restore  the  honour'd  hair  that  grows 
Upon  your  highness'  head  and  chin,  a  little 
Inclining  unto  gray. 
Lor.  Inclining!  doctor. 
Doct.  Pardon  me,  mighty  sir,  I  went  too  far, 
Not  gray  at  all  ; — I  dare  not  flatter  you. 
Tis  something  changed  ;  but  this  applied  will  help 

it 

To  the  first  amber-colour,  every  hair 
As  fresh  as  when,  your  manhood  in  the  prime, 
Your  grace  arrived  ai  thirty. 
Lor.  Very  well. 
Doct.  Then  here's  a  precious  oil,  to  which  the 

maker 

Hath  not  yet  given  a  name,  will  soon  fill  up 
These  dimples  in  your  face  and  front.     I  grant 
They  are  terrible  to  your  enemies,  and  set  off 
Your  frowns  with  majesty  ;  but  you  may  please 
To  know,  as  sure  you  do,  a  smooth  aspect, 
Softness  and  sweetness,  in  the  court  of  Love, 
Though  dumb,  are  the  prevailing  orators. 
Lor.  Will  he  new-create  me  ? 
Doct.  If  you  deign  to  taste  too 
Of  this  confection. 

Lor.  I  am  in  health,  and  need 
No  physic. 

Doct.  Physic,  sir!  An  empress, 
If  that  an  empress'  lungs,  sir,  may  be  tainted 
With  putrefaction,  would  taste  of  it 
That  night  on  which  she  were  to  print  a  kiss 
Upon  the  lips  of  her  long-absent  lord 
Returning  home  with  conquest. 

Lor.  'Tis  predominant 
Over  a  stinking  breath,  is  it  not,  doctor  ? 

Doct.  Clothe  the  infirmity  with  sweeter  language, 
'Tis  a  preservative  that  way. 

Lor.  You  are  then 

Admitted  to  the  cabinets  of  great  ladies, 
And  have  the  government  of  the  borrow'd  besuties 
Of  such  as  write  near  forty. 

Doct.  True,  my  good  lord, 
And  my  attempts  have  prosper'd. 

Lor.  Did  you  never 
Minister  to  the  princess  ? 

Doct.  Sir,  not  yet ; 

She's  in  the  April  of  her  youth,  and  needs  not 
The  aids  of  art,  my  gracious  lord  ;  but  in 
The  autumn  of  her  age  I  may  be  useful, 
And  sworn  her  highness'  doctor,  and  your  grace 
Partake  of  the  delight. 
Lor.    Slave  !    witch  !    impostor ! 

[Stri/cM  him  rfotnt. 

Mountebank  !  cheater !  traitor  to  great  nature, 
In  thy  presumption  to  repair  what  she 
In  her  immutable  decrees  design'd 
For  some  few  years  to  grow  up,  and  then  wither ! 
Or  is't  not  crime  enough  thus  to  betray 
The  secrets  of  the  weaker  sex,  thy  patients, 
But  thou  must  make  the  honour  of  this  age, 
And  envy  of  the  time  to  come,  Matilda, 
Whose  sacred  name  I  bow  to,  guilty  of 
A  future  sin  in  thy  ill-boding  thoughts, 


Which  for  a  perpetuity  of  youth 

And  pleasure  slie  disdains  to  act,  such  is 

Her  purity  and  innocence  ! 

[Sets  hi3j'oot  on  the  Doctor's  breast 
Alan.   Long  since 
I  look'd  for  this  1'envoy*. 

Mart.   Would  I  were  well  off! 
He's  dangerous  in  these  humours. 
Oct.  Stand  conceal  'd. 

Doct.  O  sir,  have  mercy  !  in  my  thought  I  never 
Offended  you. 

Lor.  Me  !  most  of  all,  thou  monster! 
What  a  mock-man  property  in  thy  intent 
Wouldst  tbou  have  made  me?  a  mere  |>athic  to 
Thy  devilish  art,  had  I  given  suffrage  to  it. 
Are  my  gray  hairs,  the  ornament  of  a^e, 
And  held  a  blessing  by  the  wisest  men, 
And  for  such  warranted  by  holy  writ, 
To  be  ronoeal'd,  as  if  they  were  my  shame? 
Or  plaister  up  these  furrows  in  my  face, 
As  if  I  were  a  painted  bawd  or  whore  ? 
By  such  oase  means  if  that  I  could  ascend 
To  the  height  of  nil  my  hopes,  their  full  fruition 
Would  not  wipe  off  the  nan'tal :  no,  thou  wretch! 
Thy  cozening  water  and  adulterate  oil 
I  thus  pour  in  thine  eyes,  and  tread  to  dust 
Thy  loath'd  confection  with  thy  trumperies  : — 
Vanish  for  ever! 

Mart.  You  have  your  fee,  as  I  take  it, 
Dear  Domine  doctor  !  I'll  be  no  sharer  with  you. 

[/•'arit  Doctor. 

Lor.  I'll  court  her  like  myself;  these  rich  adorn- 
ments 

And  jewels,  worn  by  me,  an  absolute  prince, 
My  order  too,  of  which  I  am  the  sovereign, 
Can  meet  no  ill  construction  ;  yet  'tis  far 
From  my  imagination  to  believe 
She  can  be  taken  with  sublime  clay, 
The  silk-worm's  spoils,  or  rich  embroideries  : 
Nor  must  I  borrow  helps  from  power  or  greatness 
Hut  as  a  loyal  lover  plead  my  cause  ; 
If  I  can  feelingly  express  my  ardour. 
And  make  her  sensible  of  the  much  I  suffer 
In  hopes  and  fears,  and  she  vouchsafe  to  take 
Compassion  on  me, — ha  !  compassion? 
The  word  sticks  in  my  throat :  what's  here,    that 

tells  me 

I  do  descend  too  low?  rebellious  spirit, 
I  conjure  thee  to  leave  me  !  there  is  now 
No  contradiction  or  declining  left, 
I  must  and  will  go  on. 

Mart.  The  tempest's  laid  ; 
You  may  present  yourselves. 

[Alonzo  and  Pitano  eomt  forward. 
A  Ion.  My  gracious  lord. 
Pisan.   Your  humble  vassal. 
Lor.  Ha!  both  living? 
Ai-n.  Sir, 

We  owe  our  lives  to  this  good  lord,  and  make  it 
Our  humble  suit 


Alon.  Long  rince 
I  look'd  for  thit  l'envoy .]  i.e.  for  this  termination.  The 
'envoy  is  explained  with  great  accuracy  by  Cotgravc:  he 
'ays,  "  it  is  the  conclusion  of  a  ballad  or  aonnet  in  a  short 
t.tnzaby  iistlf,  anil  serving,  oftentimes,  as.  a  dedication  of 
he  whole.  In  French  poetry,  I'enroy  sometimes  serve?  to 
convey  the  moral  of  the  piece:  but  our  old  dramatists,  in 
adopting  lie  word, disregarded  the  sense,  and  seldom  mean 
more  by  it  than  conclusion,  or  end.  It  occurs  in  Snak 
peare,  Jonson,  Fletcher,  and,  indeed,  in  molt  of  ourau:itB 
rrilera. 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


491 


Lor.  Plead  for  yourselves :  we  stand 
Yet  unresolved  whether  your  knees  or  prayers 
Can  save  the  forfeiture  of  your  own  heads  : 
Though  we  have  put  our  armour  off,  your  pardon 
For  leaving  of  the  camp  without  our  license 
Is  uotyet  sign'd.     At  some  more  tit  time  wait  us. 
[Exeunt  Lorenzo,  Gentleman,  and  Page. 

Alan.  How's  this? 

Mart.  Tis  well  it  is  no  worse;  I  met  with 
A  rougher  entertainment,  yet  I  Lad 
Good  cards  to  show.      He's  parcel  mad  ;  you'll  find 

liim 

Kverv  hour  in  a  several  mood  ;  this  foolish  love 
Is  such  a  shuttlecock  !  but  all  will  bo  well 
When  a  better  fit  comes  on  him,  never  doubt  it. 

[Eieunt. 


SCENE  II. — Another  Room  in  the  tame. 

Enter  GONZAGA,  UBERTI,  FARNEZE,  and  MANFRJY. 

Gon.  Ho-*-  do  you  find  her  ? 

Uber.  Thankful  for  my  service, 
And  yet  she  gives  me  little  hope;  my  rival 
Is  too  great  for  me. 

Gon.  The  great  duke,  you  mean  ? 

Uber.   Who  else?  the  Milanese,  although  he  be 
A  complete  gentleman,  I  am  sure  despairs 
More  than  myself. 

Farn.  A  high  estate,  with  women, 
Takes  place  of  all  desert. 

Uber.  I  must  stand  my  fortune. 

Enter  LORENZO  and  Attendants. 

Man.  The  duke  of  Florence,  sir. 

Gon.  Your  highness'  presence 
Answers  my  wish.      Your  private    ear: — I    have 

used 

My  best  persuasion  with  a  father's  power 
To  work  my  daughter  to  your  ends  ;  yet  she, 
Like  a  small  bark  on  a  tempestuous  sea, 
Toss'd  here  and  there  by  opposite  winds,  resolves 

not 

At  which  port  to  put  in.     This  prince's  merits, 
Your  grace  and  favour  ;  nor  is  she  unmindful 
Of  the  brave  acts  (under  your  pardon,  sir, 
1  needs  must  call  them  so)  Hortensio 
Hath  done  to  gain  her  good  opinion  of  him; 
All  these  together  tumbling  in  her  fancy, 
Do  much  distract  her.     1  have  spies  upon  her. 
And  am  assured  this  instant  hour  she  gives 
Hortensio  private  audience  ,  I  will  bring  you 
Where  we  will  see  and  hear  all. 

Lor.   You  oblige  me. 

Uber.  I  do  not  like  this  whispering. 

Gon.  Fear  no  foul  play.  [Exeunt, 


SCENE  III.     Another  Room  in  the  tame. 

Enter   HORTENSIO,    BEATRICE,    and   two    Waiting 
Women. 

1  Worn.  The  princess,  sir,  long  since  expected 

you  ; 

And,  would  I  beg  a  thanks,  I  could  tell  you  that 
I  have  often  moved  her  for  you. 

Hurt.  I  am  your  servant. 


Enter  MATILDA. 

Beat.  Shs's  come ;  there  are  others  I  must  place 

to  hear 
The  conference.  [En'fc 

1  Worn.  Is't  your  excellency's  pleasure 
That  we  atiend  you  ? 

Matil.  No  ;   wait  me  in  tht-  gallery. 

1  Worn.   Would  each  of  us,  wench,  had  a  sweet* 
heart  too, 

To  pass  away  ihe  time  ! 

2  Worn.  There  I  join  with  you. 

[E.wi)it  Waiting  Women, 

N  itil.   I  fear  this  is  the  last  time  we  shall  meet. 
Hort.   Heaven  forbid  ! 

Re-enter  above   BEATRICK  with   LORENZO,   GONZAGA, 
UBERII,  and  FARNKZE. 

MatiL  0  my  Honensio! 
In  me  behold  the  misery  of  greatness, 
And  that  which  you  call  beauty.     Had  1  been 
Of  a  more  low  condition,  1  might 
Have  call'd  my  will  and  faculties  mine  own, 
Not  seeing  tliat  which  was  to  bf  beloved 
With  others'  eyes :  but  now,  ah  me,  moa  wretched 
And  miserable  princess,  in  my  fortune 
lo  be  too  much  engaged  for  service  done  me ! 
It  being  impossible  to  make  satisfaction 
To  my  so  many  creditors  ;  all  deserving, 
I  can  keep  touch  with  none. 

Lor.  A  sad  exordium. 

MatiL  You    loved  me   long,   and    without   hope 

(alas, 

I  die  to  think  on't !)  Parma's  prince,  invited 
With  a  too  partial  report  of  what 
I  was,  and  might  be  to  him,  left  his  country, 
To  fight  in  my  defence.     Your  brave  achievements 
1'  the  war,  and  what  you  did  forme,  unspoken, 
Because  1  would  not  force  the  sweetness  of 
Your  modesty  to  a  blush,  are  written  here  : 
And,  that  there  might  be  nothing'  wanting  to 
Sum  up  my  numerous  engagements  (never 
In  my  hopes  to  be  cancell'd),  the  great  duke. 
Our  mortal  enemy,  when  my  father's  country 
Lay  open  to  his  fury,  and  the  spoil 
Of  the  victorious  army,  and  I  brought 
Into  his  power,  hath  sh'owa  himself  so  noble. 
So  full  of  honour,  temperance,  and  all  virtue** 
That  can  set  off  a  prince,  that,  though  I  cannot 
Render  him  that  respect  I  would,  1  am  bound 
In  thankfulness  to  admire  him. 

Hort.  *Tis  acknowledged, 
And  on  your  part  to  be  return 'd. 

Matil.  How  can  I, 

Without  the  brand  of  foul  ingratitude 
To  you  and  prince  Uberti? 

Hort.  Hear  me,  madam, 
And  what  your  servant  shall  with  zeal  deliver. 


•  So  full  of  honour,  temperance,  and  all  virtue*.]     lahall 
give  this  and  the  six  following  lines,  ;i>   they  .-i.nnl  in   Cox- 
eter  and  Mr.  M.  Mason.     A   better  specimen  cannot   be  de- 
sired of  the  fidelity,  good  taste,  and  iTitir.il   knowledge  \\ilh 
which    these    gentlemen    performed    their    editorial  duties. 
Their  interpolations  are  in  Roman  characters : 
So  full  of  strictest  honour,  temperance, 
And  alt  virtues  that  can  ttt  off  a  prince. 
That,  though  I  cannot  render  him  that  respect 
J  would,  I'm  bound  in  thanltfulness  t' admire  him. 

Gal.  'Tis  acknowledg'd,  and  on  your  part 
To  be  return'd. 
Matil.  But  oh!  hota  can  I ,  ft*. 


192 


BASHFUL  LOVER. 


[Acr  V. 


As  a  Daedvilean  clew  may  guide  you  out  of 
This  labyrinth  of  distraction*.     He  that  loves 
His  mistress  truly,  should  prefer  her  honour 
And  peace  of  mind  above  the  glutting  of 
His  ravenous  appetite     he  should  aft'ect  her 
Hut  with  a  fit  restraint,  imcl  not  take  from  her 
To  give  himself:  he  should  make  it  the  height 
Of  his  ambition,  if  it  lie  in 
His  stretch 'd-out   nerves  to   effect   it,    though    she 

fly  in 

An  eminent  placet,  to  add  strength  to  her  wings, 
And  mount  her  higher,  though  he  full  himself 
Into  the  bottomless  abyss  ;  or  else 
The  services  he  offers  are  not  real, 
lint  counterfeit. 

Matil.   What  can  Hortensio 
Infer  from  this  ? 

/fort.  That  I  stand  bound  in  duty 
(Though  in  the  act  I  take  my  last  farewell 
Of  comfort  in  this  life)  to  sit  down  willingly, 
And  move  my  suit  no  further.     1  confess, 
While  you    were  in   danger,  and  heaven's  mercy 

made  me 

Its  instrument  to  preserve  you  (which  your  good- 
ness 

Prized  far  above  the  merit),  I  was  bold 
To  feed  my  starved  affection  with  false  hopes 
I  might  be  worthy  of  you;  for  know,  madam, 
How  mean  soever  I  appear'd  in  Mantua, 
I  had  in  expectation  a  fortune, 
Though  not  possess'd  of 't,  that  encouraged  me 
With  confidence  to  prefer  my  suit,  and  not 
To  fear  the  prince  (Jberti  as  my  rival. 

Con.  I  ever   thought   him.  more  than    what   be 

seem'd. 

Lor.  Pray  you,  forbear. 
Hort.  But  when  the  duke  of  Florence 
Put  in  his  plea,  in  my  consideration 
Weighing  well  what  he  is,  as  you  must  grant  him 
A  Mars  of  men  in  arms,  and,  those  put  off, 
The  great  example  for  a  kingly  courtier 
To  imitate  ;  annex  to  these  his  wealth, 
Of  such  a  large  extent,  as  other  monnrchs 
Call  him  the  king  of  coin  ;  and,  what's  above  all, 
His  lawful  love,  with  all  the  happiness 
This  life  can  fancy,  from  him  flowing  to  you  ; 
The  true  affection  which  I  have  ever  borne  you, 
Does  not  alone  command  me  to  desist, 
But,  as  a  faithful  counsellor,  to  advise  you 
To  meet  and  welcome  that  felicity 
Which  hastes  to  crown  your  virtues. 
Lor.  We  must  break  off  this  parley. 
Something  1  have  to  say.  [Exeunt  above. 

Matil.  In  tears  I  thank 

Your  care  of  my  advancement :  but  I  dare  not 
Follow  your  counsel.     Shall  such  piety 
Pass  unrewarded  1  such  a  pure  affection, 
For  any  ends  of  mine,  be  undervalued  ? 
Avert  it,  heaven  !  I  will  be  thy  Matilda, 
Or  cease  to  be  ;  no  other  heat  but  what  > 

Glows    from    thy   purest  flames,    shall  warm  this 

bosom, 

Nor  Florence,  nor  all  monarchs  of  the  earth, 
Shall  keep  thee  from  me. 

•  This  labyrinth  of  distraction.]  So  the  old  copy  :  the 
modern  editois  capriciously  rend — Thii  labyrinth  o/'de.«tnic- 
tionl  Ever.  pa^e,  and  ;ilmo-t  every  speech,  teems  with 
timiUr  absurdities.  Three  lines  below,  they  omit  her, 
which  destroys  the  meaning  of  the  whole  sentence. 

t  An  eminent  place,   i.  e.  height. 


Re-enter  below  LORENZO,   GONZAGA,    UBERTI, 
FARNEZE,  and  MANFHOY. 

Hort.  I  fear,  gracious  lady. 
Our  conference  hath  been  overheard. 

Matil.  The  beiter; 

Your  part  is  acted  ;  give  me  leave  at  distance 
To  zany  it.     Sir,  on  my  knees  thus  prostrate 
Before  your  feet 

Lor.  This  must  not  be,  I  shall 
Both  wrong  myself  and  you  in  suffering  it. 

Matil.  I  will  grow  here,  and  weeping  thus   turn 

marble. 

Unless  you  hear  and  urant  the  first  petition 
A  virgin,  and  a  princess,  ever  tendered  ; 
Nor  doth  the  suit  concern  poor  me  alone, 
It  hath  a  stronger  reference  to  you, 
And  to  your  honour;  and,  if  you  deny  it, 
Both  ways  you   suffer.     Remember,  sir,  you  were 

not 

Born  only  for  yourself;  heaven's  liberal  hand 
Design'd  you  to  command  a  potent  nation, 
Gave  you  heroic  valour,  which  you  have 
Abused  in  making  unjust  war  upon 
A  neighbour-prince,  a  Christian  ;  while  the  Turk, 
Whose    scourge    and    terror   you    should    be,    se- 
curely 

Wastes  the  Italian  confines  ;  'tis  in  you 
To  force  him  to  pull  in  his  horned  crescents. 
And  'tis  expected  from  you. 

Lor.  I  have  been 
In  a  dream,  and  now  begin  to  wake. 

Matil.  And  will  you 

Forbear  to  reap  the  harvest  of  such  glories, 
Now  ripe,  and  at  full  growth,  for  the  embraces 
Of  a  slight  woman?  or  exchange  your  triumphs 
For  chamber-pleasures,  melt  your  able  nerves 
(That  should  with  your  victorious  sword  make  waj 
Through  the  armies  of  your  enemies)  in  loose 
And  wanton  dalliance?  Be  yourself,  great  sir, 
The  thunderbolt  of  war,  and  scorn  to  sever 
Two  hearts  long  since  united  ;  your  example 
May  teach  the  prince  Uberti  to  subscribe 
To  that  which  you  allow  of. 

Lor.  The  same  tongue 

That  charm'd  my  sword  out  of  my  hand,  and  threw 
A  frozen  numbness  on  my  active  spirit, 
Hath  disenchanted  me.     Rise,  fairest  princess ! 
And,  that  it  may  appear  I  do  receive 
Your  counsel  as  inspired  from  heaven,  I  will 
Obey  and  follow  it :  I  am  your  debtor, 
And  must  confess  you  have  lent  my  weaken'd 

reason 

New  strengths  once  more  to  hold  a  full  command 
Over  my  passions.     Here  to  the  world 
I  freely  do  profess  that  I  disclaim 
All  interest  in  you,  and  give  up  my  title, 
Such  as  it  is,  to  you,  sir;   and,  as  far 
As  I  have  power,  thus  join  your  hands. 

Gon.  To  yours 
I  add  my  full  consent. 
Uber.  I  am  lost,  Farneze. 

Farn.  Much  nearer  to  the  port  than  you  suppose . 
In  me  our  laws  speak,  and  forbid  this  contract. 

Matil.  Ah  me,  new  stops  ! 

Hort.  Shall  we  be  ever  cross'd  thus  ? 

Farn.  There  is  an  act  upon  record,  confirm'd 
By  your  wise  predecessors,  that  no  heir 
Of  Mantua  (as  questionless  the  princess 
Is  the  undoubted  one)  must  be  joined  in  marriage 


SCENE  III.] 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 


But  where  the  match  may  strengthen  the  estate 

And  safety  of  the  dukedom.     Now,  this  gentleman, 

However  I  must  style  him  honourable, 

And  of  a  high  desert,  having  no  power 

To  make  this  good  in  his  alliance,  stands 

Excluded  by  our  laws  ;  whereas  this  prince, 

Of  equal  merit,  brings  to  Mantua 

The  power  and  principality  of  Parma  : 

And,  therefore,  since  the  great  duke  hath  let  fall 

His  plea,  there  lives  no  prince  that  justlier  can 

Challenge  the  princess'  favour. 

Lor,  Is  this  true,  sir? 

Gem.  I  cannot  contradict  it. 

Enter  MANFROY. 

Mar..  There's  an  ambassador 
From  Milan,  that  desires  a  present  audience; 
His  business  is  of  highest  consequence, 
As  he  affirms  :   1  know  him  fur  a  man 
Of  the  best  rank  and  quality. 

Ham.  From  Milan' 

Gem.  Admit  him. 

Enter  Ambassador  and  JULIO  icith  a  letter,  which  he 
pretentt  on  his  knee  to  GALEAZZO. 

How  !  so  low  1 

Amb.   I  am  sorry,  sir, 
To  be  the  bringer  of  this  heavy  news  ; 
But  since  it  must  be  known  

Gal.   Peace  rest  with  him  ! 
I  shall  find  h'tter  time  to  mourn  his  loss. 
My  faithful  servant  too ! 

Jut.  1  am  o'trjoy'd, 
To  see  your  highness  safe. 

Gal.   Pray  }ou,  peruse  this, 
And  there  you'll  End  th  it  the  objection 
The  lord  Fain^e  made,  is  fully  imswer'd. 

Con.  The  great  John  Galeas  dead  ! 

Lor.  And  iliis  his  brother, 
The  absolute  lord  of  Milan  ! 

Matil.   1  am  revived. 

Uber.  There's  no  contending  against  destiny  ; 
I  wish  both  happiness. 

Enter  AI.ONZO,  MARIA,  OCTAVIO,  PISANO,  c.nd 
MARTINO. 

Lor.  Married,  Alonzo  ! 
1  will  salute  your  lady,  she's  a  fair  one, 
And  seal  your  pardon  on  her  lips.       [Aissss  Maria. 

Gon.  Octavio ! 

Welcome,  e'en  to  my  heart*.     Rise,  I  should  kneel 
To  thee  for  mercy. 

Oft.  The  poor  remainder  of 
My  age  shall  truly  serve  you. 

Matil.  You  resemble 
A  page  I  had,  Ascanio. 

JVlor.  I  am 
Your  highness'  servant  still. 


•  Gonz.  Octario, 

Welcome, e'en  to  my  heart,  &c.]     Massingcr  had  involved 

his  plot  in  a  considerable  difficulty,  and    it  must  be  candidly 

cknowledgtd  th.it  he  has   shown    but   little    contrivance  in 

xtiicatiu-4    it.     Nothing  can    be  more  inartificial   than  the 

uddeii  death  of  "  the  "real  John    Galea«:"  and,  certainly, 

n  Opportunity  for  a  moving  scene  was  here  presented  in  ihe 

econcilenient   of   Gonzaga    and    Oitavio:   but  the  play  had 

cached  its  trll  length,  and  was.  therefore,  of  nn  essity  to  be 

bruptly  concluded.     Very  little  ingenuity  might  have  made 

the  catastrophe  more  worthy  of  the  commencement. 

The  story  is  interesting,  and  though  suthciei.tly  diversified, 
neither  improbable  nor  unnatural  ;  the  language  of  the  su- 
perior characters  is  highly  poetic,  and  very  beautiful. 


Lor.  All  stand  amazed 
At  this  unlooked-for  meeting  ;  but  defer 
Your  several  stories.     Fortune  here  hath  shown 
Her  various  power;  but  virtue  in  the  end 
Is  crown'd  with  laurel ;  Love  hath  done  his  parts 

too; 

And  mutual  friendship,  after  bloody  jars, 
Will  cure  the  wounds  received  in  our  wars. 

[Exeunt 


EP  ILOGUE. 

PRAY  you,  gentlemen,  keep  your  seats  ;  something 

I  would 

Deliver  to  gain  favour,  if  I  could, 
To  us,  and  the  still  doubtful  author.     He. 
When  1  desired  an  epilogue,  answer' 3  .T.?, 
"  'Twiis  to  no  purpose  •   he  must  bt;md  his  fate, 
"  Since  all  entreaties  now  wou.'d  come  too  late  ; 
"  You  being  long  since  resolved  what  you  would 

say 

*'  Of  him,  or  us,  as  you  rise,  or  of  the  play." 
A  strange  old  fellow  !  yet  this  sullen  mood 
Would  (juickly  leave  him,  might  it  be  understood 
You  par*,  not  hence  displeased.     1  am  design'd 
To  give  him  certain  notice  :  if  )ou  find 
Things  worth  your  liking,  show  it.     Hope  and  fear, 
Though  different  passions,  have  the  self-same  ear*. 


•  This  Play  bears  many  marks  of  the  heroic  or  chivalrous 
manni  is,  or  of  both  together.  Some  of  these  we  see  in  Ihe 
impaitial  admission  of  the  services  of  all  the  suitors  of  Ma- 
tilda; in  her  free  acceptance  of  the  personal  devotion  of 
Galeazzo,  though  he  makes  his  approach  only  as  a  gentle 
stmnger,  and  paiticulail}  in  the  extraordinary  clemency  if 
Lorenzo,  and  his  magnanimous  surrender  of  the  beauteous 
object  won  by  his  valour.  In  some  of  the  preceding  Plays, 
the  ivader  will  have  observed  certain  traces  of  these  manners. 
Among  the  g  ievanc.-s  to  be  redressed  in  The  Parliament 
of  l.ooe  are  iho»c  of  "  disdained  lovers."  When  Ahnira 
(a  Vary  Woman)  abruptly  oismUses  Don  John,  she  is  re- 
proved for  it, as  offering  an  oninigetoher  hi^h  "breeding," 
and  as  guilty  of  almost  a  "  barbarism."  And  Camiola 
( HI 'aid  of  Honour)  tolerates  the  pretensions  of  Seignior 
Syll:  himstlf.and  pn-se-ves  the  necessary  decorum  by  sty  ling 
him  her  servant.  Without  some  such  supposition  as  thin,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  account  for  the  incongruities  which  ap- 
pear in  this  Play  ;  .Matil. la  won!  I  act  without  discretion,  anil 
would  lose  her  delicacy  and  her  dignity  •  and  Lorenzo,  who, 
indeed,  on  any  supposition,  cannot  wholly  escape  censure, 
would  hardly  be  allowed  to  retain  his  senses.  It  reenu, 
therefore,  to  be  the  object  of  the  story  to  blazon  the  effects 
of  Matilda's  beauty,  ant  to  exhibit  the  double  heroism  cf 
action  in  Gal<azzo,  and  of  forbearance  in  Lorenzo.  Seveial 
passages  of  the  Play  tend  to  suggest  this  view  of  it,  and  par- 
ticularly one,  in  which  Ihe  clemency  of  Lorenzo  is  expressly 
complimented  by  Gonzaga,  as  the  true  attendant  of  the 
"  old  heroic  valour," — 

•  "  a  virtue 

Buried  long  since,  but  raised  out  of  the  grave 

By  yon,  to  grace  this  latter  age.'' 

The  age  itself,  in  which  the  events  are  supposed  to  take 
place,  is  fixed  in  the  last  scene  by  ihe  death  of  the  great 
John  Galeas.  But  why  a  great  Duke  of  Florence,  or  a 
duke  of  Mantua,  should  be  attributed  to  an  age  which  knew 
of  none,  or  why  a  war  should  be  invented  between  .Mantua 
and  Florence,  instead  of  (he  union  of  both  against  the  ambi- 
tion of  Galeas  himself,  it  would  be  useless  to  inquire. 
Ma-singer,  or  the  writer  from  whom  he  draws  his  »tory, 
cares  nothing  for  this,  and  accomplishes  his  purpose  ol 
amusement  by  p.-rsonages  called  from  any  age  or  country: 

D':ssofiata  lofis  concordi  pace  tiyavit. 
One  circumstance  is  remarkable.  Just  before  the  death 
of  Galeas  is  announced,  Matilda  incidentally  entreats  Lo- 
renzo tn  point  his  arms  against  the  Turks,  then  securely 
war-ting  the  "  Italian  confines."  In  another  part  of  the 
Play,  he  is  extolled  for  his  splendour,  and  proverbially 
name.)  the  "  king  of  coin."  And  we  know  that  somewhat 
within  a  century  from  the  death  of  Gale  is,  Lorenzo  (the 


494 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVE? 


[AcrV 


magnificent)  was  the  chief  instrument  of  the  expulsion  of 
the  Turks  from  Olranto,  and  became,  « hat  Matilda  wishes 
him  to  be,  their  "  scourge  and  terror."  It  ,»ould  be  very 
desirable  to  know  (rum  what  book  of  strange  adventures 
tliis  anil  the  plots  of  some  of  the  other  Plays  are  derived; 
but  this  is  a  pi^ce  of  information  which  I  am  wholly  unable 
to  give.  Meanwhile,  it  must  be  said  on  behalf  of  Massinger 
himself,  that  this  Play  is  agreeably  written  The  language 
is  chaste,  and  of  a  temperate  dignity,  and  is  well  adapted 
to  Ihe  higher  conversation  of  the  Mage.  Some  of  the  scenes, 
too,  have  considerable  ettect;  the  reception  of  the  ambassi- 
dor  in  the  first  act  i<  stately  and  impressive,  and  the  patriot- 
ism which  itralU  forih  i»  only  interior  in  animation  to  that 
in  The  Bondman.  The  confession  scene,  too,  in  the  fourth 
Act,  i- interesting,  and  reminds  us,  though  at  some  distance, 
of  The  Emperor  of  the  Ka»t ;  ami  the  discove.y  of  Maria 
by  her  father  is  pretty  and  affecting.  Some  of  the  charac- 
ters too  arc  well  drawn.  Matilda  has  a  pleasing  mixture  of 
ilignily  and  condescension,  is  generous,  delicate,  and  noble- 
minded,  and  (a  circmnsUnce  which  Massinger  delight*  to 
represent),  is  won  by  th«-  modesty  of  her  lover.  (jalea/zo 
himself  is  .~.'ong!y  described,  both  in  his  diffidence  ,:ii<l  his 
heroism;  IE  J  <u»  '.raimtior  from  the  cue  to  the  other  at  her 


command,  is  highly  animating.  The  principal  fault!  arise 
from  the  management:  Ihe  contrivances  are  sometimes  re- 
dundant and  sometimes  defective;  either  they  are  accumu- 
lated without  an  answerable  effect,  or  they  are  withheld 
when  a  small  employment  of  them  would  materially  relieve 
the  story.  There  is  also  a  vfrbosentss  in  some  of  the 
speeches,  and  more  lameness  than  usual  in  the  soliloquies. 
He,  whose  thoughts  hurst  into  solitary  speech,  should  pass, 
wild  brevity  and  passion,  from  one  circumstance  to  another, 


and,  for  t 
vey  his  in 

to  lab. 
double 


narrati 

A  plea 
it  teaches 


e  purposes  of  the  st.ige,  should  substantially  con- 
elligence  to  the  audience,  while  he  appears  only 
nder  the  disorder  of  his  own  feelings.  But  this 
gcnieiit  is  generally  too  delicate  lor  Mas.«inger : 


and  the  so  loquies  of  this  Play  are  direct  and  circumstantial 


liich  might  be  addressed  to  another  person, 
ig  moral   arises  from  the  character  of  Galeazzo: 
s  (hat  modesty  is  essentially  connected  with  true 


merit.  The  vulgar,  who,  like  the  attendants  of  Matilda, 
are  fond  of  boldmss,  may  look  on  it  with  contempt;  but  let 
it  not  despair:  the  eye  of  taste  and  sense  will  mark  it  for 
distinction  and  reward,  and  even  those  will  join  in  allow- 
ing its  deserts,  who  feel  themielvei  eclipsed  by  its  stipe- 
rioiity  —  Da.  In  LLANO. 


THE   OLD   LAW, 


Tn*  OLD  Liw.]  Of  this  Comedy,  which  is  said  to  have  been  written  by  Massinger,  Middleton,  aud 
Rowley,  in  conjunction,  there  is  but  one  edition,  the  quarto  of  1656,  which  appears  to  be  a  hasty  tran- 
script from  the  prompter's  book,  made,  as  I  have  observed,  when  the  necessities  of  the  actors,  now 
grievously  oppressed  by  the  republicans,  compelled  them,  for  a  temporary  resource,  to  take  advantage  of  a 
popular  name,  and  bring  forward  such  pieces  as  they  yet  possessed  in  manuscript. 

Of  Middleton  and  Rowley  some  notice  has  been  already  taken:  1  have  therefore  only  to  repeat  what 
is  hazarded  in  the  Introduction,  my  persuasion  that  the  share  of  Massinger,  in  this  strange  composition,  is 
uot  i  he  most  considerable  of  the  three. 

This  Play  was  printed  for  Edward  Archer  :  it  does  him  no  credit ;  for  a  work  so  full  of  errors,  and 
It'iose  too  of  the  most  gross  and  ridiculous  kind,  has  seldom  issued  from  the  press.  Hundreds  ol  the  more 
obvious  are  corrected  in  silence  ;  others,  with  the  attempts  to  remove  them,  are  submitted  to  the  reader, 
who  (if  he  thinks  the  enquiry  worth  his  labour),  will  here  find  The  Old  Law  far  less  irregular,  unmetrical, 
and  unintelligible,  than  in  any  of  the  preceding  editions. 

This  drama  was  once  very  popular.  The  title  of  the  quarto  is,  "The  excellent  Comedy  called  The  Old 
Law,  or  A  New  Way  to  Please  Yon. — Acted  before  the  King  and  Queen  at  Salisbury  House,  and  at  several 
other  places  with  great  applause." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


EVANDER  duke  of  Epire. 
CiiATii.i's,  the  executioner. 
CREON,  father  to  Simonides. 

Si \IOXIIIFS.    i  /-.      .• 

r,  \   young  Lourtiers. 

GI.EAMHE.S,  I  *      6 

I.VSANUKR.  husband  to  Eugenia,  and  uncle  to  Cleanthes, 
LION-IDES,  father  to  Cleanthes. 
GNOJHO,  the  clown. 

Courtiers. 

Dancing-master. 

Butter.  j 

Ba  '(iff,         I   Servants  to  Creon. 

Tailor,         J 


chman,  -\ 
'.man,  ]- 
fe,  J 


Coachman, 

Footman,      J-   Also  Servant*  to  Creon. 

Cook, 

Clerk. 

Drawer. 

ANTIGONA,  wife  to  Creon. 

HIPPOLITA,  wife  to  Cleanthes. 

EUGENIA,  wife  to  Lysander,  and  mother  to  Parthenis. 

PARTHENIA. 

AGATHA,  wife  to  Gnotho. 

Old  women,  wires  to  Creon 's  urvanti. 

Courtesan. 


Fiddlers,  Servants,  Guard, 


SCENE,  Epire. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  Creon's  Hmitt. 
Enter  SIMOMOES  and  two  Lawyers. 

Sim  Is  the  law  firm,  sir? 

1  Law.  The  law  !  what  more  firm,  sir, 
Moie  powerful,  forcible,  or  more  permanent? 

Sim.   By  my  troth,  sir, 
I  partly  do  believe  it;  conceive,  sir, 
Y«m  have  indirectly  answered  my  question. 
I  did  not  doubt  the  fundamental  grounds 
Of  hi iv  in  general,  for  the  most  solid  ; 
lint  this  particular  law  that  me  concerns 
Now  at  the  piesent  j  if  that  be  firm  and  strong, 
AM!  powerful,  and  forcible,  and  permanent. 
i  am  a  young  man  that  has    an  old  father. 


2  Law.  Nothing  more  strong,  sir. 
It  is — Secitndum  statutum  principis,  confirmatum  cum 
voce  senatiis,  et  race  reipublica ;    nay,   consummatum 
et  tiemplificatnm. 
Is  it  not  in  force 

When  divers  have  already  tasted  it, 
And  paid  their  lives  for  penalty  ? 

Sim.  'Tis  true. 

My  father  must  be  next ;  this  day  completes 
Full  fourscore  years  upon  him. 

2  Law.  He  is  here,  then, 
Sub  paena  stututi ;  hence  I  can  tell  him, 
Truer  than  all  the  physicians  in  the  world, 
He  cannot  live  out  to-morrow  ;  this 
Is  the  most  certain  climacterical  year — 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


|Acr 


Tis  past  all  danger,  for  there's  no  escaping  it. 
What  age  is  your  mother,  sir  ? 

Sim.  Faith,  near  her  days  too  ; 
Wants  some  two  of  threescore. 

1  Law.  So  !  she'll  drop  away 
One  of  these  days  too  :  here's  a  good  age  now 
For  those  that  have   old  parents,   and  rich  inherit- 
ance ! 

Sim.  And,  sir,  'tis  profitable  for  others  too  : 
Are  there  not  fellows  that  lie  bedrid  in   their  offices 
That  younger  men  would  walk  lustily  in  ? 
Churchmen,  that  even  the  second  infancy 
Hath   silenced,  yet  have  spun  out  their  lives  so 

long, 

That  many  pregnant  and  ingenious  spirits 
Have  languish 'd  in  their  hoped  reversions, 
And  died  upon  the  thought  ?  and,  by  your  leave, 

sir, 

Have  you  not  places  fill'd  up  in  the  law 
By  some  grave  senators,  that  you  imagine 
Have  held  them  long  enough,  and  such  spirits  as 

you, 
Were  they  removed,  would  leap  into  their  dignities? 

1  Law.    Die  quibu$  in  ierris,  et  eris  mihi  magnus 
Apollo*. 

Sim.   But  tell  me,  faith,  your  fair  opinion : 
Is't  not  a  sound  and  necessary  law 
This,  by  the  duke  enacted? 

1  LUU-.  Never  did  Greece, 

Our  ancient  seat  of  brave  philosophers, 
'Mongst  all  her  nomotheta  and  lawgivers, 
Not  when  she  flourish'd  in  her  sevenfold  sages, 
Whose  living  memory  can  never  die, 
Produce  a  law  more  grave  and  necessary. 
Sim.  I  am  of  that  mind  too. 

2  Law.  I  will  maintain,  sir, 
Draco's  oligarchy,  that  the  government 
Of  community  reduced  into  few, 
Framed  a  fair  sate  ;  Solon's  chreokopiat 

That  cut  oft' poor  men's  debts  to  their  rich  creditors, 

Was  good  and  charitable,  but  not  full,  allow'd  ; 

His  seiscatheia  did  reform  that  error}, 

His  honourable  senate  of  Areopagitae. 

Lycurgus  was  more  loose  an  J  gave  too  free 

And  licentious  reins  unto  his  discipline  ; 

As  that  a  young  woman,  in  her  husband's  weak- 

.iess, 

Might  choose  her  able  friend  to  propagate  ; 
That  so  the  commonwealth  might  be  supplied 
With  hope  of  lusty  spirits.     Plato  did  err, 
And  so  did  Aristotle,  in  allowing 
Lewd  and  luxurous  limits  to  their  laws  : 
But  now  our  Kpire,  our  Epire's  Evander, 
Our  noble  and  wise  prince,  has  hit  the  law 
That  all  our  predecessive  students 
Have  missed  unto  their  shame. 

Enter  CLEANTHES. 
Sim.  Forbear  the  praise,  sir, 
'Tis  in  itself  most  pleasing  : — Cleanthes  ! 
O,  lad,  here's  a  spring  for  young  plants  to  flourish ! 
The  old  trees  must  down  that  keep  the  sun  from  us  ; 
We  shall  rise  now,  boy. 


•  Law.  Die  qiiibus,  &c.]  This  lawyer  is  a  very  clever 
fellow,  but  1  do  nut  see  the  drift  of  his  quotation. 

t Solon't  chreokopia.)  XptWKOTTia 

signifies  the  cutting  oft  that  part  of  the  debt  which  arose 
from  the  interest  of  the  sum  lent.—  M.  MASON. 

J  //«>  seiscatheia  did  reform  that  error,  Eflffa^ua  , 
i.  e.  a  shaking  otf'a  bnrthtn,  metaphorically,  an  abolition  of 
debt.  This  lawyer's  notions  of  honesty  would  have  lilted  him 
for  one  of  Solon's  counsellor!. 


Clean.  Whither,  sir,  I  pray? 
To  the  bleak  air  of  storms  ;  among  those  trees* 
Which  we  had  shelter  from  ? 

Sim.  Yes,  from  our  growth 
Our  sap  and  livelihood,  and  from  our  fruit. 
What !  tis  not  jubilee  with  thee  yet,  I  think, 
Thou  look'st  so  sad  on't.     How  old  is  thy  father? 

Clean.  Jubilee  !  no,  indeed ;  'tis  a  bad  year  with  me. 

Sim.  Prithee,  how  old's  thy  father  ?  then   I  can 
tell  thee. 

Clean.  I    know    not    how    to   answer  you,    Si- 

monides  ; 

lie  is  too  old,  being  now  exposed 
Unto  the  rigour  of  a  cruel  edict ; 
And  yet  not  old  enough  by  many  years, 
Cause  I'd  not  see  him  go  an  hour  before  me. 

Sim.  These  very  passions  I  speak  to  my  fatberf. 
Come,  come,  here's  none  but  friends  here,  we  may 

speak 

Our  insides  freely  ;  these  are  lawyers,    man, 
And  shall  be  counsellors  shortly  • 

Clean.  They  shall  be  now,  s'vr, 
And  shall  have  large  fees  if  they'll  undertake 
To  help  a  good  cause,  for  it  wants  assistance  ; 
Bad  ones,  1  know, they  can  insist  upon. 

1  Law.  Oh,  sir,  we  mu  st  undertake  of  both  parts  ; 
But  the  good  we  have  most  good  in. 

Clean.  Pray  you,  say, 
How  do  you  allow  of  this  strange  edict  ? 

1  Law.  Seciindumjustitiam  ;   by  my  faith,  sir, 
The  happiest  edict  that  ever  was  in  Epire. 

Clean.  What,  to  kill  innocents,  sir  ?  it  cannot  be, 
It  is  no  rule  in  justice  there  to  punish. 

1  Law.  Oh,  sir, 
You  understand  a  conscience,  but  not  lawj. 

Clean.  Why,  sir,  is  there  so  main  a  difference? 

1  Law.  You'll  never  be   good  lawyer  if  you  un- 
derstand not  that. 

Clean.  I  think,  then,  'tis  the  best  to  be  a  bad  one. 

J  Law.  Why,  sir,  the  very  letter  and  the  sense 
both  do  overthrow  you  in  this  statute,  which  speaks 
that  every  man  living  to  fourscore  years,  and  wo- 
men to  threescore,  shall  then  be  cut  off  as  fruitless 
to  the  republic,  and  law  shall  finish  what  nature 
linger'd  at. 

Clean.  And  this  suit  shall  soon    be  dispatch'd  in 
law? 

1  Law.  It  is  so  plain,  it  can  have  no  demur, 
The  church-book  overthrows  it. 

Clean.  And  so  it  does§  ; 
The  church-book  overtrows  it  if  you  read  it  well. 

*  Clean.  Whither,  sir,  I  pray  f 
To  the  bleak  air  of  utormx  ;  among  those  trret 
Which  we  had  shelter  from?]      This  short   speech  is  » 
pretty  introduction  to  the  filial  piety  and  tenderness  which 
form  the  character  of  Cleanthes. 

t  Sim.  These  very  passions  /  xpeak  to  my  father,']  i.  e. 
these  pathetic  speeches:  this  word  occurs  l'r?<|iicinly  in  oor 
old  writers,  for  a  short  monody  or  song  of  the  plaintive  kind. 
Thus  Tomkins  ;  Not  a  one  shakes  his  tail,  but  I  sigh  out  a 
patron. — Albumazar. 
I  1  Law.  Oh,  sir, 

You  understand  a  conscience,  but  nnt  law.]  These    earned 
gentlemen  make   very  free  with    their    piofesiion;  but  th* 
distinriion  is  a  good  one. 
§  Clean.  And  so  it  does ; 

The  church-book  overthrows  if,  if  you  read  it  wrll 
Cleanthes  and  the  lawyer  are  at  cross  purposes.  The  laliei 
observes  that  the  church-book  (by  which  lie  means  the  regis 
ter  of  births  kept  there  overthrows  all  demur  ;  t->  which  tin 
former  replies,  that  it  really  does  so,  taking  the  holy  Scrip- 
tures for  the  cliiin  h  bonk. 

To  observe  upon  the  utter  confusion  of  all  time  and  plice 
of  all  iiHioms  and  manners,  in  this  drama,  would  be  super 
Iluous  ;  they  must  be  obvious  to  the  most  c»ri-lf«  •••••- 


I.] 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


497 


t  Law.  Still  you  run  from  the  law  into  error : 
You  say  it  takes  the  lives  of  innocents, 
I  say  no,  and  so  says  common  reason  ; 
What  man  lives  to  fourscore,  and  woman  to  three, 
That  can  die  innocent  ? 

Clean.  A  fine  law  evasion  ! 
Good  sir,  rehearse  the  whole  statute  to  me. 

Sim.  Fie  !  that's  too  tedious  ;  you  have  already 
The  full  sum  in  the  brief  relation. 

Clean.  Sir, 

'Mongst  many  words  may  be  found  contradictions  ; 
And  these  men  dare  sue  and  wran«le  with  a  statute, 
If  they  can  pick  a  quarrel  with  some  error. 

t  Law.  Listen,  sir,  I'll  gather  it  as  brief  as  I  can 

for  you  : 

Anno  primo  Evandri,  Be  it  for  the  care  and  good  of  ihe 
cvmmonireallh  (for  divers  necessary  reasons  that  we 
thall  urge),  thus  peremptorily  enacted 

Clean.  A  fair  pretence,  it'  the  reasons  foul  it  not ! 

2  Law.  That  all  men  living  in  our  dominions  of 
Epire,  in  their  decayed  nature,  to  the  age  of  four- 
tcore,  or  women  to  the  age  of  threescoi~e,  shall  on  the 
tame  day  be  instantly  put  to  death,  by  those  means 
and  instruments  that  a  former  proclamation  had  to  this 
purpose,  through  our  said  territories  dispersed. 

Clean.  There  was  no  woman   in  this  senate,   cer- 
tain. 

1  Law.  That  these  men,  being  past  their  bearing 
arms,  /:>  aid  and  defend  their  country  ;  past  their  man- 
hood and  'ikelihood,  to  propagate  any  further  issue  to 
their  posterity  ;  and  as  well  past  their  councils  (whose 
overgrown  ^iwity  is  now  run  into  dotage)  to  assist  their 
country  ;  to  whom,  in  common  reason,  nothing  should  be 
M  wearisome  as  their  oien  lives,  as  they  may  he  supposed 
tedious  to  llieir  successive  heirs,  wlwse  times  are  spent  in 
the  good  of  their  country :  yet,  wanting  the  means  to 
maintain  it ;  and  are  like  to  grow  old  before  their  in- 
heritance (born  to  them  )  come  to  their  necessary  use,  be 
condemned  to  die  :  for  the  women,  for  that  they  never 
were  a  defence  to  their  country  ;  never  by  counsel  ad- 
mitted to  assist  in  the  government  of  their  country  ; 
only  necessary  to  the  propagation  of  pwttrity,  and  now 
at  the  age  of  threescore,  past  that  go.'d,  and  all  their  I 
goodness:  it  it  thought  Jit  (a  quarter  abated  from  the  \ 
more  worthy  member)  that  they  be  put  to  death,  at  it 
before  recited  :  provided  that  for  the  just  and  impartial 
eiecu/ion  of  this  our  statute,  the  example  shall  first 
begin  in  and  about  our  court,  which  out-self  will  see 
carefully  performed;  and  not,  for  a  full  month  *  fol- 
lowing, eiteud  any  further  into  onr  dominion*.  Dated 
the  sixth  of  the  second  month,  at  our  Palace  Royal  in 
Epiref. 

Clean.  A  fine  edict,  and  very  fairly  gilded  ! 
And  is  there  no  scruple  in  all  these  words, 
To  demur  the  law  upon  occasion! 

Sim.  Pox!  'tis  an  unneccessary  inquisition  ; 
Prithee  set  him  not  about  it. 


• and  not,  for  a  full  month,  &c.] 

The  reader  will  see  the  necessity  and  the  motive  of  this  pro- 
vision in  the  act,  toward*  the  conclusion  of  the  Play. 

Hrfil  Acts  of  Parliament,  in  Massinger's  days,  been 
gomexvh.it  like  what  they  are  in  ours,  we  might  not  unrea- 
sonably h.tve  supposed  that  this  waa  wickedly  meant  as  a 
ridicule  on  them,  for  a  more  prolix,  tautological,  confused 
pince  of  formality,  human  wit,  or  rather  human  dullness, 
could  not  easily  have  produced.  As  it  stands  in  the  old 
copy,  and  in  Coxeter,  it  is  absolutely  incomprehensible. 
Mr.  M.  Mason  restored  it  to  as  mncli  meaning  as  it  was  pro- 
bably intended  to  have,  by  a  few  interpolations,  and  I  have 
endeavoured  to  attain  the  same  end,  without  deviating  alto- 
(ether  so  much  from  the  original. 


2  Law.  Troth,  none,  sir : 
It  is  so  evident  and  plain  a  case. 
There  is  no  succour  lor  the  defendant. 

Clean.    Possible  !    can  nothing   help   in  a   good 
case? 

1  Law.  Faith,  sir,  I  do  think  there  may  he  a  hole, 
Which  would  protract ;  delay,  if  not  remedy. 

Clean.   Why,  there's  some  comfort  in  that;    good 
sir,  speak  it. 

1  Law.  Nay,  you  must  pardon  me  for  that,  sir 

Sim.  Prithee,  do  not ; 

It  may  ope  a  wound  to  many  sons  and  heirs, 
That  may  die  after  it. 

Clean.  Come,  sir,  I  know 
How  to  make  you  speak  : — will  this  do  it  ? 

j  Gives  him  hispurte 

1  Law.  I  will  afford  you  my  opinion,  sir. 
Clean.  Pray   you,   repeat   the  literal    words   ex- 
pressly, 

The  time  of  death. 

Sim.    'Tis    an  unnecessary  question ;    prithee  let 
it  alone. 

2  Law.  Hear  his  opinion,  'twill  be  fruitless,  sir  : 
That  man,  at  the  age  of  Join  score,  unit  woman  at  three 
score,  shall  the  same  day  be  put  to  death, 

1  Law.  Thus  I  help  the  man  to  twenty-one  years 
more. 

Clean.  That  were  a  fair  addition. 

1  Law.   Mark  it,  sir;  we  say,  man  is  not  at  age 
Till  he  be  one  and  twenty  ;  before,  'lis  infancy 
And  adolescency  :  now,  by  that  addition, 
Fourscore  he  cannot  be,  till  a  hundred  and  one. 

Sim.  Oh,  poor  evasion  ! 
He  is  fourscore  years  old,  sir. 

1  Law.  That  helps  more,  sir; 
He  begins  to  be  old  at  fifty,  so  at  fourscore 
He's  but  thirty  years  old  ;  so,  believe  it,  sir, 
He  may  be  twenty  years  in  declination. 
And  so  long  nray  a  man  linger  and  live  by  it. 

Sim.  The  worst  hope  of  safety  that  e'er  t  heard  I 
Give  him  his  fee  again,  'tis  not  worth  two  deniers. 

1  Lam.    There  is  no  law  for  restitution  of  fees, 
sir. 

Cfean.  No,  no,  sir ;  I  meant  it  lost  when  it  was 
given. 

Enter  CREON  and  ANIIGOWA. 

Sim.  No  more,  good  sir. 
Here  are  e;irs  unnecessary  for  your  doctrine. 

1  Law.  I  have  spoke  out  my  fee,  and  1  have  done, 
sir. 

Sim.  O  my  dear  father  ! 

Creon.  Tush  !  meet  me  not  in  exclaims  ; 
I  understand  the  worst,  and  hope  no  better. 
A  fine  law  !   if  this  hold,  white  heads  uill  he  cheap, 
And  many  watchmen's  places  will  be  vacant*; 
Forty  of  them  I  know  my  seniors, 

That  did  due  deeds  of  darkness  too their  country 

Has  watch'd  them  a  good  turn  for't, 

And  ta'eri  them  napping  now  : 

The  fewer  hospitals  will  serve  too ;  many 

•  if  this  hold,  white  head*  will  be  cheap, 

And  many  watchmen'*  places  will  he  vacant ;]  The  au- 
thor" could  not  forbear,  even  at  this  serious  moment,  to  in- 
dulge a  snv'le  at  the  venerable  guardians  of  Ihe  night,  who, 
in  their  time,  as  well  as  in  ours,  seem  to  have  been  very 
"  ancient  and  quiet"  nerson;i«es.  The  remainder  of  thii 
gpeto!'  st  niiis  thus  in  the  quarto: 

That  did  due  dt-eda  of  darkness!"  their  country, 
Has  watch'd  'em  a  t/ond  turn  fur't,  and  tune  'em 
Napping  now,  the.  fewer  ho*i:ital*  will  serve  to. 
Many  may  be  uxed  for  stews,  Sc.c. 


498 


THE  OLD   LAW. 


[Acr  I. 


May  be  used  for  stews  and  brothels ;    and  those 

people 
Will  never  trouble  them  to  fourscore. 

Ant.  Can  you  play  and  sport  with  sorrow,  sir  ? 
Creim.  Sorrow  !   for  what,  Antigona  ?  for  my  life 
My  sorrow  is  I  have  kept  it  so  long  well 
With  bringing  it  up  unto  so  ill  an  end. 
I  might  have  gently  lost  it  in  my  cradle, 
Before  my  nerves  and  ligaments  grew  strong 
To  bind  it  faster  to  me. 

Sim.   for  mine  own  sake 
I  should  have  been  sorry  for  that. 

Creon.  In  my  youth 
I  was  a  soldier,  no  coward  in  my  age  ; 
I  neverturn'd  my  back  upon  my  foe  ; 
I  have  felt  nature's  winters,  sicknesses, 
Yet  ever  kept  a  lively  sap  ill  me 
To  greet  the  cheerful  spring  of  health  again. 
Dangers,  on  horse,  on  foot  I  by  land],  by  water, 
I  have  scaped  to  this  day  ;  and  yet  this  day, 
Without  all  help  of  casual  accidents, 
Is  only  deadly  to  me,  'cause  it  numbers 
Fourscore  years  to  me.     Where  is  the  fault  now  ? 
I  cannot  blame  time,  nature,  nor  my  stars, 
Nor  aught  but  tyranny.     Even  kings  themselves 
Have  sometimes  tasted  an  even  fate  with  me. 
He  that  has  been  a  soldier  all  his  days, 
And  stood  in  personal  opposition 
'Gainst  darts  and  arrows,  the  extremes  of  heat 
And  pinching  cold,  has*  treacherously  at  home, 
In  s  secure  quiet,  by  a  villain's  hand 

Been  basely  lost,  in  his  stars'  ignorance  : 

And  so  must  I  die  by  a  tyrant's  sword. 

1  Law.  Oh,  say  not  so,  sir,  it  is  by  the  law. 

Creon.  And  what's  that,  but  the  sword  of  tyranny, 
When  it  is  bnmdish'd  against  innocent  lives? 
I  am  now  upon  my  deathbed,  and  'tis  fit 
I  should  unbosom  my  free  conscience, 
And  show  the  faith  1  die  in  : — I  do  believe 
'Tis  tyranny  that  takes  my  life. 

Sim.  Would  it  were  gone 
By  one  means  or  other!  what  a  long  day 
Will  this  be  ere  night? 

Creon.  Simonides. 

Sim.  Here,  sir,— weepingf. 

Creon.  Wherefore  dost  thou  weep?  [end. 

Clean.  'Cause  you  make  no  more  haste  to  your 

Sim.  How  can  you  question  nature  so  unjustly? 
I  had  a  grandfather,  and  then  had  not  you 
True  filial  tears  for  him  ? 

Clean.  Hypocrite ! 

A  disease  of  drought  dry  up  all  pity  from  him 
That  can  dissemble  pity  with  wet  eyes  ! 

•  And  pinching  culd,  has  treacherously  at  home, 
Jn'it  secure  quiet,  by  a  villain's  hand 
Been  basely  lost,  in  his  stars'  ignorance:- 


And  so  must  1  die  by  a  tyrant's  sword.\    The  old  copy 
jives  the  conclusion  of  this  speech  thus: — 

And  pinching  cold  IIHS  treacherously  at  home 
In  his  secured  quiet  by  a  villain's  hand 
Atn  basely  lost  in  my  star's  ignorance 
And  so  must  I  die  by  a  tyrant's  sword. 
For  hat,  Coxeter  reads  dies,  and  lor  Am,  in   the  third  line, 
I'm  ;  but   this    cannot  be  rii>ut;  for   Creon  had  just  before 
acquitted    his  stars   of  any  concern  in  his  destiny.     Mr.  M. 
Mason  blindly  follows  Coxeter.     I  am  not  very  confident  of 
theuciiuinrnessol  my  readings;  but  they  produce  something 
like  a  meaning:  and  in  a  Play  so  incorrecily,  »o  ignorantly, 
primed  as  this,  even  that  is  sometimes  to  be   regarded  as  an 
acquisition. 

t  Sim.  Here,  sir,—  weeping.]  This  is  given  by  the  mo- 
dern t  (iiioi-.-.  as  a  marginal  note ;  but  the  «'ld  copy  makes  it, 
a«d  rightly,  a  part  of  the  text. 


Creon.  Be  good  unto  your  mother,  Simonides. 
She  must  he  now  vour  care. 

Ant.  To  what  end,  sir? 
The  bell  of  this  sharp  edict  tolls  for  me, 
As  it  riiig-s  out  for  you. —  I'll  be  as  ready, 
With  one  hour's  stay,  to  go  along  with  you. 

Creon.  Thou  must  not,   wuman,  there   are  years 

b.  •    *  • 

ehind, 

Before  thou  canst  set  forward  in  this  voyage  j 
And  nature,  sure,  will  now  be  kind  to  all : 
She  has  a  quarrel  in't,  a  cruel  law- 
Seeks  to  prevent*  her,  she  will  therefore  fight  in't, 
And  draw  out  life  even  to  her  longest  thread  : 
Thou  art  scarce  fifty-five. 

Ant.  So  many  morrows! 

Those  five  remaining  years  I'll  turn  to  days, 
To  hours,  or  minutes,  for  your  company. 
'  I'is  fit  that  you  and  I,  being  man  and  wife, 
Should  walk  together  arm  in  arm. 

Sim.  I  hope 

They'll  go  together;  I  would  they  would,  i'faith  ; 
Then  would  her  thirds  be  saved  too. — The  day  goes 
awav,  sir. 

Creon.  Why  wouldst  thou  have  me  gone,  Simo- 
nides ? 

Sim.  O  my  heart !  would  you  have  me  gone  be- 
fore you,  sir, 
You  give  me  such  a  deadly  wound  ? 

Clean.   Fine  rascal  ! 

Sim.  Blemish  my  duty  so  with  such  a  question  ! 
Sir,  I  would  haste  me  to  the  duke  for  mercy  ; 
He  that's  above  the  law  may  mitigate 
The  rigour  of  the  law.     How  a  good  meaning 
May  be  corrupted  by  a  misconstruction  ! 

Creon.  Thou   corrupt'st  mine ;  1   did  not  think 
thou  mean'st  so. 

Clean.  You  were  in  the  more  error. 

Sim.  The  words  wounded  me. 

Clean.  'Twas  pity  thou  died'st  not  on't. 

Sim.  I  have  been  ransacking  the  helps  of  law, 
Conferring  with  these  learned  advocates; 
If  any  scruple,  cause,  or  wrested  sense 
Could  have  been  found  out  to  preserve  your  life, 
It  had  been  bought,  though  with  your  full  estate, 
Your  life's  so  precious  to  me! — but  there's  none. 

1  Law.  Sir,  we  have  canvass'd  her  from  top  to 

toe, 

Turn'd  her  upside  down,  thrown  her  upon  her  side, 
Nay,  open'd  and  dissected  all  her  entrails, 
Yet  can  find  none  :  there's  nothing  to  be  hoped 
But  the  duke's  mercy. 

Sim.  I  know  the  hope  of  that ; 
He  did  not  make  the  law  for  that  purpose. 

Creon.  Then  to  this  hopeless  mercy  last  I  go  ; 
I  have  so  many  precedents  before  me, 
I  must  call  it  hopeless:  Antigona, 
See  me  deliver'd  up  unto  my  deathsraan, 
And  then  we'll  part ; — five  years  hence  I'll  look  for 
thee. 

Sim.  1  hope  she  will  not  stay  so  long  behind  you. 

Creon.  Do  not  bate  him  an  hour  by  grief  and  sor- 
row, 

Since  there's  a  day  prefix'd,  hasten  it  not. 
Suppose  me  sick,  Autigona,  dying  now, 


•  She  has  a  quarrel  in't,  a  cruel  law 

Mee  sto  prevent  her,\  i.e.  to  acticipate  the  period  she 
ftad  allotted  to  life.  In  this  classic  sense,  the  word  is  con- 
stantly used  by  our  old  writers,  and,  indeed, several  instance* 
of  it  have  been  noticed  in  the  preceding  pages. 


[!?CENK  I. 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


Any  disease  thou  wilt  may  be  my  end, 
)r  when  death's  slow  to  rome,  sav  tyrants  send. 

[Exeunt  Creon  and  Autignna. 

Sim.  Cleanthes,  if  you  want  money,  to-morrow, 

use  me ; 
I'll  trust  you  while*  your  father's  dead. 

[£xif,  with  the  Lawyers. 

Clean.   Why,  here's  a  villain, 
Able  to  corrupt  a  thousand  by  example ! 
Does  the  kind  rootf  bleed  out  his  livelihood 
In  parent  distribution  to  his  branches, 
Adorning  them  with  all  his  glorious  fruits, 
Proud  that  Jus  ptide  is  seen  when  he's  unseen ; 
And  must  not  gratitude  descend  again 
To  comfort  his  old  limbs  in  fruitless  winter? 
Improvident,  or  at  least  partial  nature  ! 
(  Weak  woman  in  this  kind),  who  in  thy  last  teeming 
Forgettest  still  the  former,  ever  making 
The  burihen  of  thy  last  throes  the  dearest  darling  ! 

0  yet  in  noble  man  reform  [reform]  it, 
And  make  us  better  than  those  vegt-tives, 
Whose  souls  die  with  them.  Nature,  as  thouart  old 
If  love  and  justice  be  not  dead  in  thee, 

Make  some  the  pattern  of  thy  piety, 
Lest  all  do  turn  unnaturally  against  thee, 
And  tbou  be  blamed  for  our  oblivions 

Enter  LEONIDES  and  HIPPOLITA. 

And  brutish  relaxations!     Ay,  here's  the  ground 
Whereon  my  filial  faculties  must  build 
An  edifice  of  honour  or  of  shame 
To  all  mankind. 

Hip.  You  must  avoid  it,  sir, 
If  there  be  any  love  within  yourself  : 
This  is  far  more  than  fate  of  a  lost  gams 
That  another  venture  may  restore  again  ; 
It  is  your  life,  which  you  should  not  subject 
To  any  cruelty,  if  you  can  preserve  it. 

Clean.  O  dearest  woman,  thou  hast  doubled  now 
A  thousand  times  thy  nuptial  dowry  to  me  ! 
Why,  she  whose  love  is  but  derived  from  me, 
Is  got  before  me  in  my  debted  duty. 

Hip.  Are  you  thinking  such  a  resolution,  sir? 

Clean.  Sweetest  Hippolita,  what  Jove  taught  thee 
To  be  so  forward  in  so  good  a  cause  1 

Hip.  Mine  own  pity,  sir,  did  first  instruct  me, 
And  then  your  love  and  power  did  both  command 
me. 

Clean.  They  were  all  blessed  ang^s  to  direct  thee ; 
And  take  their  counsel,   How  do  you  fare,  sir? 

Leon.  Cleanthes,  never  better  ;  I  have  conceived 
Such  a  new  joy  within  this. old  boiom, 
As  I  did  never  think  would  there  have  enter'd. 

Clean.  Joy  cail  you  it?  alas  !  'tis  sorrow,  sir, 
The  worst  of  sorrows,  sorrow  unto  death. 

Leon.  Death  ;  what  is  that,  Cleanthes  ?  I  thought 
not  on't, 

1  was  in  contemplation  of  this  woman  : 
'Tis  all  thy  comfort,  sonf  ;  tbou  hast  in  her 
A  treasure  unvaluable,  keep  her  safe. 
When  1  die,  sure  'twill  be  a  gentle  death, 
For  I  will  die  with  wonder  of  her  virtues ; 
Nothing  else  shall  dissolve  me. 


•  I'll  trust  you  while  your  father' t  dead. '  i.e.  unfit  your 
father  be  dead:  see  Hainan  Actor,  Act  V.  tc.  I. 

t  Doe*  the  kind  root,  Sic.}  Thi<  beautiful  speerh  is  most 
unmeirically  printed  in  all  ihe  editions;  ii  is,  I  hope,  some- 
what imuroved  by  a  dirti-rent  arrangement,  an. I  a  repetition 
of  the  word  in  brae-  ets. 

J  'Tit  all  thy  comfort ,  ton  ;}  For  thy  Mr.  M.  Mason  reads 
my  :  the  alteration  is  specious,  but  1  see  no  necessity  for  it. 


Clean.  'Twere  much  better,  sir, 
Could  you  prevent  i heir  malice. 

Leon.   I'll  prevent  them, 
And  die  the  way  I  told  thee,  in  the  wonder 
Of  this  good  woman.     I  tell  thee  there's  few  men 
Have  .such  a  child  :    I  must  thank  thee  for  her. 
That  the  strong  tie  of  wedlock  should  do  more 
Than  nature  in  her  nearest  ligaments 
Of  blood  and  propagation  !   I  should  never 
Have  begot  such  a  daughter  of  mv  own  : 
A  daughter-in-law  !   law  were  above  nature, 
Were  there  more  such  children. 

Clean.  This  admiration 
Helps  nothing  to  your  safety  ;  think  of  that,  sir. 

Leon.   Had  you  heard  her,  Cleanthes,  but  labour 
In  the  search  of  means  to  save  my  forfeit  life, 
And  knew  the  wise  and  the  sound  preservations 
That  she  found  out,  you  would  redouble  all 
My  wonder  in  your  love  to  her. 

Clean.  The  thought, 

The  very  thought,  sir,  claims  all  that  from  me, 
And  she  is  now  possest  oft:   but,  good  sir, 
It  you  have  aught  received  from  her  advice, 
Let's  follow  it ;  or  else  let's  better  think, 
And  take  the  surest  course. 

Leon.  I'll  tell  thee  one  ; 
She  counsels  me  to  fly  my  severe  country ; 
To  turn  all  into  treasure,  and  there  build  up 
My  decaying  fortunes  in  a  safer  soil, 
Where  Epire's  law  cannot  claim  me. 

Clean.  And,  sir, 

I  apprehend  it  as  u  safest  course, 
And  may  be  easily  acC'iniplished  ; 
Let  us  be  all  most  expeditious. 
Kvery  country  where  we  breathe  will  be  our  own, 
Or  better  soil ;  heaven  is  the  roof  of  all, 
Arid  now,  as  l-'pire's  situate  by  t'lis  law, 
There  is  'twixt  us  and  heaven  a  d.irk  eclipse. 

Hip.  Oh,  then  avoid  it,  sir;  these  sad  events 
Follow  those  black  predictions. 

Lean.  I  prithee  peace  ; 
I  do  allow  thy  love,  Hippolita, 
But  must  not  follow  it  as  counsel,  child  ; 
1  must  not  shame  my  country  for  the  law. 
This  country  here  hath  bred  me,  brought  me  up*, 
And  shall  I  now  refuse  a  grave  in  her? 
I  am  in  my  second  infancy,  and  children 
Ne'er  sleep  so  sweetly  in  their  nurse's  cradle 
As  in  their  natural  mother's. 

Hip.  Ay,  but,  sir, 

She  is  unnaturiil  ;  then  the  stepmother's 
To  he  preferred  before  her. 

Leon,    lush!  she  shall 
Allow  it  ran  in  despite  of  her  entrails. 
Why,  do  you  think  how  far  from  judgment 'tis 
That  I  should  travel  forth  to  seek  a  grave 
Thit  is  «il ready  digg  d  for  me  at  home, 
Nay,  perhaps  Hud  it  in  my  way  to  seek  it? — 
How  have  I  then  sought  a  repentant  sorrow? 
For  your  dear  loves  how  have  1  banish'd  you 
From  your  country  ever?      With  my  base  attempt 
How  have  1  heggar'd  you  iu  wasting  that 
Which  only  f.-r  yi.ur  sakes  I  bred  together? 
Buried  tny  name  in  Kjiire  t  which  1  built 

*  This  country  here  linlli  bred  me,  brought  me  up,  ike.] 
There  is  smnt-ining  e\q.ni-ilfly  tender  in  tbis  short  speech. 

t  lii'j-if  i  my  naiiif  in  Epire,  A.C.  This  i»  ob>ciue.  Per 
haj»  Le.mides  u,e.tn-  tli.it  he  had  so  conduced  himsetl  in 
lii.«  native  country  (i.  e  -o  raised  his  reputation  there;,  that 
his  memory  would  aUujslive  in  the  recollection  of  the 


500 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[Ac-r  II 


Upon  this  frame,  to  live  for  ever  in  ? 

What  a  base  coward  shiill  I  be  to  fly  from 

That  enemy  which  every  minute  meets  me, 

And  thousand  odds  he  had  not  long  vanquished  me 

Before  this  hour  of  battle  !   Fly  my  death ! 

I  will  not  be  so  false  unto  your  states, 

Nor  fainting  to  the  man  that's  yet  in  me ; 

I'll  meet  him  bravely;    I  cannot   (this   knowing) 

fear 

That,  when  I  am  gone  hence,  I  shall  be  there. 
Come,  I  have  days  of  preparation  left. 

Clean.  Good  sir,  hear  me  : 
I  have  a  genius  that  has  prompted  me, 

And  I  have  almost  formed  it  into  words  ; 

'Tis  done,  pray  you  observe  them  :  I  can  conceal 

you  ; 
And  yet  not  leave  your  country. 

Leon.  Tush  !  it  cannot  be 
Without  a  certain  peril  on  us  all. 

Clean.    Danger  must  be  hazarded,    rather    than 

accept 

A  sure  destruction.     You  have  a  lodge,  sir, 
So  far  remote  from  way  of  passengers, 
That  seldom  any  mortal  eye  does  greet  with't ; 
And  yet  so  sweetly  situate  with  thickets, 
Built  with  such  cunning  labyrinths  within, 
As  if  the  provident  heavens,  foreseeing  cruelty, 
Had  bid  you  frame  it  to  this  purpose  only. 

Leon.  Fie,  fie  !  'tis  dangerous, — and  treason  too, 
To  abuse  the  law. 

Hip.  'Tis  holy  care,  sir, 

Of  your  dear  life*,  which  is  your  own  to  keep, 
But  not  your  own  to  lose,  either  in  will 
Or  negligence. 

Clean-  Call  you  it  treason,  sir? 
I  had  been  then  a  traitor  unto  you, 
Had  I  forgot  this  ;  beseech  you,  accept  of  it; 
It  is  secure,  and  a  duty  to  yourself. 

Leon.  What  a  coward  will  you  make  me  ! 

Clean.  You  mistake, 

Tis  noble  couriige  :  now  you  fight  with  death, 
And  yield  not  to  him  till  you  stoop  under  him. 

Leon.  This  must  needs  open  to  discovery, 
And  then  what  torture  follows  1 

Clean.  By  what  means,  sir? 
Why,  there  is  but  one  body  in  all  this  counsel, 


Which  cannot  betray  itself:  we  two  are  one, 

One   soul,  one    body,   one    heart,    that   think   one 

thought; 
And  yet  we  two  are  not  completely  one, 

But  as  I  have  derived  myself  from  you. 

Who  shall  betray  us  where  there  is  no  second  ? 
Hip.  You  must  not  mistrust  my  faith,  though  my 

sex  plead 
Weakness  and  frailty  for  me. 

Leon.  Oh,  I  dare  not.  me ! 

But  where's  the  means  that  must  make  answer  for 
I  cannot  be  lost  without  a  full  account, 
And  what  must  pay  that  reckoning? 

Clean.  Oh,  sir,  we  will 
Keep  solemn  obits  for  your  funeral ; 
We'll  seem  to  weep,  and  seem  to  joy  withal. 
That  death  so  gently  has  prevented  you 
The   law's   sharp   rigour ;    and  this  no  mortal    ear 

shall 
Participate  the  knowledge  of. 

Leon.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
This  will  be  a  sportive  fine  demur, 
If  the  error  bi  not  found. 

Clean.  Pray  doubt  of  none. 
Your  company  and  best  provision 
Must  be  no  further  furnish'd  than  by  us  ; 
And  in  the  interim  your  solitude  may 
Converse  with  heaven,  and  fairly  prepare 
[For  that]  which  was  too  violent  and  raging 
Thrown  headlong  on  you*. 

Leon.  Still  there  are  some  doubts 
Of  the  discovery  ;  yet  I  do  allow  it. 
Hip.  Will   you  not  mention  now   the   cost  and 

charge 

Which  will  be  in  your  keeping  ! 
Leon.  That  will  be  somewhat, 
Which  you  might  save  too. 

Clean.  With  his  will  against  him, 
What  foe  is  more  to  man  than  man  himself; 
Are  you  resolved,  sir? 

Leon.  I  am,  Cleanthes  ; 
If  by  this  means  I  do  get  a  reprieve, 
And  cozen  death  awhile,  when  he  shall  come 
Armed  in  his  own  power  to  give  the  blow, 
I'll  smile  upon  him  then,  and  laughing  go. 

\Exeunt 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  EVASDER,  Courtiers,  and  CUATILUS. 

Evan.  Executioner  ! 

Crat.   My  lord. 

Kvan.  How  did  old  Diocles  take  his  death  ? 

Crat.    As  weeping  brides  receive  their  joys  at 

night, 
With  trembling,  yet  with  patience. 


people,  unless  he  now  quitted  them  for  a  residence  else' 
where.  The  conclusion  of  this  speech  1  do  not  understand  ! 
perhaps  something  is  lost. 

*  Hip.  "J'is  holy  care,  tir, 

Of  ynur  dear  tiff,  &c.J  This  thought,  at  once  pious  and 
philosophical,  is  frequently  dwelt  upou  by  Massiiiger 


Evan.  Why,  'twas  well. 

1  Court.  Nay,  I  knew  my  father  would  do  well 

my  lord, 

Whene'er  he  came  to  die  ;  I'd  that  opinion  of  him 
Which  made  me   the  more    willing  to  part  from 

him  ; 

He  was  not  fit  to  live  in  the  world,  indeed, 
Any  time  these  ten  years,  my  lord, 
But  I  would  not  say  so  much. 

*  Converge  withhfaven,  and  fairly  prepare 
[For  that]  which  was  too  violent  and  rajiny 
Thrown  headlong  on  you.]     Here  again  .-ome  vvouls  are 
lost  by  the  negligence   of  ihe  pi  inter,   which,    in  this  Play 
exceeds    all  credibility.     It  is   impossible  to  recover  them; 
but   to  make    something  like    sense  of  the  passage,  I  hav« 
ventured  to  add  what  is  enclosed  between  brackets. 


SCKNE  I.] 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


501 


Fran.  No  !  you  did  not  well  iu't, 
For   he    that's   all    spent,   is  ripe  for  death  at  all 

hours, 
And  does  but  trifle  time  out. 

1  Cimrt.  Troth,  my  lord, 

would  I'd  known  your  mind  nine  years  ago. 
Elan.    Our  law  is   fourscore   years,  because  we 

judge 

Dotage  complete  then,  as  unfruitfulness 
ID  women  at  threescore  ;  marry,  if  the  son 
Can  within  compass  bring  good  solid  proofs 
Of  his  cvrn  father's  weakness  and  unfitness 
To  live,  or  sway  ihe  living,  though  he  want  five 
Or  ten  years  of  his  number,  that's  not  it  ; 
His  defect  makes  him  fourscore,  and  'tis  fit 
He  dies  when  he  deserves  ;  for  everv  act 
Is  in  effect  then  when  the  cause  is  ripe. 

2  Court.  An   admirable  prince  !    how   rarely   he 
taiks*  ! 

Oh  that  we'd  known  this,  lads  !     What  a  time  did 

we  endure 
In  two-penny  commons,  and  in  boots  twice  vamp'd  ! 

1  Court.  Now  we  have  two  pair  a  week,  and  yet 
not  thankful  : 

'Twill  be   a  fine  world  for  them,  sirs,   that  come 
after  us. 

2  Court.  Ay.  an  they  knew  it. 

1  Ci'iirt.  Peace,  let  them  never  know  it. 

3  Court.    A  pox,  there  be  young  heirs  will  soon 
smell't  our. 

2  Court.  'Twill  come  to  them  by  instinct,  man  : 
may  your  grace 

Never  be  old,  you  stand  so  well  for  youth  ! 

Evan.  Why  now,  methinks,  our  court  looks  like  a 

spring, 
Sweet,  fresh,  and  fashionable,  now  the  old  weeds 

are  gone. 

1  Court.  It  is  as  a  court  should  be  : 
Gloss  and   good   clothes,  my  lord,  no  matter   for 

merit  ; 

And  herein  your  law  proves  a  provident  act, 
When  men  pass  not  the  palsy  of  their  tongues, 
Nor  colour  in  their  cheeks. 

Evan.  But  women 
By  that  law  should  live  long,  for  they're  ne'er  past 

it. 
1  Court.  It  will   have  heats  though,  when  they 

see  the  painting 

Co  an  inch  deep  i'the  wrinkle,  and  take  up 
A  box  more  than  their  gossips  :  but  for  men,  my 

lord, 

Th^t  should  be  the  sole  bravery  of  a  palace, 
lo  walk  with  hollow  eyes  and  long  white  beards, 
As  if  a  prince  dwelt  in  a  land  of  goats  ; 
AVith  clothes  as  if  they  sat  on  their  backs  on  pur- 
pose 

To  arraign  a  fashion,  and  condemn't  to  exile  ; 
1  heir  pockets  in  their  sleeves,  as  if  they  laid 
'J  heir  ear  to  avarice,  and  heard  the  devil  whisper  ! 
Now  ours  lie  downward  here  close  to  the  flank, 
Right  spending  pockets,  as  a  son's  should  be 
1  hat  lives  i'the  fashion ;    where  our  diseased   fa- 
thers, 
Worried  with  the  sciatica  and  aches, 


•  2  Court.  An  admirable  prince  !  &c-l  This  and  several 
of  the  subsequent  speeches  have  been  hitherto  printed  as 
prose:  they  are  not,  indeed,  very  mellifluous,  yet  they  run 
readily  enough  into  such  kind  of  metre  as  this  play  is,  for 
the  most  pan,  written  in.  oc 


Brought  up  your  paned  hose  first  *,   which  ladies 

Jailbird  at, 

(living  no  reverence  to  the  place  lies  ruin'd  : 
They  love  a  doublet  that's  three  hours  a  buttoning1, 
And  sirs  so  close  makes  a  man  groan  again, 
And  his  soul  mutter  half  a  day  ;  yet  these  are  those 
That  carry  sway  and  worth  :   prkk'd  up  in  clothes, 
Whv  should  we  fear  our  rising? 

Evan.  You  but  wrong 

Our  kindness,  nnd  your  own  deserts,  to  doubt  on't. 
Has  not  our  law  made  you  rich  he  fore  your  time? 
Our  countenance  then  cun  make  you  honourable. 

1  Court.   We'll  spare  for  no  cost,  sir,  to  appear 
wot  thy. 

Eian.  Why,  you're  i'the  noble  way  then,  for  the 

most 

Are  but  appearers  ;  worth  itself  is  lost, 
And  bravely  stands  for'tf. 

Enter  CREON,  ANTIGONA,  and  SIMONIDES. 

1  Court.  Look,  look,  who  comes  here  ? 
I  smell  death  and  another  courtier, 
Simonides. 

2  Court.  Sim! 

Sim.   Pish  !   I'm  not  for  you  yet, 
Your  company's  too  costly  ;  after  the  old  man's 
Dispatch'd  1  shall  have  time  to  talk  with  you  ; 
I  shall  ccme  into  the  fashion,  you  sliall  see,  too, 
After  a  day  or  two  ;  in  the  mean  time, 
I  am  not  for  your  company. 

£ri7/i.  Old  Creon,  you  have  been  expected  long; 
Sure  you're  above  fourscore. 

Sim.  Upon  my  life, 

Not  four  and  twenty  hours,  my  lord  ;  I  search'd 
The  church-hook  yesterday.    Does  your  grace  think 
I'd  let  my  father  wrong  the  law,  my  lord  ? 
'Twere  pity  o'my  life  then  !  no,  your  act 
Shall  not  receive  a  minute's  wroiiy  by  IKITI 
While  I  live,  sir  ;  and  he's  so  just  himself  too, 
I  know  he  would  not  ofier't : — here  he  stands. 

Crton.  'Tis  just  I  die,  indeed,  for  1  confess 
I  am  troublesome  to  life  now,  and  the  state 
Can  hope  for  nothing  worthv  from  me  now, 
Either  in  force  or  counsel ;  I've  o'late 
Employ 'd  myself  quite  from  the  world,  and  he 
That  once  begins  to  serve  his  Maker  faithfully, 
Can  never  serve  a  worldly  prince  well  after  ; ' 
'Tis  clean  another  way. 


* «  here  our  diteated  father*, 

\\  orrif  d  with  the  sciatica  and  achrs, 

£rotisht  up  your  paned  hose  first,  &c.]  For  tchere  Mr. 
M.  Mason  reads  ifhireas,  as  usual  !  In  the  next  line  lli« 
old  copy  has— U'ould  tcilh  tht  tciatica,  &c  ,  for  which,  he 
says,  "  we  should  read  wood,"  i.  e.  mad,  raging  ;  but  as  that 
leaves  the  metreimpertect,  I  have  adopted  another  word, 
which  bit's  no  less  fairly  to  be  the  genuine  one. 

Paned  hose  (sec  page  213)  are  ribbed  breeches,  the  large 
and  loose  slops  of  our  ancestors.  The  fashion  is  here  riili- 
cule<t,  as,  about  the  end  of  Elt7.,ibeih's  rtun,  when  this 
Way  was  apparently  written,  it  wasou  the  decline.  In  '/ he 
Great  Dvke  of  f'lorrnce,  produced  many  years  subsequent 
t'>  The  Old  Law,  paned  hose  are  mentioned  as  a  fashionable 
article  of  dre.-s,  and  this  is  agreeable  10  hUtory,  for  they 
were  again  introduced  at  the  accession  of  James  II.,  and 
continued  through  the  whole  of  his  rei»n  the  characteristic 
marks  of  a  tine  gentleman  and  a  courtier. 

t  And  bravery  stands  for't.]  i.  e.  ostentation?  finery  o 
appartl:  in  which  sense  it  is  frequently  ii.-cd  in  Ihe  Scrip- 
tures. "  In  that  day  the  lord  will  take  i\vay  the  tvavery 
of  their  tinkling  ornaments." — Jsaiah,  c.  iii.  v.  18,  &c.  &c. 
This  short  speech  of  Ihe  duke  affords  one  of  those  fcarcely 
perceptible  openings  through  which  Massinaer  artfully  con- 
tiives  tu  ijive  the  reader  a  glimpse  of  surh  character* a;  are 
hereafter  to  be  developed.  In  ever}  instance  he  f  illoni 
nature,  which  abhors  all  surtden  convcrjion.  the  common 
resource  of  modern  dramatists. 


502 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[Acr  II 


Ant.  Ob,  '^ive  not  confidence 
To  all  lie  speaks,  my  lord,  in  bis  own  injury. 
His  preparation  only  for  the  next  world 
Makes  him  talk  wildly  to  his  wrong  of  this ; 
He  is  :.ot  lost  in  judgment. 

Sim.  Site  spoils  all  again. 

Ant.  Deserving  any  way  for  state  employment. 

Sim.   Mother 

Ant.   His  very  household  laws  prescribed  at  home 

by  him 

A  re  able  to  conform  seven  Christian  kingdoms, 
They  are  so  wise  and  virtuous. 

Sim.  Mother,  1  say 

Ant.  1  know  your  laws  extend  not  to  desert,  sir, 
But  to  unnecessary  years,  arid,  my  lord, 
His  are  not  such  ;  though  they  show  white  they  are 

worthy, 
Judicious,  able,  and  religious. 

Sim.  Mother, 
I'll  help  you  to  a  courtier  of  nineteen. 

Am.  Away,  unnatural! 

Sim.  '/'hen  I  am  no  fool,  sure, 
For  to  be  natural  at  such  a  time 
Were  a  fool's  part,  indeed. 

Ant.   Your  grace's  pity, 
And  'tis  but  fit  and  just. 

Creon.    I  he  law,  my  lord, 
Arid  that's  the  justest  way. 

Sim.  Well  said,  father,  i'faith! 
Thou  wert  ever  juster  than  my  mother  still. 

Evan.  Come  hither,  sir. 

Sim.  My  lord. 

Evan.   What  are  those  orders? 

Ant.   Worth  observation,  sir, 
So  please  you  hear  them  read. 

Sim.  The  woman  speaks  she  knows  not  what,  my 

lord: 
He  make  a  law,  poor  man!    he  bought  a  TABLE, 

indeed, 

Only  to  learn  to  die  by't,  there's  the  business  now  ; 
Wherein  there  are  some  precepts  for  a  son  too, 
How  he  should  learn  to  live,  but  I  ne'er  look'd  on't : 
For,  when  he's  dead,  1  shall  live  well  enough, 
And  keep  a  better  TABLE*  than  that,  I  trow. 

l-van.  And  is  that  all,  sir? 

Sim.  All,  1  vow,  my  lord, 
Save  a  few  running  admonitions 

Upon  (heese-trencherst,  as 

Take  heed  of  whoring,  shun  it, 

'Tis  like  a  cheese  wo  strong  of  the  runnet. 


*  And  keep  a  belter  TABLE  than  that,  I  trow.]  This 
wretched  fellow  is  punning  upon  the  word  table,  which,  as 
applied  10  his  father,  meant  a  book,  or  rather,  perhaps,  a 
large  slit  et  ol  paper,  where  precepts  tor  the  due  regulation 
of  life  were  set  down  in  distinct  lines,  and,  as  applied  to 
IIIIIIM  If  -that  lie  would  keep  a  hotter  house,  i.  e.  live  more 
sumptuously  than  his  father.  Then,  which  the  modern  edi- 
tors have  alter  table,  and  which  destroys  the  metre,  is  not  in 
the  old  copy. 

t  Upon  chefst-trenchers.}  Before  the  general  introduction 
of  bonks,  our  ancestors  were  caieful  to  dole  out  instruction 
in  many  ways:  hangings,  pictures,  trenchers,  knives,  wear- 
ing apparel,  tvery  thing,  in  a  word,  that  was  capable  of  con- 
taining a  short  si-ntence,  was  turned  to  account. 

"  There  apophoreta,"  says  Puttcnham,  in  his  Art  of 
English  Pnfuie,  "  we  call  posies,  and  do  paint  them  now  a 
dayes  upon  the  hack  side  of  our  fruite-irenchen,"  &.c.  p. 
47.  And  Saltonstall  observes  of  one  of  his  characters,  that 
"  for  talke  h«-e  commonly  uses  some  proverbial  verses,  ga- 
thered perhaps  from  cherte-trenchcrx."  Pictures,  by  VV.  S. 
—  And  thus  George,  in  The  Honest  Whore : — "  Aye,  but  mis- 
tress, as  one  of  our  cheese-trenchers  tays  very  learnedly, 

"  •  As  out  of  wormwood  bees  suck  honey,'"   &c.  , 

Hence  they  are  termed  by  Caitwright,  trencher  analectt.        ' 


And  such  calves 'maw  of  wit  and  admonition, 
Good  to  catch  mice  with,  but  not  sons  and  heirs; 
They  are  not  so  easily  caught. 

Evan.  Agent  for  death  ! 

Crat.  Your  will,  my  lord  1 

Evan.  Take  hence  that  pile  of  years, 
Forfeit*  before  with  unprofitable  age, 
And,  with  the  rest,  from  the  high  promontory 
Cast  him  into  the  sea. 

Creon.  Tis  noble  justice! 

Ant.  'Tis  cursed  tyranny  ! 

Sim.  Peace  !  take  heed,  mother  ; 
You've  but  short  time  to  be  cast  down  yourself; 
And  let  a  young  courtier  do't,  an  you  be  wise, 
In  the  mean  time. 

Ant.  Hence,  slave  !  • 

Sim.  Well,  seven  and  fifty, 

You  have  but  three  years  to  scold,  then  comes  you 
payment. 

1  Court.  Simonides. 

Sim.  Pish,  I'm  not  brave  enough  to  hold  you  talk 

yet, 
Give  a  man  time,  I  have  a  suit  a  making. 

2  Court.  We  love  thy  form  first ;  brave  clothes 
will  come,  man.  [them, 

Sim.   I'll  make  them  come  else,  with  a  mischief  to 
As  other  gallants  do,  that  have  less  left  them. 

[fttardert  within. 
Evan.  Hark  !  whence  those  sounds  ?  what's  that ! 

1  Court.  Some  funeral, 

It  seems,  my  lord  ;  and  young  Cleanthes  follows. 

Enter  a  Funeral  Procession  :    the  hearse  followed  by 
CLEANTHES  and  HIPPOLITA. 

Evan.  Cleanthes ! 

2  Court.  'Tis,  my  lord,  and  in  the  place 

Of  a  chief  mourner  too,  but  strangely  habited. 

Evan.  Yet  suitable  to  his  behaviour  ;  mark  it ; 
He  comes  all  the  way  smiling,  do  you  observe  it? 
I  never  saw  a  corse  so  joyfully  followed  : 
Light  colours  and  light  cheeks!  —  who  should  this 

be? 
'Tis  a  thing  worth  resolving. 

Sim.  One,  belike, 
That  dolh  participate  this  our  present  joy. 

Evan.  Cleanthes. 

Clean.  Oh,  my  lord  ! 

Evan.  He  laugh'd  outright  now; 
Was  ever  such  a  contrariety  seen 


In  natural  courses  yet, nay  profess'd  openly? 

,  I  have  knowr 
lord, 


1  Ci)i/rt.  1  have  known  a  widow  laugh  closely,  my 


Under  her  handkerchief,  when  t'other  part 
Of  her  old  face  has  wept  like  rain  in  sunshine  ; 
But  all  the  face  to  laugh  apparently 
Was  never  seen  yet. 

Sim.  Yes,  mine  did  once. 

Cleuiu  'Tis,  of  a  heavy  time,  the  joyfull'st  day 
That  ever  son  was  born  to. 

Evan.   How  can  that  be? 

Clean.  I  joy  to  make  it  plain, — my  father's  dead. 

Euan.  Dead  ! 

2  Court.  Old  Leonides ! 

Clean.  In  his  last  month  dead  : 
He  beguiled  cruel  law  the  sweetliest 


•  Forfeit  before  with  unprofitable  age,}  Such  I  take  to 
be  the  genuine  reading:  ihe  old  copy  has  surfeit,  which  was 
adopted  b>  Coxeter,  and  improved  by  Mr.  M.  Mason,  by  the 
insertion  of  it! 

Jiefore  it  turfelt  with  unprofitable  age. 


SCKNB  I.] 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


50tJ 


That  ever  age  was  blest  to. 

It  grieves  me  th»t  a  tear  should  fall  upon't, 

Bfing  a  thing  so  joyful,  but  his  memory 

Will  work  it  our,  J  see  ;  when  his  poor  heart  broke 

I  did  not  do  so  much  :  hut  leap'd  tor  joy 

So  mountingly,  I  to^ch'd  the  stars,  methought ; 

1  would  not  hear  of  blocks,  I  was  so  light, 

But  chose  a  colour,  orient  like  my  mind  : 

For  blacks  are  often  such  dissembling  mourners, 

There  is  no  credit  given  to't;  it  has  lost 

All  reputation  by  false  sons  and  widows. 

Now  1  would  have  men  know  what  1  resemble, 

A  truth,  indeed  ;  'tis  joy  clad  like  a  joy, 

Which  is  more  honest  than  a  cunning  grief 

That's  only  faced  with  sables  for  a  show, 

Hut  gawdv-hearted  :    When  I  saw  death  come 

So  reidy  to  deceive  you,  sir, — forgive  me, 

I  t-ould  not  choose  but  be  entirely  merry, — 

And  yet  to*  see  now  ! — of  a  sudden 

Naming  but  death,  I  show  myself  a  mortal, 

That's  never  constant  to  one  passion  long. 

I  wonder  whence  that  tear  came,  when  1  smiled 

In  the  production  on't  ;  sorrow's  a  thief, 

That  can,  when  jov  looks  on,  steal  forth  a  grief. 

But,  gracious  leave,  my  lord  ;  when  I've  perform 'd 

My  last  poor  duty  to  my  father's  bones, 

1  >hitil  return  your  servant. 

Kian.  Well,  perform  it, 
The  law  is  satisfied  ;  they  cm  but  die  : 
And  by  his  death,  Cleantbes,  you  gain  well, 
A  rich  and  fair  revenue. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  Duke,  Courtiert,  $c. 

Sim.  I  would  1  had  e'en 
Another  f;»t  her,  condition  he  did  the  likef. 

Clean.  I   have  past  it    bravely  now  ;   how  blest 

was  1 

To  have  ihe  duke  in  sight*!  now  'tis  confirm'd, 
Past  fear  or  doubts  confirm'd  ;  on,  on,  I  say, 
Him  that  brought  me  to  man,  I  bring  to  clay. 

[Eaif  Funeral  Proceuwn,  followed  by 
Cteunthes,  and  Hippolita. 

Sim.  I  am  rapt  now  in  a  contemplation, 
Even  at  the  very  sight  of  yonder  hearse  : 
I  do  but  think  what  a  fine  thing  'tis  now 
To  live  and  follow  some  seven  uncles  thus, 
As  many  cousin-germans,  and  such  people 
That  will    leave    legacies ;    pox  !     I'd     see     them 

hatig'd  else, 
Ere  I'd  follow  one  of  them,  an  they  could  find  the 

way. 
Now  I've  enough  to  begin  to§  be  horrible  covetous, 

Enter  Butler,  Tailor,  Bailiff,  Cook,  Coachman,  and 
Footman. 

But.  We  come  to  know  your  worship's  pleasure, 
sir, 

•  And  yet  to  tee  notr.]  So  the  old  copy  :  Cox-ter  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  rtad,  I  kuuw  not  why, — And  yet  too,  tee 
now. 

+  — condition  he  did  the  like.]  i.  e.  on 

condition:  a  mode  of  speech  adopted  by  all  our  old  poets. 

J how  blmt  ii-us  / 

To  haoe  rfcduke  in  sight !]  Coxcttr  printed  (after  the 
old  cou\j,  To  have  tht  dim  sight:  the  variation  in  the  text 
isfit.ni  H  conjecture  of  Mr.  ,\i.  Ma»on.  I  suppose  the  uia- 
nu.-i-iipt  hail  oiiK  the  ini.ial  letter  of  duke,  ami  Ihe  primer 
ii'  t  knowing  wli.it  to  in. ike  of  d  in  si^lit,  corrected  it  into 
dint  oifiht.  These  abbreviation*  are  the  source  of  innume- 
rable errors. 

^  \inc  1  re  rnuuyh  to  begin  to  be  horrible  roeetou*.']  The 
modem  trillions  iiavi-,  \ow  1  ve  enough  1  beym  to  be  hor- 
ribly coretou*.  I  think  there  is  more  huinuur  in  the  old 
readh.g. 


Having  long   served  your  father,  how  your  good 

will 
Stands  towards  our  entertainment. 

Sim.  Not  a  jot,  i'faith  : 

My  father  wore  cheap  garments,  be  might  do't  ; 
I  shall  have  all  my  clothes  come  home  to  morrow, 
They  will  eat  up  all  you,  an  there    were  more  of 

you,  sirs. 
To  keep  you  six  at  livery,  and  still  munching  ! 

Tail.  Why,  I'm  a  tailor  ;  you  have  most  need  of 
me,  sir. 

Sim.  Thou    mad'st    my  father's   clothes,    that   I 

confess ; 

But  what  son  and  heir  will  have  his  father's  tailor, 
Unless  he  have  a  mind  to  be  well  laugh'd  at? 
Thou'st  been  so  used  to  wide  long-side  things,  that 

when 

I  come  to  truss,  I  shall  have  the  waist  of  my  doublet 
Lie  on  my  buttocks,  a  sweet  sight ! 

But.  1  a  Butler. 

Sim.  There's  least  need  of  thee,  fellow ;  I  shall 
ne'er  drink  at  home,  I  shall  he  so  drunk  abroad. 

But.  But  a  cup  of  small  beer  will  do  well  next 
morning,  sir. 

Sim.  I  grant  you ;  but  what  need  I  keep  so  big  a 
knave  for  a  cup  of  small  beer  ? 

Cook.  Butler,  you  have  your  answer  ;  marry,  sir, 

a  cook 
I  know  your  mastership  cannot  be  without. 

Sim.  The  more  ass  art  thou  to  think  so  ;  for  what 
should  I  do  with  &  mountebank,  no  drink  in  my 
house  ? — the  banishing  the  butler  might  have 
been  a  warning  to  thee,  unless  thou  means't  to 
cboak  me. 

Cook.  In  the  mean  time  you   have  choak'd  me, 
methinks. 

Bail.  These  are  superfluous  vanities,  indeed, 
And  so  accounted  of  in  these  days,  sir  ; 
But  then,  your  bailiff  to  receive  your  rents 

Sim.  I  prithee  hold  thy  tongue,  fellow,  I  shall 
take  a  course  to  spend  them  faster  than  thou 
canst  reckon  them  ;  'tis  not  the  rents  must  serve 
my  turn,  unless  I  mean  to  be  laughed  at;  if  a  man 
should  be  seen  out  of  slash-me,  let  him  ne'er  look 
to  be  a  right  gallant.  But,  sirrah,  with  whom  is 
your  business  ? 

Coach.  Your  good  mastership. 

Sim.  You  have   stood   silent  all  this  while  like 

men 
That  know  your  strengths     in  these  days,  none  of 

you 

Can  want  employment;  you  can  win  me  wagers*, 
Footman,  in  running  races. 

Foot.  1  dare  boast  it,  sir. 

Sim.  And   when  my   bets  are   all   come  in,   and 

store. 
Then,  coachman,  you  can  hurry  me  to  my  whore. 

Coach.   I'll  h'rk  them  into  foam  else. 

film,  Speaks  brave  matter  ; 
And  I'll  tirk  some  too,  or't  shall  cost  hot  water. 

[Eieunt  Sinioiiides,  Coachnan,  and  Footman, 

Ciwk.  Wliv,   litre's   an    age   to  make   a   cook   a 

ruffian, 

And  scald  the  devil  indeed  !  do  strange  mad  things, 
Make  mutton  pasties  (if  dog's  flesh, 
Bake  snakes  for  lamprey  pies,  and  cats  for  conies. 

But.  Come,  will  you' be  ruled  by  a  butler's  advice 

• jou  can  trin  me  wagers,]  So  the 

old  copy  :  the  modern  editions  read,  you  can  win  me  wagcil 


504 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[Acr  II. 


once?  for  we  must  make  up  our  fortunes  some- 
where now  as  the  case  stands  :  let's  e'en,  therefore, 
go  seek  out  widows  of  nine  and  fifty,  an  we  can; 
that's  within  a  year  of  their  deaths,  and  so  we  shall  he 
sure  to  be  quickly  rid  of  them  ;  for  a  year's  enough 
of  conscience  to  be  troubled  with  a  wife,  for  any 
man  living-. 

Civk.  Oracle    butler!    oracle     butler!    he    puts 
down  all  the  doctors  o'  the  name*.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. — A  7?oom  m  Creon's  House. 
Enter  EUGENIA  and  PAKTHENIA. 

Eiig.  Parthenia. 

Purth.  Mother. 

Eiig.  I  shall  be  troubledf 

This  six  months  with  an  old  clog;  would  the  law 
Had  been  cut  one  year  shorter  ! 

Purth.  Did  you  call,  forsooth  ? 

Eug.  Yes,  you  must  make  some  spoonmeat  for 
your  father,  [Eait  Parthenia. 

And  warm  three  nightcaps  for  him.     Out  upon't ! 
The  mere  conceit  turns  a  young  woman's  stomach. 
His  slippers  must  be  warm'd,  in  August  too, 
And  his  gown  girt  to  him  in  the  very  dog-days, 
When  every  mastiff  lolls  out's  tongue  for  heat. 
Would  not  this  vex  a  beauty  of  nineteen  now  ? 
Alas  !  I  should  be  tumbling  in  cold  baths  now, 
Under  each  armpit  a  fine  bean-flower  bag, 

To  screw  out  whiteness  when  I  list 

And  some  sev'n  of  the  properest  men  iu  the  dukedom 

Making  a  banquet  readv  i'  the  next  room  for  me  ; 

Where  he  that  gets  the  first  kiss  is  envied, 

And  stands  upon  his  guard  a  fortnight  after. 

This  is  a  life  for  nineteen  :   'tis  but  justice: 

For  old  men,  whose  great  acts  stand  in  their  minds, 

And  nothing  in  their  bodies,  do  ne'er  think 

A  woman  young  enough  for  their  desire  ; 

And  we  young  wenches,  that  have  mother-wits, 

And  love  to  marry  muck  first,  and  man  after, 

Do  never  think  old  men  are  old  enough,         [tance. 

That  we  may  soon  be  rid  o'  them  ;  there's  our  quit- 

1've  waited  for  the  happy  hour  this  two  years, 

And,  if  death  be  so  unkind  to  let  him  live  still, 

All  that  time  I  have  lost. 

Enter  Courtiers. 

1  Court.  Young  lady  ! 

2  Court.  O  sweet  precious  bud  of  beauty! 
Troth,  she  smells  over  all  the  house,  methinks. 

1  Court.  The    sweetbriar's   but   a  counterfeit  to 

her 

It  does  exceed  you  only  in  the  prickle, 
But  that  it  shall  not  long,  if  you'll  be  ruled,  lady. 
Eug.   What  means  this  sudden  visitation,  gentle- 
men ? 

•  He  alludes  to  Dr.  W.  Butler,  a  very  celebrated  ph>sician 
of  Klizabeih's  days.  The  oddity  of  In,  manlier;,  the  singu- 
Jariiy  of  his  practice,  and  I  he  extraordinary  cures  which  he 
l>ei  i.irme  I.  r.ii-rd  many  sir.mge  opinion*  of  him.  "  He 
never,"  (says  Dr.  Willie)  "  kept  any  apprentice  for  his 
bu-ini'>*,  nor  any  maid  but  a  foole,  and  yet  his  reputation, 
thiity-Hve  years  afier  his  death,  was  still  so  great,  (hat 
in  my  empirics  got  credit  among  the  vulgar,  by  claiming 
relation  to  I  im,  as  having  served  him,  and  learned  .:.uch 
from  him."  He  died  at  an  advanced  ace,  in  nils. 

t  Eng.  1  thall  lie  troubled,  &c.]  Coxeter  and  Mr.  M. 
Mason  have  absurdly  printed  this  and  the  lollowiug  sp.  tclies 
of  Eugtnia  as  prose.  I  cannot  account  for  the  molives 
which  induced  llivin  ».i  do  MI,  as  they  are  not  only  very 
good  metre,  but  are  arranged  as  such  in  the  old  copy. 


So  passing   well   perfumed  too !  who's  your   mil- 
liner 1 

1  Court,  Love,  and  thy  beauty,  widow. 
Eng.  Widow,  sir  ? 

1  Court.  'Tis  sure,  and  that's  as  good :  in  troth 
we're  suitors : 

We  come  a  wooing,  wench  ;  plain  dealing's  best. 
Eug.  A  wooing !  what,  before  my  husband'sdead  1 

2  Court.  Let's  lose  no  time  ;  six  months  will  have 
an  end  ; 

I  know'tby  all  the  bonds  that  e'er  I  made  yet. 
Eug.  That's  a  sure  knowledge,  but  it  holds  not 

here,  sir. 
1  Court.  Do   not   we*    know  the    craft   of  you 

young  tumblers  ? 

That  when  you  wed  an  old  man,  you  think  upon 
Another  husband  as  you  are  marrying  of  him  ;  — 
We,  knowing  v^>ur  thoughts,  made  bold  to  see  you. 

Enter  SIMOMOES  rkhly  dresteJ,  and  Coachman. 

Eug.  How  wondrous  right  he  speaks  !   'twas  my 

thought,  indeed. 
Sim.  By  your  leave,   sweet  widow,  do  you  lack 

any  gallants  1 
Eug.  Widow,  again  !  'tis  acomfort  to  becall'd  so. 

1  Court.  Who's  this,  Simonides? 

2  Court.  Brave  Sim,  i'l'aith. 
Sim.   Coachman. 

Coach.  Sir. 

Sim.  Have  an  especial  care  of  my  new  mares  ; 
They  say,  sweet  widow,  he  that  loves  a  horse  well 
Must  needs   love  a  widow  well. —  When  dies    thy 

husband  ] 
Is't  not  July  next  ? 

Eug.  Oh,  you  are  too  hot,  sir ! 
Pray  cool  yourself,  and  take  September  with  you. 
Sim.  September  !  oh,   1  was  but  two  bows  wide. 
1  Court.  Simonides. 

Sim.  I  can  intreat  you,  gallants,  I'm   in  fashion 
too. 

Enter  LYSANDEK. 

Lys.  Ha !  whence  this  herdf  of  folly  ?  what  are 
you  ? 

Sim.  Well-willers  to  your  wife  ;  pray  'tend  your 

book,  sir ; 

We've  nothing  to  say  to  you,  you  may  go  die, 
For  here  be  those  in  place  that  can  supply. 

Lys.   What's  thy  wild  business  here? 

Sim.  Old  man,  I'll  tell  thee ; 
I  come  to  beg  the  reversion  of  thy  wife  : 
I  think  these  gallants  be  of  mv  mind  too. — 
But  thou  art  but  a  dead  man,  therefore  what  should 
a  man  do  talking  with  thee?    Come,  widow,  stand 
to  your  tackling. 

iys.  Impious  blood-hounds  ! 

Sim.  Let  the  ghost  talk,  ne'er  mind  him. 

Lys.  Shames  of  nature  ! 


•  I   Court.    Do  not    we    know   the   craft  of  you  younf 
tumblers? 

That  when  you  wed  an  old  man,  &c.)  This  speech  ha? 
h'therto  stood  thus:  Don  t  you  know  the  craft  i>/°yoiir 
ynuny  tumlilrrs  ?  That  you  wed  an  old  man,  &c.  1  havt 
endeavoured  to  restore  it  to  some  degree  of  >ense,  by  altering 
One  word,  and  inserting  another.  To  lliose  who  are  ac- 
quainted with  the  deplorable  stale  of  the  old  copy,  I  shall 
easily  stand  excused  for  these  an:l  similar  liberties,  wlur.li, 
hoivever,  I  have  sp.iring'y  taken,  and  never  but  in  the  most 
dt-sperate  cases. 

t  L>  s.  Ha  !  whence  tki*  herd  of  folly  ?  What  are  you  ?] 
This  is  the  reading  of  ihe  old  copy  ;  tor  which  Coxc-ter  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  strangely  give  us, 

Ma!  whence  t/tit  uaheaiu'-of  fully  T  what  are  you  t 


SCENE  II.  J 


THE  OLD  LAW 


505 


Sim.  Alas,  poor  ghost!  consider  what  the  man  is. 
Lt/s.  Monsters  unnatural  !    you   that   have  been 

covetous 
Of    your  own    fathers'   death,  gape  you  for  mine 

now  1 

Cannot  a  poor  old  man,  that  now  can  reckon 
Even  all  the  hours  he  has  to  live.  live  quiet 
For  such  wild  beasts  as  these,  thai  neither  hold 
A  certainty  of  good  within  themselves. 
But  scatter  others'  comforts  that  are  ripen'd 
For  ho!y  uses?  is  hot  youth  so  hasty 
Tt  will  not  give  an  old  man  leave  to  die, 
And  leave  a  widow  first,  hut  will  make  one, 
The  husband  looking  on  ?  May  your  destructions 
Come  all  in  hasty  figures  to  your  souls! 
Your  wealth  depart  in  haste,  to  overtake 
Your  honesties,  that  died  when  you  were  infants ! 
May  your  male  seed  be  hasty  spendthrifts  too, 
Your  daughters  hasty  sinners,  and  diseased 
Ere  they  he  thought  at  years  to  welcome  misery  ! 
And  may  you  never  know  what  leisure  is 
Hut  at  repentance ! — I  am  too  uncharitable, 
Too  foul ;  I  must  go  cleanse  myself  with  prayers. 
'J  liese  are  the  plagues  of  fondness  to  old  men, 
We're  punish'd  home  with  what  we  dote  upon. 

[Exit. 

Sim.  So,  so !  the  ghost  is  vanish'd  :  now,  your 
answer,  lady. 

Eng.  Excuse  me,   gentlemen  ;    'twere  as   much 

impudence 

In  me  to  give  you  a  kind  answer  yet, 
As  madness  to  produce  a  churlish  one. 
I  could  say  now,  come  a  month  hence,  sweet  gen- 
tleman, 

Or  two,  or  three,  or  when  you  will,  indeed  ; 
But  I  say  no  such  thing  :   I  set  no  time, 
Nor  is  it  mannerly  to  deny  any. 
I'll  carry  an  even  hand  to  all  the  world  : 
Let  other  women  make  what  haste  they  will, 
What'-*  that  to  me  ?  but  I  profess  unfeignedly, 
I'll  have  my  husband  dead  before  I  marry  ; 
Ne'er  look  for  other  answer  at  my  hands. 

Sim.  Would  he  were  hang'd,   for  my  part,  looks 
for  other! 

Eitg.  I'm  at  a  word. 

Sim.  And  I  am  at  a  blow,  then; 
I'll  lay  you  o'  the  lips,  and  leave  you.       [Kisses  her. 

1  Court.   Well  struck,  Sim. 

Sim.  He  that  dares  say  he'll  mend  it,  I'll  strike 
him. 

1  Court.  He  would  betray  himself  to  be  a  botcher, 
That  goes  about  to  mend  it. 

Eug.   Gentlemen. 

You  know  my  mind  ;  1  bar  you  not  my  house, 
But  if  you  choose  out  hours  more  seasonably, 
You  may  have  entertainment. 

Re-enter  PAUTHENIA. 

Sim.  What  will  she  do  hereafter,  when   she  is  a 

widow, 
Keeps  open  house  already  ? 

[Exeunt  Simonides  and  Courtiers. 
Eug.  How  now,  girl ! 
Part/i.  Those  feather'd  fools  that  hither  took  their 

flight, 
Have  grieved  my  father  much. 

Eug.   Speak  well  of  youth,  wench, 
While  thou'st  a  day  to  live  ;  'tis  youth  must  make 

thee, 
A  ad  when  youth  fails  wise  women  will  make  it  j 


But  always  fake  age  first,  to  make  thee  rich  : 
That  was  mv  counsel  ever,  and  then  youth 
Will  make  thee  sport  enough  all  thy  life  after. 
'Tis  the  time's  policy,  wench  ;  what  is't  to  bide 
A  little  hardness  for  a  pair  of  years,  or  so  ? 
A  man  whose  only  strength  lies  in  his  breath, 
Weakness  in  all  parts  else,  thy  bedfellow, 
A  cough  o'  the  lungs,  or  sav  a  wheesing  matter ; 
Then  shake  off  chains,  and  dance  all  thy  life  after  ! 

Parth.  Every  one  to  their  liking ;  but  I  say 
An  honest  man's  worth  all,  be  he  young  or  gray. 
Yonder's  my  cousin.  [Exit. 

Enter  HIPPOLITA. 

E«g.  Art,  I  must  use  tbee  now  ; 
Dissembling  is  the  best  help  for  a  virtue 
That  ever  woman  had,  it  saves  their  credit  oft. 

Hip.   How  now,  cousin  ! 
What,  weeping? 

Eug.  Can  you  blame  me  when  the  time 
Of  my  dear  love  and  husband  now  draws  on  ? 
I  study  funeral  tears  against  the  day 
I  must  be  a  sad  widow. 

Hip.  In    troth,    Eugenia,   I  have  cause  to  weep 

too  ; 

But,  when  I  visit,  I  come  comfortably. 
And  look  to  be  so  quited*  : — yet  more  sobbing  ! 
Etig.  Oh  !  the   greatest  part  of  your  affliction'^ 

past, 

The  worst  of  mine's  to  come  ;  I  have  one  to  die  ; 
Your  husband's  father  is  dead,  and  fixed  in  his 
Eternal  peace,  past  the  sharp  tyrannous  blow. 
Hip.  You  must  use  patience,  coz. 
Eug.  Tell  me  of  patience  ! 
Hip.  You  have  example  for't,  in  me  and  many. 
Eug.  Yours  was  a  father-in-law,  but  mine  a  hus- 
band : 

O,  for  a  woman  that  could  love,  and  live 
With  an  old  man,  mine  is  a  jewel,  cousin; 
So  quietly  he  lies  by  one,  so  still ! 

Hip.  Alas  !  I  have  a  secret  lodged  within  me, 
Which  now  will  out  in  pity  : — I  cannot  hold. 

Eng.  One  that  will  not  disturb  me  in  my  sleep 
For  a  whole  month  together,  less  it  be 
With  those  diseases  age  is  subject  to, 
As   aches,  coughs,  and   pains,  and   these,   heaven 

knowsf, 

Against  his  will  loo  : — he's  the  quietest  man, 
Especially  in  bed. 
Hip.  Be  comforted. 
Eug.  How  can  I,  lady  ? 
None  know  the  terror  of  an  husband's  loss. 
But  they  that  fear  to  lose  him. 

Hip.  Fain  would  I  keep  it  in,  but  'twill  uot  be  ; 
She  is  my  kinswoman,  and  I'm  pitiful. 
I  must  impart  a  good,  if  I  know  it  once, 
To  them  that  stand  in  need  on't ;  I'm  like  one 
Loves  not  to  banquet  with  a  joy  alone  ; 
My    friends    must    partake  too : — prithee,    cease, 

cousin  ; 

If  your  love  be  so  boundless,  which  is  rare 
In  a  young  woman  in  these  days,  I  tell  you, 

*  And  look  to  beta  quited;]  Mr.  M.  Mason  reads— And 
look  to  be  to  far  requited!  What  lie  imagined  he  bad 
gained  by  this  harsh  and  unmetrical  addition,  is  difficult  to 
conjecture ;  the  text  is  veiy  K"°d  sense- 

t  At  aches,  coughs,  and  pains,  and  tJiese,  heaven  knoun,] 
Here  again  Mr.  M.  Mason  wantonly  sophisticates  (he  text; 
he  reads  acfu  ;  but  the  true  word  is  that  which  stands  above 
(acJiet),  which  was  always  used  in  Massiiijjrr's  lime  a*  a 
dissyllable,  and  pronounced  atch-es. 


506 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


|  ACT  III, 


To  one  so  much  past  service  as  your  husband, 
There  is  a  way  to  beguile  law,  and  hel[)  you  j 
My  husband  found  it  out  first. 
£ug-.   Oh,  sweet  cousin  ! 

Hip.  You    may    conceal  him,  and   give  out    his 

death 

Within  the  time  ;  order  his  funeral  too  ; 
We  had  it  so  for  ours,  I  praise  heaven  £..r't, 
And  he's  alive  and  safe. 

Eug.  O  blessed  coz, 
How  thou  revivest  me  ' 

Hip.   We  daily  see 

The  good  old  man,  and  feed  him  twice  a  day. 
Methiriks,  it  is  the  sweetest  joy  to  cherish  him, 
That  ever  life  yet  show'd  me. 

Etig.  So  should  1  think, 
A  dainty  thing  to  nurse  an  old  man  well ! 

Hip.  And  then  we   have  his   prayers  and  daily 
blessing  ; 


And  we  two  live  so  lovingly  upon  it, 
His  son  and  I,  and  so  contentedly, 
You  cannot  think  unless  you  tasted  on't. 

Eng.  No,  I  warrant  you.     Oh,  loving  cousin, 
What  a  great  sorrow  has  thou  eased  me  of! 
A  thousand  thanks  go  with  thee! 

Hip.  I  have  a  suit  to  you, 
I  must  not  have  you  weep  when  I  am  gone 

[Exit 

Eng.  No,  if  I  do,  ne'er  trust  me.    Easy  fool, 
Thou  hast  put  thyself  into  my  power  for  ever  ; 
Take  heed  of  angering  of  me  :  I  conceal ! 
I  feign  a  funeral  !  I  keep  my  husbund  ! 
'Las  !   I've  been  thinking  any  time  these  two  years 
I  have  kept  him  too  long  already. — 
I'll  go  count  o'er  my  suitors,  that's  my  business, 
And  prick  the  man  down  ;  I've  six  months  to  do't. 
But  could  dispatch  it  in  one  were  I  put  to't. 

[Exit. 


ACT   III. 


SCENE  I.— Before  the  Church. 
Enter  GNOTHO  and  Clerk. 

Gnoth.  You  have  search 'd  over  the  parish-chroni- 
cle, sir? 

Clerk.  Yes,  sir ;  I  have  found  out  the  true  age 
and  date  of  the  party  you  wot  on. 

Gnoth.   Pray  you,  be  cover'd,  sir. 

Clerk.  When  you  have  showed  me  the  way,  sir. 

Gnoth.  Oh,  sir,  remember  yourself,  you  are  a 
clerk. 

Clerk.  A  small  clerk,  sir. 

Gnoth.  Likely  to  be  the  wiser  man,  sir  ;  for  your 
greatest  clerks  are  not  always  so,  as  'tis  reported. 

Clerk.  You  are  a  great  man  in  the  parish,  sir. 

Gnoth.  I  understand  myself  so  much  the  better, 
*ir  ;  for  all  the  best  in  the  parish  pay  duties  to  the 
clerk,  and  I  would  owe  you  none,  sir. 

Cierk.  Since  you'll  have  it  so,  I'll  be  the  first  to 
hide  my  head. 

Gnoth.  Mine  is  a  capcase  :  now  to  our  business 
in  hand.  Good  luck,  I  hope  ;  I  long  to  be  resolved. 

Clerk.  Look  you,  sir,  this  is  that  cannot  deceive 

you  :* 

This  is  the  dial  that  goes  ever  true  ; 
You  may  say  ipse  diiit  upon  this  witness, 
And  it  is  good  in  law  too. 

Gnoth.  Pray  you,  let's  hear  what  it  speaks. 

Clei-k.  Mark,  sir.  Agatha,  the  daughter  of  Pollux 
(this  is  your  wife's  name,  and  the  name  of  her  fa- 
ther), born 

Gnoth.  Whose  daughter,  say  you  ? 

Clerk.  The  daughter  of  Pollux. 

Gnoth.  I  take  it  his  name  was  Bollux. 

Clerk.  Pollux  the  orthography,  I  assure  you,  sir  ; 
the  word  is  corrupted  else. 

•  Clerk.  Look  you,  sir,  this  w  that  cannot  deceive  you  :] 
fPTtich,  inserted  by  the  modern  editors  after  that,  is  per- 
fectly unnecessary,  as  they  niis;ht  have  discovered,  long 
before  they  reached  this  part  of  their  work. 


Gnoth.  Well,  on  sir, — of  Pollux  ;  now  come  on. 
Castor. 

Clerk.  Born  in  an.  1540  ;  and  now  'tis  99.  By 
this  infallible  record,  sir  (let  me  see),  she's  now 
just,  fifty-nine,  and  wants  but  one. 

Gnoth.  I  am  sorry  she  wants  so  much. 

Clerk.  Why,  sir?  alas. 'tis  nothing;  'tis  but  so 
many  months,  so  many  weeks,  so  many 

Gnoth.  Do  not  deduct  it  to  days*,  'twill  be  the 
more  tedious ;  and  to  measure  it  by  hourglasses 
were  intolerable. 

Clerk.  Do  not  think  on  it,  sir  ;  half  the  time  goes 
away  in  sleep,  'tis  half  the  year  in  nights. 

Gnoth.  O,  you  mistake  me,  neighbour,  I  am  loth 
to  leave  the  good  old  woman  ;  if  she  were  gone 
now  it  would  not  grieve  me.  for  what  is  a  year, 
alas,  but  a  lingering  torment?  and  were  it  not  bet- 
ter she  were  out  of  her  pain  ?  It  must  needs  be  a 
grief  to  us  both. 

Clerk.  I  would  I  knew  how  to  ease  you,  neigh- 
bour ! 

Gnolh.  You  speak  kindly,  truly,  and  if  you  say 
but  Amen  to  it  (which  is  a  word  thatT  know  you 
are  perfect  in),  it  might  be  done.  Clerks  are  the 
most  indifferent  honest  men, — for  to  the  marriage  of 
your  enemy,  or  the  burial  of  your  friend,  the  curses 
or  the  blessings  to  you  are  all  one  ;  you  say  Amen 
to  all. 

Clerk.  With  a  better  will  to  the  one  than  the 
other,  neighbour :  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  say  Amen 
to  any  thing  might  do  you  a  pleasure. 

Gnoth.  There  is,  first,  something  above  your 
duty  :  now  I  would  have  you  set  forward  the  clock 
a  little,  to  help  the  old  woman  out  of  her  pain. 


*  Gnoth.  Do  not  deduct  it  todays,]  A  Latinism,  dedvcere 
bring  it  down,  or,  as  \ve  nay,  reduce  it  to  days.  This  ab- 
surdity of  consulting  the  church-book  for  the  as;e,  &c.,may 
be  kept  in  countenance  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  vol. 
6lh,  p.  248.  Indeed, there  are  several  passages  in  this  Play, 
that  resemble  some  in  The  Quern  of  Corinth. 


SCEJSE  I.] 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


507 


Clerk.  I  will  speak  to  the  sexton  ;  but  the  day 
will  HO  ne'er  the  faster  for  that. 

Gnoth.  Oh,  neighbour,  you  do  not  conceit  me; 
not  the  jack  of  the  clock-house,  the  hand  of  the 
dial,  1  mean, — Come,  I  know  you,  being  a  great 
clerk,  cannot  choose  but  have  the  art  to  cast  a 
figure. 

Clerk.  Never,  indeed,  neighbour;  I  never  had 
the  judgment  to  cast  a  figure, 

Gnoth.  I'll  show  you  on  the  back  side  of  your 
book;  look  you, — what  figure's  this? 

Clerk.  Four  with  a  cipher,  that's  forty. 

Gnoth.  So  !  forty  ;  what's  this,  now  ? 

Clerk.  The  cipher  is  turn'dinto  9  by  adding  the 
tail,  which  makes  fotty-nine. 

Gnoth.   Very  well  understood  ;  what  is't  now  ? 

Clerk.  The  four  is  turn'd  into  three ;  'tis  now 
thirty-nine. 

Gnolh.  Very  well  understood  ;  and  can  you  do 
this  again  1 

Clerk    Oh  !  easily,  sir. 

Gnoth.  A  wager  of  that !  let  me  see  the  place  of 
my  wife's  age  again. 

Clerk.  Look  you,  sir,  'tis  here,  1540. 

Gnoth.  Forty  drachmas,  you  do  not  turn  that  forty 
into  thirty-nine. 

Clerk.  A  match  with  you. 

Gnoth.  Done  !  and  you  shall  keep  stakes  your- 
self:  there  they  are. 

Clerk.  A  firm  match — but  stay,  sir,  now  I  con- 
sider it,  I  shall  add  a  year  to  your  wife's  age  ;  let  me 
see — Scirophorion  the  17, — and  now  'tis  Hecatomkaion 
the  llth*.  If  I  alter  this  your  wife  will  have  but  a 
month  to  live  by  law. 

Gn»th.  That's  all  one,  sir  ;  either  do  it  or  pay  me 
my  wager. 

Clerk.  Will  you  lose  your  wife  before  you  lose 
your  wager  1 

Gnoth.  A  man  may  get  two  wives  before  half  so 
much  money  by  them  ;  will  you  do  it? 

Clerk.  I  hope  you  will  conceal  me,  for  'tis  flat  cor- 
ruption. 

Gnutli.  Nay,  sir,  I  would  have  you  keep  coun- 
sel ;  for  I  lose  my  money  by't,  and  should  be 
laugh'd  at  for  my  labour,  if  it  should  be  known. 

Clerk.  Well,  sir,  there  ! — 'tis  done  ;  as  perfect  a 
39  as  can  be  found  in  black  and  white:  but  mum, 
sir, — there's  danger  in  this  figure-casting. 

Gnoth.  Ay,  sir,  I  know  that :  better  men  than 
you  have  been  thrown  over  the  bar  for  as  little  ; 
the  best  is,  you  can  be  but  thrown  out  of  the 
belfry. 

Enter  the  Cook,  Tailor,  Bailiff,  and  Butler. 

Clerk.  Lock  close,  here  comes  companyf  ;  asses 
have  ears  as  well  as  pitchers. 

Cook.  Oh,  Gnotho,  b..w  is't'!  here's  a  trick  of  dis- 
carded cards  of  us  !  we  were  rank'd  with  coats  as 
long  as  old  master  livedj. 

Gnoth.  And  is  this  then  the  end  of  servingmen  ? 


*  Scirophorion,  Hccatombaion,  and,  soon  after,  Decem- 
ber; what  a  medley  !  This  miserable  oslent.ition  of  Greek 
lileratuie  is,  1  believe,  from  the  pen  of  Middleton,  who 
was  "a  |>itree"  of  a  scholar. 

t  Lock  close,  here  comes  company ;]  So  the  old  copy : 
the  modern  eilitois  read — Look  close,  which  has  no  mean- 
ing. 

I  This  alludes  to  gome  game,  in  which  the  low  cards 
were  thro  MI  out -.coats  were  what  we  call  court  cards. 
1 'he  end  of  serciny-mtn,  which  occurs  in  the  next  speech, 
U  the  title  of  an  old  ballad. 


Cook.  Yes,  'faith,  this  is  the  end  of  serving  mun 
a  wise  man  were  better  serve  one  God  than  all  the 
men  in  the  world. 

Gnoth.  Twas  well  spoke  of  a  cook.  And  are  all 
fallen  into  fasting-days  and  Ember-weeks,  that  cooks 
are  out  of  use1 

Tail.  And  all  tailors  will  be  cut  into  lists  arid 
shreds  ;  if  this  world  hold,  we  shall  grow  both  out 
of  request. 

But.  And  why  not  butlers  as  well  as  tailors? 
if  they  can  go  naked,  let  them  neither  eat  nor  drink. 

Clerk.  That's  strange,  methinks,  a  lord  should 
turn  away  his  tailor,  of  all  men  : — and  how  dost 
thou,  tailor? 

Tail.  1  do  so  so  ;  but,  indeed,  all  our  wants  are 
long  of  this  publican,  my  lord's  bailiff;  for  had  he 
been  rent-gatherer  still,  our  places  had  held  toge- 
ther still,  that  are  now  seam-rent,  nay  crack'd  in 
the  whole  piece*. 

Bait.  Sir,  if  my  lord  had  not  sold  his  lands  that 
cLiim  his  rents,  1  should  still  have  been  the  rent- 
gatherer. 

Cook.  The  truth  is,  except  the  coachman  and  the 
footman,  all  serving-men  are  out  of  request. 

Gnoth.  Nay,  say  not  so,  for  you  were  never  in 
more  request  lhan  now,  for  requesting  is  but  a  kind 
of  a  begging  ;  for  when  you  say,  1  beseech  your 
worship's  charity,  'tis  all  one  as  if  you  say  1  req'uest 
it ;  and  in  that  kind  of  requesting,  1  am  sure  servjng- 
men  were  never  in  more  request. 

Cook.  Troth  he  says  true  :  well,  let  that  pass  ;  we 
are  upon  a  better  adventure.  I  see,  Gnotho,  you 
have  been  before  us ;  we  came  to  deal  with  this 
merchant  for  some  commodities. 

Clerk.  With  me,  sir?  any  thing  that  I  can. 

But.  Nay,  we  have  looked  out  our  wives  already : 
marry,  to  you  we  come  to  know  the  price*,  that  i>, 
to  know  their  ages  ;  for  so  much  reverence  we  bear 
to  age,  that  the  more  aged,  they  shall  be  the  more 
dear  to  us. 

Tail.  The  truth  is,  every  man  has  laid  by  his 
widow  :  so  they  be  lame  enough,  blind  enough,  and 
old  enough,  'tis  good  enough. 

Clerk.  I  keep  the  town-stock  ;  if  you  can  but 
name  them,  I  can  tell  their  ages  to  a  day. 

AH.  We  can  tell  their  fortunes  to  an  hour,  then. 

Clerk.  Only  you  must  pay  for  turning  of  the 
leaves. 

Cook.  Oh,  bountifully, — Come,  mine  first. 

But.  The  butler  before  the  cook,  while  you  live; 
there's  few  that  eat  before  they  drink  in  a  morning. 

Tail.  Nay,  then  the  tailor  puts  in  his  needle  of 
priority,  for  men  do  clothe  themselves  before  they 
either  drink  or  eat. 

Bail.  I  will  strive  for  no  place  ;  the  longer  ere  I 
marry  my  wife,  the  older  she  will  be,  and  nearer 
her  end  and  my  ends. 

Clerk.  I  will  serve  you  all,  gentlemen,  if  you  will 
have  patience. 

Gnoth.  1  commend  your  modesty,  sir  ;  you  are  a 
bailiff,  whose  place  is  to  come  behind  other  men, 
so  it  were  in  the  bum  of  all  the  rest. 


If  the  reader  wanted  any  additional  proof  that  no  part 
of  this  «cene  was  written  by  Massinger,  he  might  find  it  in 
this  punning  on  the  terms  used  by  tailors :  in  these,  ann 
similar  conceits,  he  takes  no  pleasure.  It  is  wietched  stnif. 
and  would  almost  lead  one  to  think  that  it  was  the  produc- 
tion of  tt  e  stage,  in  its  nonage,  arid  not  fairly  attributable  to 
any  of  the  triumvirate. 


£08 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[Af.T  III 


Bait.  So,  sir!  and  you  were  about  this  business 
too,  seeking  out  for  a  widow  ? 

Gnoth.  Alack  !  no,  sir;  I  am  a  married  man,  and 
have  those  cares  upon  me  that  you  would  fain  run 
into. 

Bail.  What,  an  old  rich  wife !  any  man  in  this 
age  desires  such  a  care. 

Giwth.  Troth,  sir,  I'll  put  a  venture  with  you,  if 
you  will  ;  1  have  a  lusty  old  quean  to  my  wife, 
sound  of  wind  and  limb,  yet  I'll  give  out  to  take 
three  for  one  at  the  marriage  of  my  second  wife. 

Bait.  Ay,  sir,  but  how  near  is  siie  to  the  law? 

Gnoth.  Take  that  at  hazard,  sir;  there  must  be 
time,  you  know,  to  get  a  new.  Unsight,  unseen,  I 
take  three  to  one. 

Bail.  Two  to  one  I'll  give,  if  she  have  but  two 
teeth  in  her  head. 

Gnoih.  A  match  ;  there's  five  drachmas  for  ten  at 
my  next  wife. 

Bail.  A  match. 

Cook.  I  shall  be  fitted  bravely  :  fifty-eight  and 
upwards;  'tis  but  a  yeur  and  half,  and  1  may 
chance  make  friends,  and  heg  a  year  of  the  duke. 

But.  Hey,  boys  !  1  am  made,  sir  butler ;  my  wife 
that  shall  be  wants  but  two  months  of  her  time ;  it 
ahall  be  one  ere  1  marry  her,  and  then  the  next  will 
be  a  honey  moon. 

Tail.  I  outstrip  you  all;  I  shall  have  but  six 
weeks  of  Lent,  if  I  get  mv  widow,  and  then  comes 
eating-tide,  plump  and  gorgeous. 

Gnoth.  This  tailor  will  be  a  man,  if  ever  there 
were  any. 

Bail.  Now  comes  my  turn.  I  hope,  goodman 
Finis,  you  that  are  still  at  the  end  of  all,  with  a  to  be 
it.  Well  now,  sirs,  do  you  venture  there  as  I  have 
done  ;  and  I'll  venture  here  after  you :  Good  luck, 
I  beseech  thee ! 

Clerk.  Amen,  sir. 

Bail.  That  deserves  a  fee  already — there  'tis  ; 
please  me,  and  have  a  better. 

Clerk.  Amen,  sir. 

Cook.  How,  two  for  one  at  your  next  wife  !  is  the 
old  one  living? 

Gim'.h.  You  have  a  fair  match,  I  offer  you  no  foul 
one  ;  if  death  make  not  haste  to  call  her,  she'll  make 
none  to  go  to  him. 

But.  I  know  her,  she's  a  lusty  woman  ;  I'll  take 
the  venture. 

Gnolh.  There's  five  drachmas  for  ten  at  my  next 
wife. 

7i«f.  A  bargain. 

Ciwk.  Nay,  then  we'll  be  all  merchants;  give  me. 

Tail.  And  me. 

But.  What,  has  the  bailiff  sped? 

Bail.  I  am  content ;  but  none  of  you  shall  know 
my  happiness, 

Clerk.  As  well  as  any  of  you  all,  believe  it,  sir. 

Rail.  Oh,  clerk,  you  are  to  speak  last  always. 

Clerk.  I'll  remember't  hereafter,  sir.  You  have 
done  with  me  gentlemen? 

Enter  AGATHA. 

All.  For  this  time  honest  register. 
Clerk.  Fare   you  well   then ;  if  you  do   I'll  cry 
Amen  to  it*.  [Exit. 

Cottk.  Look  you,  sir,  is  not  this  your  wife  ? 
Gnoth.  iMy  first  wife,  sir. 


•  Clerk,  fare  you  well,  then  ;  if  yon  do,  J'll  cry   Amen 
toil.}  .!.  £.  if  you/are  well:—  but  ibis  U  a  »a(l  abuse  of  cii- 


But.  Nay,  then  we  have  made  a  good  match  on*t 
if  she  have  no  froward  disease   the  woman  may  live 
this  down  years  bv  her  age. 

Tail.  I'm  afraid  she's  broken-winded,  sli3  holds 
silence  so  long. 

Cook.  We'll  now  leave  our  venture  to  the  event, 
I  must  a  wooing. 

But.  I'll  but  buy  me  a  new  dagger,  and  overtake 
you. 

Bail.  So  we  must  all  ;  for  he  that  goes  a  wooinsr 
to  a  widow  without  a  weapon,  will  never  j.el  her. 

[£mm!  all  btit  Gnotho  mid  Agatha. 

Gnoth.  Oh,  wife,  wife! 

Aga.  What  ail  you  maa,  you  speak  so  pas- 
sionately* ? 

Gnoth.  Tis  for  thy  sake,  sweet  wife  :  who 
would  think  so  lusty  an  old  woman,  with  reason- 
able good  teeih,  and  her  tongue  in  as  perfect 
use  as  ever  it  was,  should  be  so  near  her  time  ?  — 
battlie  Fates  will  have  it  so. 

Aga.  What's  ihe  matter,  man?  you  do  amaze  me. 

Gnoth.  '\  hou  art  not  sicic  neither,  I  warrant  thee. 

Aga.  Not  that  1  know  of,  sure. 

Gnoth.  What  pity  'lisa  woman  should  be  so  near 
ber  end,  and  yet  not  sick  ! 

Aga.  Near  her  end,  man!  tush,  I  can    guess  at 

that  ; 

I  have  years  good  yet  of  life  in  the  remainder  : 
I  want  two  yet  at  least  of  the  full  number; 
Then  the  law.  I  know,  craves  impotent  and  useless, 
And  not  the  able  women. 

Gnoth.  Ay,  alas  !  I  see  thou  ba.st  been  repairing 
time  as  well  as  thou  couldst ;  the  old  wrinkles  are 
well  filled  up,  but  the  veimilion  is  seen  too  thick, 
too  thick — and  I  read  what's  written  in  thy  fore- 
head ;  it  agrees  with  the  church-book. 

Aga.  Have  you  sought  my  age,  man?  and,  I 
pritl.ee,  how  is  it  ? 

Gnoih.  I  shall  but  discomfort  thee. 

Aga.  Not  at  all  man  ;  when  there's  no  remedy,  I 
will  go,  though  unwillingly. 

Gnoth.  1539.  Just  ;  it  agrees  with  the  book  : 
you  have  about  a  year  to  prepare  yourself. 

Aga.  Out,  alas !  I  hope  there's  more  than  so. 
But  do  you  not  think  a  reprieve  might  be  gotten  for 
half  a  score — an  'twere  but  five  years  I  would  not 
care  ;  an  able  woman,  methinks,  were  to  be  pitied. 

Gnoth.  Ay,  to  lie  pitied,  but  not  help'd  ;  no  hope 
of  that :  for,  indeed,  women  have  so  blemish'd  their 
own  reputations  now-a-days,  that  it  is  thought  the 
law  will  meet  them  at  fifty  very  shortly. 

Aga.  Marry,  the  heavens  forbid  ! 

Gnoth.  There's  so  many  of  you,  that,  when  you 
are  old,  become  witches;  some  profess  physic, 
and  kill  good  subjects  faster  than  a  burning  fever  ; 
and  then  school-mistresses  of  the  sweet  sin,  which 
commonly  we  call  bawds,  innumerable  of  that  sort: 
for  these  and  such  causes  'tis  thought  they  shall  not 
live  above  fifty. 

Aga.  Ay,  man,  but  this  hurts  not  the  good  old 
women. 

Gnoth.  Faith,  you  are  so  like  one  another,  tha 
a  man  cannot  distinguish  them  :  now,  were  I  an 
old  woman,  I  would  desire  to  go  before  my  time, 
and  offer  myself  willingly,  two  or  three  years  be- 
fore. Oh,  those  are  brave  women,  and  worthy  to 
be  commended  of  all  men  in  the  world,  that,  when 


*  Aga.  What  ail  you,  man,  you  speak  so  passionately?] 
,  e.  so  plaiutivtly,  so  sorrowfully.     See  ante,  Act  1,  so.  1 


SCENE  1." 


THE  OLD  LAW 


509 


their  husbands  (lie,  they  run  to  be  burnt  to  death 
with  them:  there's  honour  and  credit!  <;ive  me 
half  a  dozen  such  wives. 

A?a.  Av,  if  her  husband  were  dead  before, 
twere  a  reasonable  request  ;.  if  you  were  dead,  I 
iould  be  content  to  he  so. 

Garth.  Fie!  thiit's  not  likely,  for  thou  hadst  two 
husbands  before  me. 

Aga.  Thou  wouldst  not  have  me  die,  wouldst 
thou.  husband? 

Gnnth.  No,  I  do  not  speak  to  that  purpose  :  but 
I  sav,  what  credit  it  were  for  me  and  thee,  if  thou 
wouldst  ;  then  thou  shouldst  never  be  suspected 
for  a  witch,  a  physician,  a  bawd,  or  nnv  of  those 
things:  and  then  how  daintily  should  I  mourn  for 
thee,  how  bravely  should  I  see  thee  buried  !  when, 
alas,  if  he  sr°es  before,  it  cannot  choose  but.  be  a 
great  grief  to  him  to  think  hi-  IIHS  not  seen  his  wife 
well  buried.  There  be  such  virtuous  women  in 
the  world,  but  too  few,  too  few,  who  desire  to  die 
seven  years  before  their  time  with  all  their 
hearts. 

Age.  I  have  not  the  heart  to  be  of  that  mind  ; 
but,  indeed,  husband,  I  think  you  would  hare  me 
gone. 

Gnnth.  No.  alas  !  I  speak  but  for  your  good  and 
vour  credit  ;  for  when  a  woman  may  die  quickly, 
why  should  she  <ro  to  law  for  her  death  ?  Alack,  I 
need  not  wish  thee  pone,  for  thou  hast  but  a  short 
time  lo  s'ay  with  me  :  you  do  not  know  how  near 
tis, — it  must  out,  you  have  but  a  month  to  Jive  by 
the  law. 

Aga.  Out  alas  f 
Gnoth.   Nav,  scarce  so  much. 

Aga.   Oh.  oh,  oK  mv  heart  !  [Swoons. 

Gniith.    Ay,  so!   if  thou  wouldst  go  away  quietly, 
'twere  sweetly   done,  :ind   like  a  kind  wife  ;  lie  but 
a  little  longer,  and  the  bell  shall  toll  for  thee. 
Asa.  Oh  my  heart,  but  a  month  to  live  ! 
Gnoth.  Ala*,  why  wouldst  thou  come  back  again 
for  a  month?   I'll   throw  her  down  again— oh!   wo- 
man, 'tis  not  three  weeks  ;  I  think  a  fortnight  is  the 
most. 

Aga.  Nay,  then  I  am  gone  alreadv.  [Swoons. 

Gnoth.  I   would  make  haste  to  the  sexton   now, 

but  I  am  afraid  the  tolling  of  the  bell  will  wake  her 

again.     If  she  be  so  wise  as  to  go  now — she  stirs 

again;  there's  two  lives  of  the  nine  gone. 

Aga.  Oh  !  wouldst  thou  not  help  to  recover  me, 
husband  ? 

Gnoth.  Alas,  I  could  not  find  in  my  heart  to  hold 
thee  by  thy  nose,  or  box  thy  cheeks  ;  it  j;oes  against 
.  my  conscience. 

Aga.   I  will  not  be  thus  frighted  to  my  death,  I'll 
search  the  church  records:  a, fortnight! 
Tis  too  little  of  conscience,  I  c;mnot  be  so  near  ; 

0  time,  if   thou  be'st  kind,  lend  me  but  a   vear. 

[Ei  it. 

Gnoth.  What  a  spi'e's  this,  that  a  man  cannot 
persuade  his  wife  to  die  in  any  time  with  her  good 
will?  I  have  another  bespoke  alreadv;  though  a 
piece  of  old  beef  will  serve  to  breakfast,  yet  a  man 
would  be  glad  of  a  chicken  to  supper.  The  clerk, 

1  hope,  understands  no    Hebrew,   and  cannot  write 
backward   what  lie  hath  writ  forward  already,  and 
then  1  am  well  enough. 

'Tis  but  a  month  at  most,  if  that  were  gone, 
My  venture  comes  in  with  her  two  for  one  : 
"Jis    use  enough  o'  conscience  for  a  broker — if  lie 
had  a  conscience.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II*. — A  Room  in  Creon's  House. 

Enter  EUGENIA  at  one  donr,  SIMONIUF.S  and  Courtiers 
at  ihe  other. 

Ei/£.  Gentlemen  courtiers. 

1  Court.  All  your  vow'd  servants,  lady. 

Eitg.  Oh,     1     shall    kill    myself     with    infinite 

laughter  ! 
Will  nobody  take  my  part? 

Sim.  An't  be  a  laughing  business, 
Put  it  to  me,  I'm  one  of  the  best  in  Europe  ; 
Mv  father  died  last  too,  I  have  the  most  cause. 

Eug.  You  have  pkk'd   out  such  a  time,   sweet 

gentlemen, 
To  make  your  spleen  a  banquet. 

Sim.   Oh,  the  jest! 

Lady,  I  have  a  jaw  stands  ready  for't, 
I'll  gape  half  way,  and  meet  it. 

Eng.  My  old  husband. 

That  cannot  say  his  prayers  out  for  jealousy 
And  madness  at  your  coming  first  to  woo  me — 

Sim.    Well  said. 

1.  Cmirt.  Go  on. 

2  Court.  On,  on. 

Eug.  Takes  counsel  with 
The  secrets  of  all  art  to  make  himself 
Youthful  again. 

Sim.   How  !  youthful  ?  ha,  hn,  ha  ! 

Etig.  A  man  of  forty -five  he  would   fain  seem 

to  be, 

Or   scarce  so   much,  if  he  might  have  bis    will, 
indeed. 

Sim.  Ay,  but  his  white  hairs,  they'll  betray  Lis 
hoariness. 

Eiig.  Why,  there  you   are   wide  :    he's  not  the 

man  you  take  him  for, 

Nor  will  you  know  him  when  you  lee  him  again; 
There  will  be  five  to  one  laid  upon  that. 

1   Court.  How  } 

Eug.  Nay,  you  did  well  to  laugh  faintly  there, 
I  promise  you,  I  think  he'll  outlive  me  now, 
And  deceive  law  and  all. 

Sim.  Marry,  gout  forbid  ! 

Eug.  You  little  think   he  was  at  fencing-school 
At  four  o'clock  this  morning. 

Sim.    How,  at  fencing-school  ! 

Eug.    Else  give  no  trust  to  woman. 

Sim.  Bv  this  light, 

I  do  not  like  him,  then  ;  he's  like  (o  live 
Longer  than  I,  for  he  may  kill  me  first,  now. 

Eug.  His  dancer  now  came  in  as  1  met  you. 

1  Court.   His  dancer,  too  ! 

Eiig.  They  observe  turns  and  hours  with  him  , 
The  great  French  rider  will  be  here  at  ten 
With  his  curveting  horse. 

2  Cnnrt.  These  notwithstanding, 

His  hair  and  wrinkles  will  betray  his  age. 

Eug.  I'm   sure  his  head  and  beard,  as  he  has 

order'd  it, 

Look  not  past  fifty  now  :  he'll  bring't  to  forty 
Within  these  four  days,  for  nine  times  an  hour 
He  takes  a  black  lead  comb,  and  kembs  it  over  : 
Three  quarters  of  his  beard  is  under  fifty  ; 
There's  but  a  little  tuft    of  fourscore  left, 
All  o'one  side,  which  will  be  black  by  Monday. 


•  This  scene  i?  al?o  printed  as  prose  by  the  modern  edi- 
tors. Coxeter  seems  to  li*ve  been  very  capricions  in  bii 
notions  of  metre,  lor  lit  lias  here  (as  we:l  as  in  loi  many 
other  plan-s)  <li-nttc'  the  original.  Mr.  M.  Maxm  i»  onijr 
accountable  loi  bis  want  of  attention. 


510 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[Acr.  Ill 


Enter  LYSANDER. 

And,  to  approve  mv  truth,  see  where  he  comes  ! 
Laugh  softly,  gentlemen,  and  look  upon  him. 

[  They  go  aside. 
Sim.  Now,  by  this  hand,  he's   almost  black  i'the 

mouth,  indeed. 

1  Court.  He  should  die  shortly,  then. 
Sim.  Marry,  raethinks  he  dies  too  fast  already, 
For  he  was  all  white  but  H  week  ago. 

1  Court.  Oh  !   this  same  couey-wbite    takes    an 
excellent  black  ; 

Too  soon,  a  mischief  on't ! 

2  Coitrt.   He  will  beguile 

Us  all,  if  that  little  tuft  northward  turn  black  too. 

Eng.  Nay,  sir,  I  wonder  'tis  so  long  a  turning. 

Sim.   May  be   some  fairy's    child,   held   forth   at 

midnight, 
Has  piss'd  upon  that  side. 

1  Court.  Is  this  the  beard  ? 

Lv»«  Ah,   sirrah!  my  young  boys,  I  shall  be  for 

"you  : 

This  little  mangy  tuft  takes  up  more  time 
Than  all  the  beard  beside.     Come  you  a  wooing, 
And  I  alive  and  lusty?  you  shall  find 
An  alteration,  jack-boys  ;  I  have  a  spirit  yet 
(An  I  could  match  my  hair  to't,  there's  the  fault*), 
And  can  do  offices  of  youth  yet  lightly  ; 
At  least  I  will  do.  though  it  pain  me  a  little.  • 
Shall  not  a  man,  for  a  little  foolish  age 
Enjoy  his  wife  to  himself?  must  young  court  tits 
Play  tomboys'  tricks  with  her,  and  he  live,  ha  ? 
I  have  blood  that  will  not  bear't ;  yet  1  confess, 
I  should  be  at  my  prayers — but  where's  the  dancer, 
there ! 

Enter  Dancing-master. 

Mister.  Here,  sir. 

Lys.  Come,  come,  come,  one  trick  a  day, 
And  1  shall  soon  recover  all  again. 

Eug.  'Slight,  an  you  laugh  too  loud,  we  are  all 
discover'd. 

Sim.  And  I  have  a  scurvy  grinning  laugh  o'niine 

own, 
Will  spoil  all,  I  am  afraid. 

Eug.  Marry,  take  heed,  sir. 

Sim.  Nay,  an  I  should  be  hang'd  I  cannot  leave  it ; 
Pup  ! — there  'tis.  [Laughs  aloud. 

Eiig    Peace  !  oh  peace  ! 

Lys.  Come,  I  am  ready,  sir. 

I  hear  the  church-book's  lost  where!  was  born  too, 
And  that  shall  set  me  back  one  twenty  years; 
There  is  no  little  comfort  left  in  that : 
And— then  my  three  court-codlings,  that  look  par- 

boil'd, 
As  if  they  came  from  Cupid's  scalding-house 

Sim.  He  means  me  specially,  1  hold  my  life. 

Mast.  What  trick   will  your  old   worship    learn 
this  morning,  sir? 

Lys.  iVlarry,  a  trick, if  thoti  couldst  teach  a  man 
To  keep  his  wife  to  himself;  I'd  fain  learn  that. 

Mast.  That's  a   hard  trick,  for  an  old  man  spe- 
cially ; 
The  horse-trick  comes  the  nearest. 

Lys.  Thou  sayest  true,  i't'aith, 
They  must  be  horsed  indeed, else  there's  no  keeping 

them, 
And  horse-play  at  fourscore  is  not  so  ready 

*  (An  J  cnuld  match  my  hair  to't,  there'*  the  fault,)  i.e. 
there's  the  misfortune  :l\\\is  is  a  further  ooiihniialion  of  what 
U  laid  upon  the  subject.  Sic  The  Hondrnan,  Act  V.  Sc.  1. 


Mn.tf.  Look    you,    here's  your   worship's  horse- 
trick*,  sir.  [Gives  a  spring. 

Lys.  Nay,  say  not  so, 

'Tis  none  of  mine  ;  I  fall  down  horse  and  man, 
If  1  but  offer    t  it. 

Mast.  My  lif-   or  yours,  sir. 

LI/J.  sav'st  thou  me  so?  [Springs  aloft. 

Mast.  Well  offer'd,  by  my  viol,  sir. 

Lys.  A  pox  of  this  horse-trick  !  't  has  played  the 

jade  with  me, 
And  iiiven  me  a  wrench  i'the  back. 

Mast.  Now,  here's  your  inturn,  and  your  trick 
above  ground. 

Lys.  Prithee,  no  more,  unless  thou  hast  a  mind 
To  lay  me  under-ground  ;  one  of  these  tricks 
Is  enough  in  a  morning. 

Ma*t.    For  your  galliard,  sir. 
You  are  complete  enough,  ay,  and  may  challenge 
The  proudest  coxcomb  of  them  all,  I'll  stand  to't. 

Lys.  Faith,  and  I've  other  weapons  for  the  rest 

too : 

I  have  prepared  for  them,  if  e'er  I  take. 
My  Gregories  here  again. 

Sim.  Oh  !  1  shall  burst, 
I  can  hold  out  no  longer. 

J~-iig.  He  spoils  all.  [They  cnmeforward. 

Lys.  The  devil  and  his  grinners  !  are  you  come? 
Bring  forth  the  weapons,  we  shall  find  you  play ; 
All  feats  of  youth  too,  jack-boys,  feats  of  youth, 
And  these  the  weapons,  drinking,  fencing,  dancingf  : 
Your  own  road- ways,  you  clyster-pipes  !     I  am  old, 

you  say, 

Yes,  parlous  old,  kids,  an  you  mark  me  well. 
This   beard  cannot   get   children,  you  lank    suck- 
eggs, 

Unless  such  weasels  come  from  court  to  help  us. 
We   will  get  our  own  brats,  you  letcherous  dog- 
bolts! 

Enter  a  servant  tiith  foils  and  glasses. 

Well  said,  down  with  them  ;  now  we  shall  see  your 

spirits. 

What !  dwindle  you  ah'endy  ? 
2C  ourt.  1  have  no  quality^. 
Sim.  Nor  I,  unless  drinking  may  be  reckon'd  for 

one. 

1  Court.  Why,  Sim,  it  shall. 
Lys.  Come,  diire  you  choose  your  weapon,  now  ? 

1  Court.  1  ?  dancing,  sir,  an  you  will  be  so  hasty. 
Lys.   We're  for  you,  sir. 

2  Court.   Fencing,  I. 

Lvs.  We'll  answer  you  too. 

Sim.  I  am  for  drinking  ;  your  wet  weapon  there. 

Lys.  That  wet   one   has    cost    many  a  princox 

"life  ; 

And  I  will  send  it  through  you  with  a  powder! 
Sim.  Let  it  come,  with  a  pox  !  I  care  not,  so't  be 
drink. 


•  Here's  your  varthip's  horse-trick,]  Some  rough  cur- 
vetting is  here  meant,  but  I  know  n»t  the  precise  motion. 
Tlie  word  occurs  in  A  Human  Killed  with  Kindness : 
— ••  Though  \v.- be  but  country  IV  Hows,  it  m*)  be,  in  the 
way  of  d.incing,  we  can  do  the  Aor*e-lrick  as  well  as  the 
serving  men." — Act  I. 

t  And  these  the  weapon*,  drinMny,  fencing,  dancing  :] 
This  line,  winch  describes  what  the  fiats  of  youth  are,  and 
•without  which  the  Mibsi'<)iiont  sp.echcs  cannot  be  under- 
stood, is  wholly  omitted  by  Mr.  M.  Manni. 

J  -2  Court.  /  have  no  quality.]  i.e.  no  profession;  af 
least,  that  is  the  sense  in  which  Sunonides  takes  it. 


IT, 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


Ml 


I  hope  my  guts  will  bold,  and  that's  e'en  all 
A  gentleman  can  look  for  of  such  trillibubs*. 

Lys.   Play  the  first  jveupon ;  come,  strike,  strike, 

J  say. 

i"es,yes,  you  shall  be  first  ;  I'll  observe  court  rules  : 
Always  the  worst  goes  foremost,  so  'twill  prove,  I 
hope.  [1  Courtier  dances  a  gutliard\. 

o,  sir,  you've  spit,  your  poison  ;  now  come  1. 
>Jo\v,  forty  years  go  backward  and  assist  me, 
Fall  from  me  hilf  my  age,  but  for  three  minutes, 
T  hat  1  may  feel  no  crick  !   I  will  put  fair  for't, 
Although  1  hazard  twenty  sciaticas.  [Dances. 

So,  I  have  hit  you. 

3  Cmirt.   You've  done  well,  i'faith,  sir. 

Li/s.   If  you  confess  it  well,  'tis  excellent, 
And  1  have  hit  you  soundly  ;  I  am  warm  now  : 
The  second  weapon  instantly. 

2  Court.   What,  so  quick,  sir? 
Will  you  i  ot  allow  yourself  a  breathing-time? 

I. vs.  I've   breath   enough   at  all  times,  Lucifer's 

musk-cod, 

To  give  jour  perfumed  worship  three  venues  ; 
A  sound  old  man  puts  his  thrust  better  home 
Than  a  spiced  young  man  :   there  1.          [They  fence. 

t  Cnurt.    I  hen  have  atyou,  fourscore. 

L>,'$.    You   he,    twenty,    I   hope,  and    you    shall 
find  it.  (eye 

Sim.  I'm  glad  I  miss'd  this  weapon,  I'd  had  an 
Popt  out  ere  this  time,  or  mv  two  butter-teeth 
Thrust  down  my  throat  instead  of  a  flap-dragon. 

1< us.   1  here's  two,  pentweezle.  [Hits  him. 

J\iint.   Excellently  touch'd,sir. 

%  Court.   Had   ever  man   such  luck!   speak  your 
opinion,  gentlemen. 

Sim.  Methinks   your  luck's  good   that  your  eyes 

are  in  still, 
Mine  would  havedropt  out  like  a  pig's  half  roasted. 

Ltji.   'J  here  wants  a  third — and   there  it  is  again  ! 
[Hits  him  again. 

2  Court.  The  devil  has  steel'd  him. 

Lux-   \\  hat  a  strong  iiend  is  jealousy  ! 

LI.S.  You  are  dispatch'd,  bear-whelp. 

Him.  Now  comes  my  weapon  in. 

Ly>.   Here,  toadstool,  here. 
'Tis  you  Hiid  1  must  play  these  three  wet  venues. 

Sim.  Venues  in   Venice  glasses  !  let   them  come, 
They'll    bruise    no  fles-h,  1  m   ture,   nor  break  no 
bones. 

2   Court.  Yet  you  may  drink  your  eyes  out,  sir. 

Sim.    Ay,  but  that's  nothing  ; 
Then  they  go  voluntarily  :   1  do  not 
Love  to  have  them  thiust  out,  whether  they  will  or 
no. 

Lys.  Here's  your  first  weapon,  duck's-meat. 

Sim.   How!  a  Dutch  what-do-you-call-'em, 
Stead  of  a  German  faulchion  !  a  shrewd  weapon, 

of  such    tiillibubs.]     This 

^eenls  to  be  a  cant  word  lor  any  thing  of  a  trifling  nature : 
I  meet  wllk  it  again  in  Shirley: — 

"  Hut  1  lot-give  i  hue,  ami  forget  thy  tricks 

And  tnllibubs.'  Hyde  Park. 

+  1  Courtier  darters  a  gallUrd.l  A  galliard  is  described 
by  Sir  John  Davis,  as  a  swift  and  wandering  dance,  with 
lojty  turns  and  capriulx  in  the  air  ;  and  so  very  proper  li> 
pi uvu  the  !>liength  and  aciiviiy  of  Lyyander.  it  is  slill 
more  trauliu-ally  deM-ribed,  as  Mr.  C-iKlnist  observt  *,  in 
%nrion'»  Anut.  nf  Melancholy  :  "  Let  them  take  their  |,lr.i- 
sures,  voung  turn  and  maids,  nViin.-hing  in  their  age,  lair 
Hi,d  lo\el>  to  behold,  well  attired,  and  of  comely  carnage, 
d. minima  Greeke  yalliarde,  and,  as  their  dance  required, 
kept  their  lime,  niw  'urn^iy,  now  tracing,  now  apart,  now 
altiyi  ther,  now  a  cuvrtrsi? ,  then  a  cayer,  &<:. ;  that  it  was 
4  pleasant  iiylit,"  toi.  1UJ2. 


And,  of  all  things,  hard  to  betaken  down  : 
Yet  down  it  must,  1  have  a  nose  goes  into't  ; 
I  s-hall  drink  double,  I  think. 

1  Court.  The  sooner  oft',  Sim. 

Lys.  I'll  pay  you  speedily,  with  a  trick  * 
1  learnt  once  amongst  drunkards,  here's  a  half-pike 

[Drinks. 

Sim.  Half-pike  comes  well  after  Dutch  wbat-do- 

you-call-'em. 
They'd  never  be  asunder  by  their  good  willf. 

1  Court.  Well  pull'd  of  an  old  fellow  ! 

Lys.  Oh,  but  your  fellows 
Pull  better  at  a  rope. 

1  Court.  There's  a  hair,  Sim, 
In  that  glass. 

Sim.An't  be  as  long  as  a  halter,  down  it  goes  ; 
No  hare  shall  cross  me.  [Drinkt. 

Lys.  I'll  make  you  stink  worse  than  your  pole- 
cats do  : 
Here's  long  sword,  your  last  weapon. 

[Offers  him  ihe  glass. 
Sim.  No  more  weapons. 
J   Court.   Why,    how  now,  Sim  !  bear  up,  thou 

shamest  us  all,  else. 
Sim.  'Siigbt,  1  shall  shame  you  worse,  an  I  stay 

longer. 

I  have  got  the  scotomy  in  my  head  already}:, 
The    whimsev  :  you    all   turn    round — do   not  you 
dance,  gallants? 

2  Cti'irt.  Pish  !  what's  all  this!  why,  Sim,  look, 
the  last  venue. 

Sim.  No  more   venues  go  down  here ;  for  these 

two 
Are  coming  up  again. 

2   Co/nt.  Out!   the  disgrace  of  drinkers  ! 

Sim.   Yes,  'twill  out, 
Do  you  smell  nothing  yet  ? 

1  Court.  Smell  ! 

Sim.  Farewell  quickly,  then  ; 
You  will  do,  if  I  siay.  [Exit. 

1  Court.  A  foil  go  with  thee  ! 

Lys.   What,  shall  we  put  down  youth  at  her  own 

virtues  ! 

Beat  folly  in  her  own  ground  ?  wondrous  much  ! 
Why  may  not  we  be  held  as  full  sufficient 
To  love  our  own  wives  then,  get  our  own  children, 
And  live  in  free  peace  till  we  be  dissolv  d, 
For  such  spring  butterflies  that  are  gaudy  wing'd, 
But  no  more  substance  than  those  shamble  Hies 
Which    butchers'    boys   snap    between    sleep   and 

waking  ? 

Come  but  to  crush  you  once,  you  are  hut  maggots, 
For  all  your  beamy  outsides  ! 

Enter  CLEANTHES. 

Etig.  Here's  Cleanthes, 
He  comes  to  chide  ; — let  him  alone  a  little, 


•  Lysan.  I'll  pay  you  speedily, with  a  trick, 

&c.J  Lysamlt-r  gives  them  all  har.-h  names— here  he  bestows 
one  on  Simoni'les,  which  the  delicac>  or  fear  of  the  old 
publisher  Would  not  permit  him  to  hazard  in  print :  tani 
ntieuy. 

1  This  stuff  ia  not  worth  explaining  ;  but  the  reader,  il 
he  h.is  any  curiosity  on  the  subject,  may  amply  gratify  it 
b\  a  v  isit  to  Pantagruel  and  his  companions  on  the  Isle 
Lnnasin.  Below,  there  is  a  miserable  pun  upon  hair, — th« 
crusting  of  a  hare  was  ominous. 

j  J  have,  yot  Me  scotomy  in  my  head  already,}  The  sco- 
tomy (o'KOTwua)  is  a  dizziness,  or  swimming  in  the  head. 
Thus  Joiison  : — 

"  Cart.  How  does  he  with  the  swimming  of  his  head  T 

Mas.  O,  -ir,  'tis  past  the  scotomy  ;  he  now 
Hath  lost  his  feeling,"  &c.  The  Fo*. 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[ACT  in. 


Our  cause  will  be  revenged  ;  look,  look,  his  face 
Is  set  for  stormy  weather  ;  do  but  mark 
How   tie   clouds   gather   in   it,    'twill   pour  down 
straight. 

Clean.  Methinks,  I  partly  know   you,  that's  my 

grief.  • 

Could  you  not  all  be  lost  ?  that  had  been  hand- 
some, 

But  to  be  known   at  all,  'tis  more  than  shameful ; 
Why,  was  not  your  name  wont  to  be  Lysander  ? 

Lys.  'Tis  so  still,  coz. 

Clean.  Judgment    defer    ihy   coming !  else    this 
man's  miserable. 

Eug.  1  told  you  there  would  be  a  shower  anon. 

2  Court.  We'll  in,  and  hide  our  noddles. 

[Exeunt  Eugenia  and  Courtiers, 

Clean.  What  devil  brought  this  colour  to  your 

mind, 

Which,  since  your  childhood,  Ine'ersaw  you  wear  1 
[Sure]  you  were  ever  of  an  innocent  gloss 
Since   I  was  lipe  for  knowledge,  and  would  you 

lose  it, 

And  change  the  livery  of  saints  and  angels 
For  this  mixt  moristrousness  :  to  force  a  ground 
That  has  been  so  long  hallowed  like  a  temple, 
To  bring  forth  fruits  of  earth  now  ;  and  turn  back 
To  the  wild  cries  of  lust,  and  the  complexion 
Of  sin  in  act,  lost  and  long  since  repented? 
Would  you  begin  a  work  ne'er  yet  attempted, 
To  pull  time  backward  ? 
See  what  your  wife  will  do  !  are  your  wits  perfect? 

Lyt.  My  wits ! 

Clean.  I  like  it  ten  times  worse,  for 't  had  been 

safer 

Now  to  be  mad*,  and  more  excusable : 
I  hear  you  dance  again,  ;md  do  strange  follies. 

Lys.  1  must  confess  I  have  been  put  to  some,  coz. 

Clean.  And  yet  you  are  not  mad !  pray.saynot  so  ; 
Give  me  that  comfort  of  you,  that  you  are  mad, 
That  I  may  think  you  are  at  worst ;  for  if 
You  are  not  mad,  I  then  must  guess  you  have 
The  first  of  some  disease  was  never  heard  of, 
Which  may  be  worse  than  madness,  and  more  fearful. 
You'd  weep  to  see  yourself  else,  and  your  care 
To  pray  would  quickly  turn  you  white  again. 
I  had  a  father,  hud  he  lived  his  month  out, 
But  to  have  seen  this  most  prodigious  folly, 
There  needed  not  the  law  to  have  him  cut  off; 
The  sight  of  this  had  proved  his  executioner, 
And  broke  his  heart :  he,  would  have  held  it  equal 
Done  to  a  sanctuary, — for  what  is  age 
But  the  holy  place  of  life,  chapel  of  ease 
For  all  men's  wearied  miseries  ?  and  to  rob 
That  of  her  ornament,  it  is  accurstf 
As  from  a  priest  to  steal  a  holy  vestment, 
Ay,  and  convert  it  to  a  sinful  covering. 

[F.iit  Lysatider. 

I  see  't  has  done  him  good  ;  blessing  go  with  it, 
Such  as  may  make  him  pure  again. 


•  for  't  had  been  tafer 


A'otc  to  be  mad,  &c.]  Minus  eit  intania  turpa.  There 
are  many  traits  of  Massinger  in  this  pail  of  the  .-one. 

+ H  i*  accurtt]  The  editors  are 

nearly  arrived  at  the  concision  of  Ilieir  labour;,  yet  they 
are  as  fur  from  any  acquaintance  with  the  manner  ul  iheir 
author,  as  they  were  .it  selling  out  ;  they  both  insert  at  be- 
fore accurst,  though  it  spoils  (he  metre,  and  was  not  the  lan- 
guage of  the  time.  It  would  be  iinpHidonable  lo  pass  over 
this  admirable  >pct  ch,  without  ra'ling  ihe  reader'e  atttnlion 
to  (he  concluding  lines:  the  concretion  ii  happv,  and  lUe 
exprul-iou  beauliiul  in  ibe  highest  degree. 


Re-enter  EUGENIA. 

Eug.  'Twas  bravely  touch'd,  i'  faith,  sir. 
Clean.   Oh,  YOU  are  welcome. 
Lti>f.   Exceedingly  well  handled. 
Clean.  'Tis  loyou  I  come  ;  he  fell  but  in  my  way, 
Eug.  You  mark'd  his  beard,  cousin  ? 
Clean.  Mark  Hie. 

Eug.  Did  you  ever  see  a  hair  so  changed  1 
Clean.   I  must  be  forced  to  wake  her  loudly  too, 
The  devil  has  rock'd  her  so  fast  asleep: — strumpet! 
Eug.   Do  you  call,  sir? 
Ctean.   Whore1 
Eiig.  How  do  you,  sir? 
Clean.  Be  I  ne'er  so  well, 
I  must  be  sick  of  thee  ;  thou  art  a  disease 
That  stick'st  to  the  heart, — as  all  such  women  are. 
Eiig.  What  ails  our  kindred? 
Clean.  Bless  me,  slie  sleeps  still ! 
What  a  de-.id  modesty  is  in  this  woman, 
Will  never  blush  again  !      Look  on  thy  work 
But  wiih  a  Christian  eye,  'twould  turn  thv  heart 
Into  a  shower  of  blood,  to  be  the  cause 
Of  that  old  man's  destruction,  think  upon't, 
Ruin  eternally  ;  for,  through  thy  loose  follies, 
Heaven  has  found  him  a  faint  servant  lately  : 
His  goodness  has  gone  backward,  and  engender'd 
With  his  old  sins  again  ;  he  has  lost,  his  prayers, 
And  all  the  tears  that  were  companions  wiih  them  : 
And  like  a  blind-fold  man  (giddy  and  blinded). 
Thinking   he   goes  right  on  still,  swerve   but  one 

foot, 

And  turns  to  the  same  place  where  lie  set  out ; 
So  he,  that  took  his  farewe'l  of  the  world, 
And  cast  the  joys  behind  him,  out  of  sight, 
Summ'd  up   his  hours,  made  even   with  time  and 

men, 

Is  now  in  heart  arrived  at  youth  again, 
All  by  thy  wildness  :  thy  too  hasty  lust 
Has  driven  him  to  this  strong  apostacy. 
Immodesty  like  thine  was  never  equali'd; 
I've  heard  of  women  (shall  I  call  them  so?) 
Have  welcomed  suitors  ere  the  corpse  were  told  ; 
But  ihou.  thv  husband  living: — thou'rt  too  bold. 
£"£"•  Well,  have  you  done  now,  sir  ? 
Clean.  Look,  look  !  she  smiles  yet. 
Eug.  All  this  is  nothing  to  a  mind  resolved  ; 
Ask  any  woman  that,  she'll  tell  you  so  much  : 
You  have  only  shown  a  pretty  saucy  wit, 
Which  I  shall  not  forget,  nor  to  requite  it. 
You  shall  hear  from  me  shortly. 

Clean.  Shameless  woman  ! 
I  take  my  counsel  from  tiiee,  'tis  too  honest, 
And  leave  thee  wliolly  to  thy  stronger  master: 
Bless  the  sex  o'tliee  from  thee  !  that's  my  prayer. 
Were  all  like  thfe,  so  impudently  common, 
No  man  would  e'er  be  found  to  wed  a  woman. 

Exit. 

Eug.  I'll  fit  you  gloriously. 
He  that  attempts  to  t-.ike  away  my  pleasure, 
I'll  take  away  his  joy*;  and  1  can  sure. 
His  conceal'd  faiher  pays  for't :   I'll  e'en  tell 

•  I'lltakrawatj  hit  joy  ;  atid  I  can  stirt-.]      So  the    old 
copy  ;  Coxeter  Miphistic.itfd  this  passage  very  awkwardly 
be  reads, 

and  I  can  'sure  him 

His  conctaFd  father  pays  fort  ! 

The  protty  apluvrt.-is  f  ture  tor  unsure),  ami  the  vnl»ar  run 
ning  of  the  »euleiue  into  ihe  iitxi  line,  might  h.ive  i.u-M 
Mi.-pirjoii-  111  an  ordinary  -.diior  that  the  trxt  WHS  inrnin.rl  ; 
bul  Mr.  M.  .M.IJ-OII  WHS  not  an  ordinary  editor;  if  Coxeltt* 
bf  right,  it  U  well;  il*  not.  be  l-wks  iioturllier. 


SCENE  III. 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


51, 


Him  that  I  mean  to  make  my  husband  next, 

And  lie  shall  tell  the  duke. — .Mass,  here  he  comes. 

Re-enter  SIMONIDES. 

Sim.  He  has  had  a  bout  with  me  too. 

F.ng.  What!  no?  since,  sir  *? 

Sim.  A   flirt,  a  little  flirt ;  he  call'd  me  strange 

names. 
But  I  ne'er  minded  him. 

Eng.  You  shall  quit  him,  sir, 
When  he  as  little  minds  you. 


Sim,  I  like  that  well. 
I    love  to    be    revenged    when     no     one    thinks 

of  me  ; 
There's  little  danger  that  way. 

Etig.  This  is  it,  then  ; 

He    you    shall  strike   your   stroke  shall   be    pro- 
found, 
And    yet    your    foe    not    guess    who     gave    the 

wound. 
Sim.  O'  my  troth,  I  love  to  give  such  wounds. 

[Exctmt. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.— Before  a  T,,vern. 

Enter  GNOTIIO,  Butler,  Bailiff,  Tailor,  Cook,  Drawer, 
and  Courtezan. 

Draw.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  will  you  not  draw 
near?  will  you  drink  at  door,  gentlemen  ? 

But.  Oh  !  the  summer  air  is  best. 

Draw.  What  wine  will't  please  you  drink,  gen- 
tlemen ? 

But.  De  Clare,  sirrah.  [E.tit  Drawer. 

Giti'th.  What,  you're  all  sped  already,  bullies? 

Cook.  My  widow's  o'  the  spit,  and  half  ready, 
lad  ;  a  turn  or  two  more,  and  I  have  done  with  her. 

Gnoth.  Then,  cook,  I  hope  you  have  basted  her 
before  this  time. 

Co»/c.  And  stuck  her  with  rosemary  too,  to  sweeten 
her ;  she  was  tainted  ere  she  came  to  my  hands. 
What  an  old  piece  of  flesh  of  fifty-nine,  eleven 
months,  and  upwards  !  she  must  needs  be  fly-blown. 
Gnoth.  Put  her  off,  put  her  off,  though  you  lose 
by  her  ;  the  weather's  hot. 

Cook.  Why,  drawer! 

Re-enter  Drawer. 

Draw.  By  and  by  :  here,  gentlemen,  here's  the 
quintessence  of  Greece  ;  the  sages  never  drunk 
better  grape. 

Coi>k.  Sir,  the  mad  Greeks  of  this  age  can  taste 
their  Palermo  as  well  as  the  sage  Greeks  did  before 
them. — Fill,  lick-spiggot. 

Draw.  Ad  imnm,  sir. 

Gnoth.  My  friends,  I  must  doubly  invite  you  all, 
the  fifth  of  the  next  month,  to  the  funeral  of  mv 
first  wife,  and  to  the  marriage  of  my  second,  mv 
two  to  one  ;  ibis  is  she. 

Cook.  1  hope  some  of  us  will  be  ready  for  the 
funeral  of  our  wives  by  that  time,  to  go  with  thee  : 
but  shall  they  be  both  of  a  day? 

Gnoth.  Oh  !  best  of  all.  sir  ;  where  sorrow  and 
joy  meet  together,  one  will  help  away  wiih  another 
the  better.  Besides,  there  will  be  charges  saved 
too;  the  same  rosemarv  that  serves  for  the  funeral, 
will  serve  for  the  wedding. 

But.  How  long  do  you  make  account  to  be  a 
widower,  sir? 


•  Bug.  tt'hat!  no?  sinct,  sir.']  So  ihe  quarto,  (,'oxeter 
reads,  W  hat  ?  no  since,  sir!  and  Mr.  Mason,  always  cor- 
"*:tiiig  iu  the  wrong  place,  What?  not  tince,  sir' 


Gnoth.  Some  half  an  hour;  long  enough  o'  con- 
science. Come,  come,  let's  have  some  agility ;  ia 
there  no  music  in  the  house  ? 

Draw.  Yes,  sir,  here  are  sweet  wire-drawers  in 
the  house. 

Cook.  Oh  !  that  makes  them  and  you  seldom 
part ;  you  are  wine-drawers  and  they  wire-drawers. 

Tail.  And  both  govern  by  the  pegs  too. 

Gnoth.  And  you  have  pipes  in  your  consort  too. 

Draw.  And  sack-buts  too,  sir. 

But.  But  the  heads  of  your  instruments  differ  : 
yours  are  hogs-heads,  theirs  cittern  and  gittern- 
heads. 

Bail.  All  wooden-heads  ;  there  they  meet  again. 

Cook.  Bid  them  strike  up,  we'll  have  a  dance, 
Gnotho  ;  come,  thou  shall  foot  it  too. 

[Eiit  Drawer, 

Gnolh.  No  dancing  with  me,  we  have-  Siren  here. 

Cook.  Siren  !  'twas  Hiren,  the  fair  Greek,  man. 

Gnoth.  Five  drachmas  of  that ;  I  say  Siren,  the 
fair  Greek,  and  so  are  all  fair  Greeks. 

Cook.  A  match  ;  five  drachmas  her  name  was 
Hiren. 

Gnoth.  Siren's  name  was  Siren,  for  five  drachmas. 

Cook.  'Tis  done. 

Tail.  Take  heed  what  you  do,  Gnotho. 

Gnoth.  Do  not  1  know  our  own  countrywomen, 
Siren  and  Nell  of  Greece,  two  of  the  fairest  Greeks 
that  ever  were  ? 

Cook.  That  Nell  was  Helen  of  Greece  too. 

Gnoth.  As  lo.ig  as  she  tarried  with  her  husband, 
she  was  Ellen  ;  hut  after  she  came  to  Troy,  she  was 
Nell  of  Troy,  or  Bonny  Nell,  whether  you  will  orno. 

Tail.  Why,  did  she  grow  shorter  when  she  came 
to  Troy? 

Gnoth.  She  grew  longer*,  if  you  mark  the  story. 
When  she  grew  to  be  an  ell,  she  was  deeper  than 
any  yard  of  Troy  could  reach  by  a  quarter  ;  there 
was  Cressid  was  Troy  weight,  and  Nell  was  avoir- 
dupois ;  she  held  more  by  four  ounces,  than  Cres« 
sida. 


*  Gnotli.  Shf  grew  longer,  &c.]  This  miserable  trash, 
which  is  quite  silly  euou-jh  to  be  original,  has  yet  the  merit 
of  being  copied  from  Shakspeare.  The  reader  who  has  a 
taste  for  niceties  of  this  kind  will  find,  upon  examination, 
that  Maasinger'sassisiants  have  improved  upon  the  indecency 
if  not  the  liiih,  of  their  original. 


14 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[  ACT  IV 


Bail.  They  say  she  caused  many  wounds,  to  be 
given  in  Troy. 

Gnoth.  True,  she  was  wounded  there  herself,  and 
cured  again  by  plaister  of  Paris  ;  and  ever  t-ince  that 
has  been  used  to  stop  holes  with. 

Re-enter  Drawer. 

Draw.  Gentlemen,  if  you  be  disposed  to  be  merry, 
the  music  is  ready  to  strike  up  ;  and  here's  a  consort 
of  mad  Greeks,  I  know  not  whether  they  be  men  or 
women,  or  between  both  ;  they  have,  what  do  you 
call  them,  wizards  on  their  faces. 

Ciiok.  Vizards,  good  man  lick-spiggot. 

But.  If  they  be  wise  worn;  n,  they  may  be  wizards 
too. 

Draw.  They  desire  to  enter  amongst  any  merry 
company  of  gentlemen-good-fellows  for  a  strain  or 
two. 

Enter  Old  Women*  and  AGATHA  in  masks. 
Cook.  We'll  strain  ourselves  with  them,  say  ;  let 
them  come,  Gnotho  ;  now  for  the  honour  of  Epire  ! 
Gnoth.  No  dancing  with  me,  we  have  Siren  here. 

[A  dance  by  the  Old  Women  and  AGATHA  ;  they 
offer  to  take  the  men  ;  all  agree  eicept  GNOTHO, 
who  sits  with  the  Courtezan. 

Cook.  Ay  ?  so  kind !  then  every  one  his  wench  to 
his  several  room  ;  Gnotho,  we  are  all  provided  now 
as  you  are. 

[Ereitut    all    but   GNOTHO,     Courtezan,     and 
AGATHA. 

Gnoth.  I  shall  have  two,  it  seems  :  away  !  I  have 
Siren  here  already. 

Aga.   Wha;,  a  mermaid  f?          [Takes  off  her  mask. 

Gnoth.  No,  but  a  mail!,  horse-lace  :  oh,  old 
woman  !  is  it  you  ? 

Aga.  Yes,  'tis  I ;  all  the  rest  have  gulled  them- 
selves, and  taken  their  own  wives,  and  shall 
know  that  they  have  done  more  than  they  can 
well  answer ;  but  I  pray  you,  husband,  what 
are  you  doing  ? 

Gnoth.  Faith,  thus  should  I  do,  if  thou  wert  dead, 
old  Ag,  and  thou  hast  not  long;  to  live,  I'm  sure  : 
we  have  Siren  here. 

Aga.  Art  thou  so  shameless,  whilst  I  am  living,  to 
keep  one  under  my  nose  ? 

Gnoth.  No,  Ag,  I  do  prize  her  far  above  thy 
nose  ;  if  thou  wouldst  Iny  me  both  thine  eyes  in 
my  hand  to  boot,  I'll  not  leave  her  :  art  not  asham- 
ed to  be  seen  in  a  tavern,  and  has  scarce  a  fortnight 
to  live  ?  oh,  old  woman,  what  art  thou  .'  must 
thou  find  no  time  to  think  of  thy  end? 

Aga.  O,  unkind  villain  ! 

Gnoth.  And  then,  sweetheart,  thou  shall  have  two 
new  gowns  ;  and  the  best  of  this  old  woman's  shall 
make  thee  raiment  for  the  working  days. 

Aga.  O  rascal  !  dost  thou  quarter  my  clothes 
already,  too  ? 

Gnoth.    Her  ruffs  will  servo  thee  for  nothing  but 

•  Enter  old  Women.]  The  stage  direction  in  Goxeter  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  is,  Enter  old  H  omen.  Cnotho's  dance. 
The  former  editor  had  carelessly  taken  the  name  from  the 
speech  of  the  Cook,  and  the  latter  ridiculously  continued  the 
blunder,  though  lie  must  have  seen  that  Gnotho  is  the  only 
person  who  does  not  dance. 

t  Aga.  H 'hat,  a  mermaid  ?\  The  mermaids  of  the 
writers  time  had  succeeded  to  the  Syrens  of  the  ancients, 
and  possessed  all  their  musical  as  well  as  seductive  quali- 
ties. Mermaid  also  was  one  of  the  thousand  cant  terms 
which  .-ci-ve'l  to  denote  a  strumpet,  and  to  this,  perhaps, 
Agatha  alludrr. 


to  wash  di:-hes  ;  for  thou  slmlt  have  thine*  of  the 
new  fashion. 

Ago..  Impudent  villain  !  shameless  harlot  ! 
Gnoth.   \  ou  may.  hear   she   never   wore  any   but 
rails  all  her  lifetime. 

Aga.  Let  me  tome,  I'll  tear  the  strumpet  from 
him. 

Gnoth.  Dar'st  thou  call  my  wife  strumpet,  thou 
preterplupertect  tense  of  a  woman  !  I'll  make  thee 
do  penance  in  the  sheet  thou  shiilt  be  buried  lu  ; 
abuse  my  choice  !  my  two-to-one  ! 

Jga.  No,  unkind  villian,  I'll  deceive  thee  y«t, 
1  have  a  reprieve  for  five  years  of  life  ; 
I  am  with  child. 

Court.  Cud  so,  Gnotho,  I'll  not  tarry  so  long; 
five  years !  I  may  bury  two  husbands  by  that 
time. 

Gnoth.  Alas  !  give  the  poor  woman  leave  to  talk, 
she  with  child  !  ay,  with  a  puppy  :  as  long  as  I 
have  thee  by  me,  she  shall  not  be  with  child,  1  war- 
rant thee. 

Aga.  The  law,  and  thou,  and  all,  shall  find  I  am 
with  child. 

Gnoth.  I'll  take  my  corporal  oath  I  begat  it  not, 
and  then  thou  tiiest  for  adultery. 

Aga.  No  matter,  that  will  ask  some  time  in  the 
proof. 

Gnoth.  Oh  !  you'd  be  stoned  to  death,  would  you  t 
all  old  women  would  die  o'  that  fashion  with  all 
their  hearts ;  but  the  law  shall  overthrow  you  the 
other  way,  first. 

Court.  Indeed,  if  it  be  so,  I  will  not  linger  so  long, 
Gnotho. 

Gnoth.  Away,  away  !  some  botcher  has  got  it ; 
'tis  but  a  cushion,  1  warrant  thee  :  the  old  womaQ 
is  loth  to  depart  f;  she  never  sung  other  tune  in  her 
life. 

Court.  We  will  not  have  our  noses  bored  with  a 
cushion,  if  it  be  so. 

Gnoth.  Go,  go  ihy  ways,  thou  old  almanack  at  the 
twenty-eighth  day  of  December,  e'en  almost  out  of 
date  !  Down  on  thy  knees,  ami  make  ihee  ready  ; 
sell  some  of  thy  clothes  to  buy  thee  a  death's  head, 
and  put  upon  my  middle  finger:  your  least  con.-ider- 
ing  bawd  does  so  much  ;  be  not  thou  worse,  though 
thou  art  not  an  old  woman,  as  she  is  :  I  am  cloy'd 
with  old  stock-fish,  here's  a  yuunir  perch  is  sweeter 
meat  by  half;  prithee,  die  before  ihy  day  if  thou 
canst,  that  thou  mayst  not  be  counted  a  witch. 


1  for   thou  shall  have  thine  nf  the  new 

fashion.}  The  old  copy  reads,  nine  of  the  new  fashion  : 
1  have  little  doubt  but  that  the  word  which  I  have  iusui  ltd 
is  the  genuine  ohe. 

i  The  old  woman  is  loth  to  depart  :]  There  was  anciently 
a  tune  ot  this  name,  and  to  that  iinotho  allude.*.  In  H  it  at 
Several  H  eaponx,  the  old  copy  has — 

•  "  Pompey.  Hum,  hum,  hum  !  He  hums  loth  to  depart." 
On  which  the  editors  observe,  that  "  the  impropriety  ot  put- 
ting this  passage  into  Pompey's  mouth  is  evident  upon  the 
bare  mention,  as  it  unquestionably  belongs  to  the  next 
speaker."  And  to  the  next  speaker  they  boldly  give  it ! 
but  they  did  not  understand  their  author.  The  last  pait  ol 
the  quotation  is  merely  a  mar^inai  direction,  and  the  pas- 
sage in  future  should  be  thus  regulated  : 
"  Pomp.  Hum,  hum,  hum! 

[He  hum*  Loin  to  Depart." 

The  same  expression  occurs  in  The  Man's  the  Matter  of 
d'Avenant,  where  the  modern  editors  have  also  misunder- 
stood it :  "  You'd  fain  stay  to  sing  loth  to  depart." 

ll  is  also  mentioned  in  that  old  and  popular  balad,  Arthur 
ofHradley: 

"  Then  Will,  and  his  sweetheart, 
Did  call  for  loth  to  depart,"  &c. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


519 


Aga.  No  thou  art  a  witch,  and  I'll  prove  it ;  I 
said  1  was  with  child,  thou  knew'st  no  other  but  by 
sorcery  :  thou  said'st  it  wa<  a  cushion,  and  so  it  is  ; 
thou  art  a  witch  for't.  I'll  be  sworn  to't. 

Gnoth.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  I  told  thee  'twas  a  cushion. 
Go,  get  thy  sheet  ready,  we'll  see  thee  buried  as  we 
go  to  church  to  be  married. 

[L'leurit  Gnotho  and.  Courtezan. 

Aga.  Nay,  I'll  follow  thee,  and  show  myself  a 
wife.  I'll  plague  thee  as  long  as  I  live  with  thee  ; 
•nd  I'll  burv  some  money  before  I  die*,  that  my 
ghost  may  haunt  thee  afterward.  [  hiit. 


SCENE  IL—  The  Country.     A  Forest. 
Enter  CLEANTHES. 

Clean.   What's  that  ?  ch,  nothing  but  the  whisper- 
ing wind 
Breathes  through  yon  churlish  hawthorn,  that  grew 

rude, 

As  if  it  chid  the  gentle  breath  that  kiss'd  it. 
I  cannot  be  too  circumspect,  too  careful  ; 
For  in  these  woods  lies  hid  all  mv  life's  treasure, 
Which  is  too  much  never  to  fear  to  IOSP, 
Though  it  be  never  lost  :  and  if  our  watchfulness 
Ought  to  be  wise  and  serious  "gainst  a  thief 
That  comes  to  steal  our  goods,  things  all  without  us, 
That  prove  vexation  often  more  than  comfort. 
How  mighty  ought  our  providence  to  be 
To  prevent  those,  if  any  such  there  were. 
That  come  to  rob  our  bosom  of  our  joys, 
That  only  make  poor  man  delight  to  live ! 
Pshaw  !     I'm  too  fearful — fie,  fie !    who   can  hurt 

me  ? 

But  'tis  a  general  cowardice,  that  shnkes 
The  nerves  of  confidence  ;  he  that  hides  treasure, 
Imagines  every  one  thinks  of  that  place, 
When  'tis  a  thing  least  minded  ;  nay,  let  him  change 
The  place  continually  ;  where'er  it  keeps,      [bouse 
There  will  the  fear  keep  still  :    yonder's  the  store- 
Of  all  my  comfort  now  — and  see  !  it  sends  forth 

Enter  HIPPOLITA. 

A  dear  one  to  me  : — Precious  chief  of  women, 
How  does  the  good  old  soul  ?  has  he  fed  well? 

Hip.   Beshrew   me,    sir,  he  made    the   heartiest 

meal  to-day — 
Much  good  may't  do  his  health. 

Clean.  A  blessing  on  thee. 
Both  for  thy  news  and  wish! 

Hip.  His  stomach,  sir, 
Is  better'd  wondrously,  since  his  concealment. 

Clean.  Heaven  has  a  blessed   work   in't.     Come, 

we  are  safe  here  ; 
I  prithee  call  him  forth,  the  air's  much  wholesomer. 

Hip.   Father ! 

*  And  I'll  bury  tome  money  btfiire  I  die,  &c.]  This,  as 
everyone  know-,  was  mi  infallible,  method  of  causing  tlie 
person  who  did  it,  to  walk  after  death.  It  is  not  unpleasant 
to  remark,  how  often  one  f..lly  i>  con  literal  ted  by  another: 
but  for  thU  salutary  persuasion",  which  was  on,  e  very  pieva- 
lent,  much  m.  tu-y  would  have  been  lo.-t  to  the  community 
in  troublesome  limes.  'J  lib  petty  superstition  if  dignined  by 
the  adoption  of  Shakspeare  ;  it  is  also  frequently  to  be  found 
41  the  writers  of  his  age.  TYus  Shiil«\  : 

"  I  do  but  think  h..\v  .«>nic  like  ghosts  will  walk 

Fur  money  turely  hidden." 
Again  : 

'  Call  this  a  clrirch-yard,  and  imasine  me 
Some  wakeful  apparition  'monp  the  graves, 
That,  for  tame  treasure  luriedin  my  life, 
Walk  up  and  down  thus."  The  Hedding. 


Er.Ur  LEOMDES. 

Leon.  How  sweetly  sounds  the  yoice  of  a  good 

woman  ! 

It  is  so  seldom  heard,  that,  when  it  speaks, 
It  ravishes  all  senses.     Lists  of  honour  ! 
I've  a  joy  weeps  to  see  you,  'tis  so  full, 
So  fairly  fruitful. 

Clean.  I  hope  to  see  you  often  and  return* 
Loaded  with  blessings,  still  to  pour  on  some  ; 
1  find  them  all  in  my  contented  peace, 
And  lose  not  one  in  thousands  ;  they  are  disperst 
So  gloriously,  1  know  not  which  are  brightest. 
I  find  them,  as  angels  are  found,  by  legions  : 
First,  in  the  love  and  honesty  of  a  wife. 
Which  is  the  chiefest  of  all  temporal  blessings; 
Next  in  yourself,  which  is  the  hope  and  joy 
Of  all  mv  actions,  my  affairs,  my  wishes  ; 
And  lastly,  which  crowns  all,  I  find  my  soul 
Crown'd  with  the  peace  of  them,  the  eternal  riches, 
Man's  onlv  portion  for  his  heavenly  marriage! 

Leon.  Rise,  thou    art   all    obedience,    love,    and 

goodness. 

I  dare  say  that  which  thousand  fathers  cannot, 
And  that's  my  piecious  comfort,  never  son 
W:is  in  the  way  more  of  celestial  rising  : 
Thou  art  so  made  of  such  ascending  virtue, 
1  hat  all  the  powers  of  hell  can't  sink  thee. 

\_A  horn  sounded  within. 

Clean.   Ha! 

Leon.   What  was't  disturb 'd  my  joy? 

Clean.  Did  you  not  hear, 
As  afar  off? 

Leon.  What,  my  excellent  comfortf  ? 

Clean.    Nor  you  ? 

Hip.  1  heard  a —  [A  hnm. 

Clean.   Hark,  again  ! 

Leon,   bless  my  joy. 
What  ails  it  on  a  sudden? 

Clean.  Now,  since  lately? 

Leon.  'Tis  nothing  but  a  symptom  of  thy  care, 
man. 

Clean.  Alas  !  you  do  not  hear  well. 

Leon.   \\  hat  was't,  daughter  ? 

Hip.  I  heard  a  sound,  twice.  [A  horn. 

Clean,    (lark!   louder  and  nearer  : 
In,  for  the  precious  good  of  virtue,  quick,  sir  ! 
Louder  and  nearer  yet !  at  hand,  at  hand  ! 

[Exit  Leonidet 

A  hunting  here?  tis  strange1  I  never  knew 
Game  followed  in  these  woods  before. 

Enter  EVANDER,  SIMOMDES,  Courtiers,    and 
CRATILVS. 

Hip.  Now  let  them  come,  and  spare  not. 

Clean.    Ha!     'tis — is't    not    the    duke? — lock 

sparingly. 

*  Clean.  /  hnpe  in  tee  you  often  and  return 
Loaded  with  blesxiny*,]  Often  and  return,  for  often  re- 
turn, is  a  mode  in  •pe*rfc  so  familiar  to  Malinger,  that  we 
iniylit  almost  affirm  this  exquisite  scene  to  be  his,  if  we 
cmild  maintain  ai.y  thing  w  ith  confidi  nre  in  this  mo't  in- 
correct publication.  Be  it  whose  it  may  lifwever,  it  makes 
large  amends  lor  the  dull  and  tedious  buttooneiy  of  the  for- 
mer |  art  of  this  art. 

t  Leon  (I  hat.  my  errellrnt  comfort  ?]  The  old  copy  ha* 
consort,  which  induced  Co\el<  r  to  ^ive  llie  *"«ech  to  Hip- 
polita.  I  have  little  doubt  but  that  ihe  mistake  is  in  thi» 
wo  I,  winch  should  be  comfort,  as  it  stands  in  the  text: 
by  this  te.in  the  f.  nd  p. rent  lieqiientU  addresses  his  chil 
dreii.  In  11  e  oiith  o»  I.eonides,  too,  it  lorms  a  natural  re- 
ply to  th.'  question  of  Cleanthes,  who  theu  turm  'o  m»ke 
the  same  demand  of  his  wife. 


516 


THE  OLD  LAW 


[Acr  1\ 


Hiii.  'Tis  he,  but  what  of  that?    alas,  take  heed, 

sir, 
Your  care  will  overthrow  us. 

Elean.  Come,  it  shall  not : 
Let's  set  a  pleasant  face  upon  our  fears, 
Though  our  hearts  shake  with  horror. — Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Evan.  Hark  ! 

Elean.  Prithee,  proceed  ; 

am  taken  with  these  light  things  infinitely, 
Since  the  old  man's  decease  ;    ha  ! — so  they  parted  ? 
ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Evan.  Why,  how  should   I  believe  this  ?     look, 

he's  merry 

As  if  he  had  no  such  charge  :  one  with  that  care 
Could  never  be  so  ;  still  he  holds  his  temper, 
And  'tis  the  same  still  (with  no  difference) 
He  brought  his  father's  corpse  to  the  grave  with  ; 
He  laugh'd  thus  then,  you  know. 

1  Court.  Ay,  he  may  laugh, 
That  shws  but  how  he  glories  in  his  cunning; 
And  is,  perhaps,  done  more  to  advance  his  wit, 
That  only  he  has  over-reach'd  the  law, 
Than  to  express  affection  to  his  father. 

Sim.  He  tells  you  right,  my  lord,  his  own  cousin- 

german 

Reveal'd  it  first  to  me  ;  a  free-tongued  woman, 
And  very  excellent  at  telling  secrets. 

Evan.  If  a  contempt  can  be  so  neatly  carried, 
It  gives  me  cause  of  wonder. 

Sim.    Troth,  my  lord, 

'Twill  prove  a  delicate  cozening,  I  believe  : 
I'd  have  no  scrivener  offer  to  come  near  it. 

Evan.  Cleanthes. 

Elean.  My  loved  lord. 

Evan.  Not  moved  a  whit. 
Constant  to  lightness  still* !    'Tis  strange  to  meet 

you 

Upon  a  ground  so  unfrequented,  sir  : 
This  does  not  fit  your  passion,  you're  for  mirth, 
Or  I  mistake  you  much. 

Clean.  But'finding  it 
Grow  to  a  noted  imperfection  in  me, 
For  any  thing  too  much  is  vicious, 
I  come  to  these  disconsolate  walks  of  purpose, 
Only  10  dull  and  take  away  the  edge  on't. 
I  ever  had  a  greater  zeal  to  sadness, 
A  natural  propension,  I  confess. 
Before  that  cheerful  accident  fell  out — 
If  I  may  call  a  father's  funeral  cheerful  J 

Without  wrong  done  to  duty  or  my  love. 

Evan.  It  seems  then,  you  take   pleasure  in  these 
walks,  sir. 

Clean.  Contemplative  content  I  do,  my  lord  : 
They  bring  into  my  mind  oft  meditations 
So  sweetly  precious,  that  in  the  parting 
I  find  a  shower  of  grace  upon  my  cheeks, 
They  take  their  leave  so  feelingly. 

T~*  O  •      I 

Lvaii.  So,  sir ! 

Clean.  Which  is  a  kind  of  grave  delight,  my  lord. 

Eian.  And  I've  small  cause,  Cleanthes,  to  afford 

you 
The  least  delight  that  has  a  name. 

Clean.  My  lord ! 

Sim.  Now  it  begins  to  fadge. 

1  Court.  Peace  !   thou  art  so  greedy,  Sim. 

Evan.  In  your  excess  of  joy  you  have  express'd 
Your  rancour  and  contempt  against  my  law  : 


•  Constant  to  tightness  ttill.]    The   old  copy  roads,  Con- 
itant  to  lightening  ttill.    The  emendation  by  Mr.  M.  Mason. 


Your  smiles  deserve  a  fining  ;  you  have  profess'd 

Derision  openly,  e'en  to  my  face, 

Which  might  be  death,  a  little  more  incensed. 

\  ou  do  not  come  for  any  freedom  here, 

But  for  a  project  of  your  own  : — 

But  all  that's  known  to  be  contentful  to  thee, 

Shall  in  the  use  prove  deadly.     Your  life's  mine, 

If  ever  your  presumption  do  but  lead  you 

Into  these  walks  a^ain, — ay.  or  that  woman ; 

I'll  have  them  watched  o'  purpose. 

[Cleanthes  retires  from  the  icond,  follower  bu 

Hippotita. 

1  Court.  Now,  now,  his  colour  ebbs  and  flows. 
Sim.  JMark  her's  too. 
hip.  Oh,  who   shall  bring  food  to  the  poor  old 

man,  now  ! 

Speak  somewhat,  good  sir,  or  we're  lost  for  ever. 
Clean.  Oh,   you    did    wonderous  ill    to    call   me 

again. 

There  are  not  words  to  help  us;   if  I  enlreat, 
'Tis  found,  that  will  betray  us  worse  than  silence*  ; 
Prithee  let  heaven  alone,  »nd  let's  Miy  nothing. 
1  Court.  You  have  struck  ihein  dumb,  my  lord 
Sim.  Look  how  guilt  looks  ! 
1  would  not  have  that  fear  upon  iny  flesh, 
To  save  ten  fathers. 

Clean.   He  is  safe  still,  is  he  not  ? 
Hip.  Oh,  you  do  ill  to  doubt  it. 
Clean.  Thou  art  all  goodness. 
Sim.  Now  does  your  grace  believe! 
Evan.  'Tis  too  apparent. 

Search,  make  a  speedy  search  ;  for  the  imposture 
Cannot  be  far  oft',  by  the  fear  it  sends. 
Clean.  Ha ! 

Sim.   He  has  the  lapwing's  cunning,  1  am  afraid, 
That  cries  most  when  she's  furthest  from  the  nest* 
Clean.  Oh,  we  are  betray 'd. 
Hip.   Betray'd,  sir  ! 
Sim.  See,  my  lord, 
It  comes  out  more  and  more  still. 

[Simonides  and  Courtiers  enter  the  wood. 
Clean.  Bloody  tliief ! 

Come  from  that  place  ;  'tis  sacred  :  homiciae  . 
'Tis  not  for  thy  adulterate  hands  to  touch  it. 

Hip.  Oh  miserable  virtue,  what  distress 
Art  thou  in  at  this  minute  ! 
Clean.  Help  me,  thunder, 
For  my  power's  lost !    angels,  shoot  plagues,  and 

help  me! 

Why  are  these  men  in  health  and  I  so  heart-sick? 
Or  why  should  nature  have  that  power  in  me 
To  levy  up  a  thousand  bleeding  sorrows, 
And  not  one  comfort?  only  make  me  lie 
Like  the  poor  mockery  of  an  earthquake  here, 


-' if  I  entreat, 

'Ti»  found,  that  will  betray  us  worm;  than  silence  ;]  The 
sense  of  this,  and,  indeed,  of  the  whole  speech,  is  sufficiently 
clear.  Yon  should  not  have  called  me  back, says  Clean'hes; 
no  words  can  help  us,  for  if  I  beseech  the  duke  to  MI  tit  r  me 
to  remain  here,  the  secret  will  be  discovered:  entreaties  will 
be  worse  than  silence,  for  by  these  his  suspicions  will  be  con- 
firmed. This,  however,  does  not  satisfy  Mr.  M.  Mason, 
who  chooses  to  modernize  it  in  this  way  : 
—  if  /  entreat, 

'Tii  sound  that  will  betray  ut  worse  than  silence ; 
t  Sim.  He  has  the  lapwing's  cunning,  1  am  afraid, 
That  cries  most  when  she's  farthest  from  the  nest.}    Onr 
old  potts  abound  in  allusions  to  this   stratagem  of  the  lap- 
win£  ;  thus  Jonson  : 

"  Ht-  that  knows,  will  like  a  lapwing  fly 
Far  IV.  m  the  nest,  and  so  himself  belie 
To  others,"  &c.  Underwood*. 


SCENE 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


517 


Panting  with  horror, 

And  have  not  so  much  force  in  all  my  vengeance, 

To  shake  a  villain  off  me. 

Re-enter  SIMONIDES  and  Courtiers  with  LF.OMDES. 

Hip.  Use  him  gently, 
And  heaven  will  love  you  for  it. 

Clean.  Father  !  oh  father  !  now  I  see  thee  full 
In  thy  affliction  ;  thou'rt  a  man  of  sorrow, 
But  reverendly  becom'st  it,  that's  my  comfort: 
Kstremity  was  never  belter  graced 
Than  with  that  look  of  thine,  oh  !  let  me  look  still, 
For  1  shall  lose  it ;  all  my  joy  and  strength 

[Kneels. 

Is  e'en  eclipsed  together:  I  transgress'd 
Your  law,  rny  lord,  let  me  receive  the  sting  on't ; 
Be  once  just,  sir,  and  let  the  offender  die  : 
He's  innocent  in  all,  and  I  am  guilty.  [speaks, 

Leon.  Your  grace    knows    when    affection    only 
Truth  is  not  always  there  ;  his  love  would  draw 
An  undeserved  misery  on  his  youth, 
And    wrong  a  peace  resolved  on  both  parts  sinful. 
'1  is  I  am  guilty  of  my  own  concealment, 
AH,  like  a  worlcly  coward,  injured  heaven 
With  fear  to  go  to't : — now  I  see  my  fault, 
And  am  prepared  with  joy  to  suffer  for  it. 

Eran.  Go,  give  him   quick  dispatch  ;  let  him  see 

death  : 

And  your  presumption,  sir,  shall  come  to  judgment. 
[Etennt   Eean'ler,    Courtiers,    Simonides,   and 

Cratilus  with  Leonides. 
Hip.  He's  going!  oh,  he's  gone,  sir! 
Clemi.  Let  me  rise. 

Hip.   Why  do  you  not  then,  and  follow? 
Clean.  I  strive  for  it, 

Is  there  no  hand  of  pity  that  will  ease  me, 
And  take  this  villain  from  my  heart  awhile?  [.Rises. 
Hip.  Alas  !  he's  gone. 
Clean.  A.  worse  supplies  his  place  then, 
A  weight  more  ponderous  ;  I  cannot  follow. 
Hip.  Oh  misery  of  affliction! 
Clean.  They  will  stay 

Till  1  can  cnme;  they  must  be  so  good  ever, 
Though  they  be  ne'er  so  cruel : 
My  last  leave  must  be  taken,  think  of  that, 
And  his  last  blessing  given  ;  I  will  not  lose 
That  for  a  thousand  consorts. 
Hip.  That  hope's  wretched. 
Clean.  The  unutterable  stings  of  fortune  ! 
All  griefs  are  to  be  borne  save  this  alone, 
This,  like  a  headlong  torrent,  overturns 
The  frame  of  nature  : 
For  he  that  gives  us  life  first,  as  a  father, 
Locks  all  his  natural  sufferings  in  our  blood,        ' 
The  sorrows  that  he  feels  are  our  heart's  too, 
They  are  incorporate  to  us. 
Hip.  Noble  sir ! 
Clean.  Let  me  behold  thee  well. 
Hip.  Sir! 

Clean.  Thou  shouldst  be  good, 
Or  thou'rt  a  dangerous  substance  to  be  lodged 
So  near  the  heart  of  man. 

Hip.  What  means  this,  dear  sir? 
Chan.  To  thy  trust  only  was  this  blessed  secret 
Kindly  commuted,  'tis  destroy'd,  thou  seest; 
What  follows  to  be  thought  on't  1 

Hip.  Miserable  ! 

Why,  here's  the  unhappiness  of  woman  still : 
That,  having  forfeited  in  old  times  her  trust, 
Now  makes  their  laith  suspected  that  are  just. 
36  J 


Clean.  What  shall  I  say  to  all  my  sorrows  then, 
That  look  for  satisfaction  ? 

Enter  EUGENIA. 
Fug.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  cousin. 
Clean.  How  ill  dost  thou  become  this  time 
Eug.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Why,  that's  but  your  opinion  ;  a  young  wench 
Becomes  the  time  at  all  times. 
Now,  coz,  we  are  even  :  an  you  he  remember':], 
You  left  a  strumpet  and  a  whore  with  me, 
And  such  fine  field-bed  words,  which  could  not  cost 

you 
Less  than  a  father. 

Clean.  Is  it  come  that  way  ? 
Eng.  Had  you  an  uncle, 
He  should  go  the  same  way  too. 

Clenn.  Oh  eternity, 
What  monster  is  this  fiend  in  labour  with  ? 

Eug.  An  ass-colt  with  two  heads,  that's  she  and 

you  : 

I  will  not  lose  so  glorious  a  revenue, 
Not  to  be  understood  in't ;  1  betray'd  him  ; 
And  now  we  are  even,  you'd  best  keep  you  so". 
Clean.  Is  there  not  poison  yet  enough  to  kill  me  T 
Hip.  Oh,   sir,   forgive    me ;    it   was   I    betray'd 

him. 

Clean.  How 
Hip.  I. 
Clean.  The  fellow  of  my  heart !  'twill  speed  me, 

then. 
Hip.  Her  tears  that  never  wept,  and  mine  own 

pity 

Even  cozen'd  me  together,  and  stole  from  me 
This   secret,    which  fierce  death  should   not   hare 

purchased. 
Clean.    Nay,  then  we  are  at  an  end  ;  all  we  are 

false  ones, 

And  ought  to  suffer.     I  was  false  to  wisdom, 
In  trusting  woman  ;  thou  wert  false  to  faith, 
In  uttering  of  the  secret ;  and  thou  false 
To  goodness,  in  deceiving  such  a  pilv  : 
We  are  all  tainted  some  way,  but  thou  worst, 
And  for  thy  infectious  spots  ou»lit'st  to  die  first. 

[Offers  ti>  kill  Eugenia. 
E'tg.  Pray   turn   your   weapon,   slr,   upon   your 

mistress, 
I  come  not  so  ill  friended  : — rescue,  servants  ! 

Re-enter  SIMONIDES  and  Courtiers. 

Clean.  Are  you  so  whorishly  provided? 
6i'm.  Yes,  sir, 
She  has  more  weapons  at  command  than  one. 

Eug.  Put  forward,  man,  thou  art  most  sure  to 

have  me. 

Sim.  I  shall  be  surer  if  I  keep  behind,  though. 
Eug.  Now,  servants,  show  your  loves. 
Sim.  I'll  show  my  love,  too,  afar  off. 
Eug.  1  love  to  be  so  courted,  woo  me  there. 
Sim.  I  love  to  keep  good  weapons,  though  naVr 

fought  with. 

I'm  sharper  set  within  than  I  am  without. 
Hip.  Oh  gentlemen  !  Cleanthes  ! 
Eng.  Fight !  upon  him  ! 
Clean.  Thy  thirst  of  blood  proclaims  thee  now  a 

strumpet. 


•  And  now  we  are  even,  you'd  best  lieiy  yon  FO.]  I  know 
not  how  Mr.  M.  Mason  understood  this  line,  but  he  altered 
you  to  him  1 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[Acr  V 


Eiig    Tis  dainty,  nex*  to  procreation  fitting  ; 
I'd  either  be  destroying  men  or  getting. 

Enter  Guard. 

1  Officer.  Forbear,  on  your  allegiance,  gentlemen. 
He's  the  duke's  prisoner',  and  we  seize  upon  him 
To  answer  this  contempt  against  the  law. 

Clean.  I  obey  fate  in  all  things. 

Hip.    Happy  rescue  ! 

Sim.  1  would  you'd  seized  upon  him  a  minute 
sooner,  it  had  saved  me  a  cut  finger:  I  wonder  h«.w 
1  came  bv't,  for  I  never  put  my  hand  forth,  I'm 


sure;  I  think  my  own  sword  did  cut  it,  if  truth 
"•ere.  known  ;  may  be  the  wire  in  ihe  handle  :  I 
have  lived  these  five  and  twenty  years  and  never 
knew  what  colour  my  blood  was  before.  I  never 
durst  eat  oysters,  nor  cut  peck-lo;ives.  [you 

Eiig.  You've  shown  your  spirits,  gentlemen  ;  but 
Have  cut  your  finger. 

Sim.  Av.  the  wedding-finger  too,  a  pox  on't ! 

1  Court.  You'll  prove  a  bawdy  bachelor,  Sirn,  to 
have  a  cut  upon  your  finger,  before  vou  are  married. 

Sim.  I'll  never  draw  sword  again,  to  have  such  a 
jest  put  upon  me.  \Eieuni. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter   SIMONIDES  and  Courtiers,    sword   and   mace 

carried  bejore  them. 

Sim.  Be  ready  with  your  prisoner  ;    we'll  sit  in- 
stantly. 

And  ri*e  before  e'even,  or  when  we  please; 
ShaM  WP  not,  fellow-judges? 

1  Court.  'Tis  committed 

All  to  our  power    censure,  and  pleasure,  now; 
The  duke  hath  made  us  chief  lords  of  this  sessions, 
And  we  may  speak  by  fits,  or  sleep  by  turns. 

Sim.  Leave  that  to  us,  but,  whatsoe'er  we  do, 
The  prisoner  shall  be  sure  to  be  condemned  ; 
Sleeping  or  waking,  we  are  resolved  on  that, 
Before  we  sit  upon  him  ! 

t.  Court.  Make  you  question 
If  not  ?— Cleanthes  !  and  an*  enemy  ' 
Nav,  a  concealer  of  his  father,  too  ! 
A  vile  example  in  these  days  of  youth. 

Sim.  If  they  were  given  to  follow  such  examples; 
But  sure  I  think  thev  a?e  not  :   howsoever, 
'Twas  wickedly  attempted,  that's  my  judgment, 
And  it  shall  pas.s  whilst  1  am  in  power  to  sit. 
Mever  by  prince  were  such  young  judges  made, 
But  now  the  cause  requires  it :  if  you  mark  it, 
He  mu~t  make  young  or  none  ;  for  all  the  old  ones 
He  hath  sen'  a  fishing — and  my  father's  one, 
I  humbly  thank  his  highness. 

Enter  EVGENIA. 

1  Court.  Widow  ! 

Eiig    You  almost  hit  my  name  now,  gentlemen  ; 
You  come  so  wonderous  near  it,  1  admire  you 
For  your  judgment. 

Sim.  My  wife  that  must  be  !    She. 

Eiig.  :My  husband  goes  upon  his  last  Lour  now. 

1  Court.  On  his  last  legs,  1  am  sure. 


•  "2  Conrt.  Make  you  question 
If  not  J     ( 'leant he*  f  and  an  enemy  ! 
f\aij,  a  concealer  of  hit  father   too.']  The  old  copy  reads, 

Make  yon  question 
If  not  Cleanthrs  and  one  enemy, 
which  Coxeter  prii.ted,  though   he  conjectured  it  should  be, 

Make  you  question 
If  not  ('leanthea  is  our  enemy? 

while  Mr.  M.   Mason    gt»f  tlv  prom.unte»    that,  stand  our 
enemy  it  nearer  to  the  original  I 


EM?.  September  the  seventeenth  — 
I  will  not  bate  an  hour  on't,  and  to-morrow 
His  latest  hour's  expired. 

2  Court.  Uring  him  to  judgment, 
The  jury's  panell'd,  and  the  verdict  given 
Ere  he  appears  ;    we  have  ta'en  a  course  for  that. 

Sim.   And  officers  to  attach  the  gray  young  man, 
The  vou'h  of  fourscore  :   be  of  comfort,  lady, 
You  shall  no  longer  bosom  January  ; 
For  that  I  will  take  order,  and  provide 
For  you  a  lusty  April. 

Eng.  The  month  that  ought,  indeed, 
To  go  before  May. 

1  Court.  Do  as  we  have  said, 
Take  a  strong  guard,  and  bring  him  into  court. 
Lady  Eugenia,  see  this  charge  performed, 
That,  having  his  life  forfeited  by  the  law, 
He  may  relieve  his  soul. 

EnK.  Willingly. 

From  shaven  chins  never  came  better  justice 
Than  these  ne'er  touch'd  by  razor*.  [Eai't. 

Sim.  What  you  do. 

Do  suddenly,  we  charge  you,  for  we  purpose 
To  make  but  a  short  sessions  : — a  new  bu.-iuess  ! 

Enter  HIPPOLITA. 

1  Court.  The   fair  Hippolita !  now  what's  your 
suit? 

Hip.  Alas  !   I  know  not  how  to  style  you  yet ; 
To  call  you  judges  doth  not  suit  your  .>  pars, 
Nor  heads  and  beards*  show  more  antiquity  ;— 
Yet  sway  yourselves  with  equity  and  truth, 
And  I'll  proclaim  you  reverend,  ;md  repeat 
Once,  in  my  lifetime  I  have  seen  grave  heads 
Placed  upon  young  men's  should*  r's. 

•  From  shaven  chins  never  came  better  jtittii-e 
Than  these  ne'er  touch  (I  by  razor.]  This  i.«  the  conjec- 
tural en  endation  of  Mr.  M.  ,\!.is<>n:  the  old  copy  rends, 
Than  these  ew  toncht  by  reason,  which,  thou,  h  not  abso- 
lutely void  of  meaning,  is  so  poor,  in  comparison  of  th< 
substitution  in  the  text,  that  lew  doubts  can  remain  as  to  the 
propriety  of  tlie  exchange. 

t  To  call  youjudye*  doth  nut  suit  your  year*, 

Nor  heads  and  beardi  show  more  antiquity  ;]    Mr.  M. 
Mason  read», 

To  call  you  judges  doth  not  suit  your  year*, 
A'or  heads  ;  and  brains  show  mart  antiquity  ; 
It  is  evident  that   he  did  nut   n  nij  rt-liend  ih<   .-•  HM-,  which, 
though  ill  conceived  and  harshly  expressed,  is,  Yon  have  not 
the  years   of  judges,  nor    do    your  heads  and    beards  (old 
1  copy,  brain*)  »ho\v  moie  of  age. 


SCENE  I.] 


THE  OLD  LAW 


51? 


?  Court.  Hark,  she  flouts  us. 
And  thinks  to  make  us  monstrous. 

Hip.    Prove  not  so  ; 

*"or  ye',  methinks,  you  bear  the  shapes  of  men 
(Though  nothing-  more  than  m<  rely  beauty  serves 
To  make  you  appear  angels),  but  if  you  crimson 
Your  riHtne  and  power  with  lilood  and  cruelty, 
Suppress  lair  virtue,  and  enlarge  bold  vice*, 
Both  against  heaven  and  nature  draw  your  sword, 
Make  ei'her  will  or  humourturn  the  soul  t 
Of  vour  created  greatness,  and  in  that 
Oppose  nil  goodness,  1  must  tell  you  there 
YHU  are  more  th:in  monstrous  ;  in  the  vtry  act 
You  rhange  your  elves  to  devils. 

1  I'onrt.   She's  a  witch  ; 
Hark  i   She  be.ms    o  conjure. 

Sim.   Time,  you  see, 

Is  short,  much  business  now  on  foot : — shall  I 
OtvH  tier  her  answer? 

2  Coiiit.    .None  upon  the  bench 
Moie  learnedly   can  doit. 

Sim.    He,  he,  hem  !   then  list  : 
I  wonder  at  thine  impudence,  young  huswife, 
That  thou  darest  plead  fur  such  a  b>ise  offender. 
(Vnce-al  H  lather  past  his  time  to  u'ie  ! 
\V  IM'  SOP  and  heir  would  have  done  ihis  but  he  ? 

1  Court.    I  vow,  not  1 . 

//i/i.    heC'iUse  ye  are  parricides  ; 
And  how  can  comu-r  bf  derived  from  such 
That  pi'y  not  their  fathers' 

2  Court.  You  are  fiesh  and  fair;  practise  young 
women's  ends  ; 

\Yhen  hushands  are distress'd,  provide  \hem  friends. 

Sim     III  set  him  forward  for  thee  without  fee  : 
Some  wives  would  pay  tor  such  a  courtesy. 

Hip.    I  im>-s  of  amazement !  what  duty,  goodness 

dwell J 

I  sou.  lit  tor  i  hurity,  but  knock  at  hell.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  KTOEMA,  and  Guard  with  LYSANDER. 

Sun.  Eugenia,  come  !  command  a  second  guard 
To  b'ing  (  Iranthes  in  ;  we'll  not  sit  long; 
Mv  -tornach  strives  to  dinner^. 

Eng.    Now,  servants  mav  a  lady  be  so  bold 
To  vail  \our  power  so  low  ? 

Sim.   A  mistress  may, 

She  can  make  all  things  low  ;  then  in  that  language 
1  \it-Tf  can  he  no  offence. 

/'.«£.  The  time's  now  come 
Of  manumUsions,  take  him  into  bonds, 
And  I  am  then  at  freedom. 

2  Co'.rt.   This  the  man  ! 
He  ha  h  left  off  o'late  to  feed  on  snakes  ; 
His  beard's  turn'd  white  again. 

and   enlarge  b  'Id  vice,~\    The 

quarto  has,  of  old  vice,  of  which  ilie  former  editors  have 
made  old  ;  but  I  know  not  in  what  sense  vice  could  here  be 
tinned  old.  This  speech  h,.s  suffered  bolh  by  alterations 
and  mteip  lations.  I  have  thrown  onl  the  one,  and  re- 
formed the  other. 

t  turn   the   soul  I      So  the  old 

copy:  Coxeter   and     Vlr.  M    Mas.  n    read,  turn   the  scale, 
which  has  neither  the  spirit  nor  the  sense  ot' the  ordinal. 
jHip     Timrtnf  amazement.    U  hat  duty,  goodness  dwell 

• Nir.  M.  >  a-i.n  takes  this  lor  a  i-onipUie    sentence, 

and  would  re  d,  h  hi-re  du  you  yundness  dwell  T  In  an) 
casi-  the  alteration  Wi.nld  be  t  o  violent;  butn»ne  taneedid 
here.  Hippolita  sees  I  he  woman  whu  betrayed  In-r  approach- 
ing, bre.iks  otf  h<  r  inleadi  d  tpevrh  with  an  indignant  ob- 
sci  v  ti  .n,  and  ha«iily  retire?  IK  m  ihe  court. 

5  My  ttnmach  strives  to  rtinntr.]  Tliis  is  sense,  and 
theiefoie  I  have  Uot  tampered  wiih  it  :  but  1  suppose  that 
the  author  wrote,  My  ttnmach  strikes  to  dinner 


1  Court.  Is't   possible   these  gouty  legs  danced 

lately, 
And  shatter'd  in  a  galliard  ? 

Eiig.  Jealousy 

And  fear  of  death  can  work  strange  prodigies. 
"2  Court.  The  nimble   fencer   this,  that  made  me 

tear 
And  traverse  'bout  the  chamber?   * 

Sim.  Ay,  and  gave  me 

Those  elbow  healths,  the  hangman  take  him  for't  ! 
They'd  almost   fetch'd   my  heart   out :  the   Dutch 

what-you-call 

I  swallow'd  pretty  well,  but  the  half-pike 
Had  almost   pepper'd  me ;  but   had  1   ta'en  long- 
sword. 
Being  swollen,  I  had  cast  my  lungs  out. 

A  Flourish.     Enter  EVANDICR  and  CRATILVS. 

1  Court.  Peace,  the  duke  ! 

Emu.  Nay.  back*  t'  your  seats:   who's  that? 

2  Court.  Ma)'t   please  your    highness  it  is   old 
Lysander. 

Evan.  And    brought  in  by  his    wife  !  a  worthy 

precedent 

Of  one  that  no  way  would  offend  the  law, 
And  should  not  pass  away  without  remark. 
You  have  been  look'd  for  long. 

Lys.  But  never  fit 

To  die  till  now,  my  lord.     My  sins  and  I 
Have  been  but  newly  parted  ;  much  ado 
I  had  to  get  them  leave  me,  or  be  taught 
I  hat  difficult  lesson  how  to  learn  to  die 
1  never  thought  there  had  been  suih  an  act, 
And  'tis  the  only  discipline  we  are  born  for  : 
All  studies  else  are  but  as  circular  lines, 
And  death  the  centre  where  they  must  all  meet. 
I  now  can  look  upon  thee,  erring  woman, 
And  not  be  vex'd  with  j^alousv  ;  on  young  men, 
And  no  way  envy  their  delicious  health, 
Pleasure,  and  strength  ;  all  which  were  once  mine 

own, 
And  mine  must  be  theirs  one  day. 

Evan.  You  have  tamed  him. 

Sim.  And  know   how  to  dispose  him  ;  that,  my 

liege, 

Hath  been  before  determined.     You  confess 
Yourself  of  full  age  J 

Lus.  Yes,  and  prepared  to  inherit 

Eug.   Your  place  above. 

Sim.  Of  which  the  hangman's  strength 
Shall  put  him  in  possession. 

Lyt.  Tis  still  caredf 
To  take  me  willing  and  in  mind  to  die  : 
And  Mich  are,  when  the  earth  grows  weary  of  them 
Mosl  fit  for  heaven. 


*  Evan.  Nay,  back  t'  your  teats :]  The  old  copy  reads, 
jfny,  bulie  your  teut*,  out  uf  which  Mr.  M.  Mason  formed 
lurt'ii  ;  U.i  i%  take ;  and  every  one  m,i\  make  what  he  can. 
1  believe  the  yoiini;  men  weie  pressing  forward  to  receive 
the  duke,  and  that  his  exclamation  was,  as  above,  A'ay.b.ick 
t'  your  seatf. 

Coxeter  has  changed  almost  all  tie  speakers  in  this  scene; 
Bunie  if  them,  indeed,  were  ev.denily  wrong,  but  1  can  see 
no  reason  for  giving  the  duke's  second  speech  to  Simonitlts, 
as  it  is  iu  p«  rtect  unison  with  hi:  real  character. 

t  Lys.    "I  it  still  cared 

To  take  me  willing  and  in  mind  to  die; 

And  tuch  are.  u-hi-n  the  earth  yrow*  n  etiry  of  them, 

Mo-i  fit  for  heaven.]  Half  01  ihis  *perch  Coxei.  r  omits 
and  givt."  ihr  otl'.er  half,  whi.  h  in  his  edition  has  no  s<-n.e, 
lo  Siuii.ntd.-s:  it  is  needless  to  ob-eitf  how  ill  it  suits  vt.tO 
bis  cbaraclei.  Mr.  M.  Masou  follows  him,  a»  usual  I 


520 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[Acr  V 


Sim.  The  court  shall  make  his  mittimus, 
And    send    him    thither    presently :  i'    the    mean 

time 

Eit:n.  Away  to  death  with  him. 

[Ejit  Cratiluswith  Lysander. 

Enter  Guard  with  CLF.ANTHRS,  HIPPOLITA  following, 
weeping. 

Sim.  So  !  see  another  person  brought  to  tha  bar. 

1  Court.  The  arch-malefuctor. 

2  Court.  The  grand  offender,  the  most  refractory 
To  all  good  order  ;  'tis  Cleanthes,  he 

Sim.  That  would  have  sons  grave  fathers,   ere 

their  fathers. 
Be  sent  unto  their  graves. 

Evan.  There  will  be  expectation 
In  your  severe  proceedings  against  him  ; 
His  act  being  so  capital. 

Sim.  Fearful  and  bloody  ; 

Therefore  we  charge  these  women  leave  the  court, 
Lest  they  should  swoon  o  ihear  it. 

Eug    I,  in  expectation 
Of  a  most  happy  freedom.  [Exit. 

Hip.  I,  with  the  apprehension 
Of  a  most  sad  and  desolate  widowhood.  [Exit. 

1  Court.  We  bring  him  to  the  bar 

2   Court.  Hold  up  your  hand,  sir. 

Clean.  More  reverence  to  the  place  than  to  the 

persons: 

To  the  one  I  offer  up  a  [spreading*]  palm 
Of  duty  and  obedience,  as  to  heaven, 
Imploring  justice,  which  was  never  wanting 
Upon  that  bench  whilst  tbeir  own  fathers  sat ; 
But  unto  you,  my  hands  contracted  thus, 
As  threatening  vengeance  against  murderers, 
For     they    that    kill    in    thought,    shed    innocent 

blood. 

With  pardon  of  your  highness,  too  much  passion 
Made  me  forget  your  presence,  and  the  place 
I  now  am  call'd  to. 

Evan.  All  our  majesty 
And  power  we  have  to  pardon  or  condemn, 
Is  now  conferr'd  on  them. 

Sim.  And  these  we'll  use 
Little  to  thine  advantage. 

Clean.  I« expect  it : 

And,  as  to  these,  1  look  no  mercy  from  them, 
And  much  less  meant  to  entreat  it:  I  thus  now 
Submit  me  to  the  emblems  of  your  power, 
The   sword   and    bench :  but,   my   most  reverend 

judges, 

Ere  you  proceed  to  sentence  (fot  I  know       [thing? 
You  have  given  me  lost),  will  you  resolve  me  one 

1  Court.  So  it  be  briefly  question'd. 

2  Ciinrt.  Show  your  honour  ; 
Day  spends  itself  apace. 

Clean.  My  lords,  it$  shall. 
Resolve  me,  then,  where  are  your  filial  tears, 

*  To  the  one  1  offer  up  a  [spreading]  palm]  I  have  in- 
nertcd  spreading,  not  men  ly  (in  account  of  its  completing 
the  verse,  but  because  it  contrasts  well  with  contracted. 
Whatever  the  author's  word  was,  it  was  shuffled  out  of  its 
pl.u-r  ai  the  press,  and  appears  as  a  misprint  (sliowdu)  in 
the  succeeding  line. 

t  And  much  less  mean  to  entreat  it :]  For  mean  the  old 
copy  h^s  shown,  wi.ich  is  pure  nonsense  :  it  stands,  however, 
in  all  the  editions.  1  have,  I  believe,  recovered  the  genuine 
text  by  adopting  mean,  uhicn  was  superfluously  inserted  in 
the  line  immediately  below  it. 

J  Clean.  My  lord*,  it  shall.]  i.  e.  it  shall  be  briefly  qnet- 
tinned.  This  would  not  have  deserved  a  note  liad  not  Mr. 
M.  Mason  mistaken  the  meaning,  and  corrupted  the  text  to 
My  lordi,  I  shall. 


Your  mourning  habits,  and  sad  hearts  become, 

That  should  attend  your  fathers'  funerals? 

Though  the  strict  law  (which  1  will  not  accuse. 

Because  a  subject)  snatch'd  away  their  lives, 

It  doth  not  bar  you  to  lament  their  deaths: 

Or  if  you  cannot  spare  one  sad  suspire, 

It  doth  not  bid  you  laugh  them  to  their  graves. 

Lay  subtle  trains  to  antedate  their  years, 

To  be  the  sooner  seized  of  their  estates. 

Oh,  time  of  age  !   w here's  that  /Eneas  now, 

Who  letting  all  hisjewels  to  the  flames  ; 

Forgetting  country,  kindred,  treasure,  friends, 

Fortunes  and  all  things,  save  the  name  of  son, 

Which  you  so  much  forget,  godlike  ^Eneas, 

Who  took  his  bedrid  father  on  his  back, 

And  with  that  sacrei1  load  (to  him  no  burthen) 

Hew'd   out  his  way  through   blood,  through  fre, 

through  [arms*,] 

Even  all  the  arm'd  streets  of  bright-burning  Troy, 
Only  to  save  a  father? 

Sim.  We've  no  leisure  now 
To    hear  lessons  read   from    Virgil ;  we   are  past 

school, 
And  all  this  time  thy  judges. 

2  Com.  It  is  fit 
That  we  proceed  to  sentence. 

1    Court.  You  are  the  mouth, 
And  now  'tis  fit  to  open. 

Sim.  Justice,  indeed, 

Should  ever  be  close-ear'd,  and  open-mouth'd  ; 
That  is  to  hear  a  little,  and  speak  much. 
Know  then,  Cleanthes,  there  is  none  can  be 
A  good  son  and  bad  subject ;  for,  if  princes 
Be  called  the  people's  fathers,  then  the  subjects 
Are  all  his  SJPS,  and  he  that  flouts  the  prince 
Doth  disobey  his  father  :  there  you  are  gone. 

1  Court.  And  not  to  be  recover'd. 
Sim.  And  again — 

2  Court.  If  he  be  gone  once,  call  him  not  again. 
Sim.  I  say  again,  this  act  of  thine  expresses 

A  double  disobedience:  as  our  princes 
Are  fathers,  so  they  are  our  sovereigns  too, 
And  he  that  doth  rebel  'gainst  sovereignty 
Doth  commit  treason  in  the  height  of  degree : 
And  now  thou  art  quite  gone. 

1  Cowrt.     Our  brother  in  commission 
Hath  spoke  his  mind  both  learnedly  and  neatly, 
And  I  can  add  but  little ;  howsoever, 
It  shall  send  him  packing. 
He  that  begins  a  fault  that  wants  example, 
Ou^ht  to  be  made  example  for  the  fault. 

Clean.  A  fault !  no  longer  can  I  hold  myself 
To  hear  vice  upheld  and  virtue  thrown  down. 
A  fault !  judge,  I  desire  then,  where  it  lies, 
In  those  that  are  my  judges,  or  in  me  : 
Heaven  stands  on  my  side,  pity,  love,  and  duty. 

Sim.   Where  are   they,  sir?,  who  sees  them   but 
yourself? 

Clean.  Not  you  ;  and  I  am  sure 
You  never  had  the  gracious  eyes  to  see  them. 


*  Heta'd  out  hit  way  through  blood,  through  fire,  through 

\arms.] 

Eaen  all  the  arm'd  streets  of  briyht-burnini)  Troy, 
Only  to  sane  a  father ?\  So  tin  lines  stand  in  tiie  old 
copy,  with  the  exception  of  the  word  enclosed  in  brackets 
for  uhicli  I  am  answerable.  They  wanted  but  little  resula 
tion.asihe  leader  sees;  yet  both  the  editors  blundered  them 
into  downright  prose.  Coxtter,  a  circumstance  by  no  means 
common  uith  him,  gave  an  incorrect  .-t.itement  of  the  ori 
ginal,  and  Mr  M.  Mason,  who  never  looked  bevoud  liij 
page,  was  reduced  to  random  guesses  I 


SCENE  IT.] 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


5*1 


You  think  that  you  arraign  me,  but  I  hope 
To  sentence  you  at  the  bar. 

2  Court.  That  would  show  brave. 

Clean,  This  were  the  judgment-seat  we   [stand 

at]  now*  ! 

Of  the  heaviest  crimes  that  ever  made  up  [sin], 
Unnaturalness,  and  inhumanity, 
i'ou  are  found  foul  and  guilty,  by  a  jury 
Made  of  your  fathers'  curses,  which  have  brought 
Vengeance  impending  on  you  j  and  I  now 
Am  forced  to  pronounce  judgment  on  my  judges. 
The  common  laws  of  reason  and  of  nature 
Condemn  you  ipso  facto  ;  you  are  parricides, 
And  if  you  marry,  will  beget  the  like, 
Who,  when  they  are  grown  to  full  maturity!, 
Will  hurry  you  their  fathers,  to  their  graves. 
Like  traitors,  you  take  counsel  from  the  living, 
Of  upright  judgment  you  would  rob  the  bench 
(Experience  and  discretion  snatch 'd  away 
From  the  earth's  face),  turn  all  into  disorder, 
Imprison  virtue,  and  infranchise  vice, 
And  put  the  sword  of  justice  in  the  hands 
Of  boys  and  madmen. 

Sim.   Well,  well,  have  you  done,  sir  ? 

Clean.  1  have  spoke  ray  thoughts. 

Sim.  Then  I'll  begin  and  end. 

Evan.  'Tis  time  1  now  begin — 
Here  your  commission  ends. 
Cleantbes,  come  you  from  the  bar.     Because 
I  know  you  are  severally  disposed,  I  here 
Invite  you  to  an  object  will,  no  doubt, 
Work  in  you  contrary  effects.     Music ! 

Loud  Music.    Enter  LEONIDES,  CREON,  LYSANDER, 
and  other  old  men. 

Clean.  Pray  heaven,  I  dream  not !  sure  he  moves, 

talks  comfortably, 

As  joy  can  wish  a  man.     If  he  be  changed 
(Fur  above  from  me),  he's  not  ill  entreated  ; 
Hi*  face  doth  promise  fulness  of  content, 
And  glory  hath  a  part  in't. 
Leon.  Oh  my  son  ! 
Evan.  You  that  can  claim  acquaintance  with  these 

lads. 
Talk  freely. 

Sim.  1  can  see  none  there  that's  worth 
One  hand  to  you  from  me. 

Eran.  These  are  thy  judges,   and  by  their  graTe 

law 

I  find  thee  clear,  but  these  delinquents  guilty. 
You  must  change  places,  for  'tis  so  decreed  : 
Such  just  pre-eminence  hath  thy  goodness  gain'd, 
Thou  art  the  judge  now,  they  the  men  arraign'd. 

[To  Cleanthes. 

1  Court.  Here's  fine  dancing,  gentlemen. 

2  Court.  Is  thy  father  amongst  them  1 


*  Clean.  Thi*  iccre  the  judgment  teat  tee  Inland  at]  now. 
&c.]  i.e.  O,  that  this  were,  &c.  But,  indeed,  this  speech 
is  so  strangely  printed  in  the  quarto,  that  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  guV.'s  what  the  writer  really  meant.  The  first  three 
lines  stand  thus : 

Clean.  Thi*  were  the  judgment  teat,  vie  now 
The  heaviest  crimes  that  ever  made  up 
I  nnaturullness  in  humanity. 

Whether  the  genuine,  or,  indeed,  any  sen«e  be  elicited  by 
the  additions  which  I  have  been  compelled  to  make,  is  not 
mine  to  say;  but  certainly  some  allowance  will  be  made 
fur  any  temperate  cnde.ivour  to  regulate  a  text,  where  the 
words,  in  too  many  instances,  appear  as  if  they  had  been 
shook  i. lit  of  'he  printer's  boxes  by  the  hand  of  chance. 

t  Who,  u-hen  they  are  grown  to  full  maturity ,}  Former 
editors  have,  H  ho  when  you're:  but  this  cannot  be  right. 


Sim.    Oh,   pox !     I  saw    him    the   first  thing  I 

look'd  on. 

Alive  again  !  'slight,  I  believe  now  a  father 
Hath  as  ninny  lives  as  a  mother. 

Clean.  'Tis  full  as  blessed  as  'tis  wonderful. 
Oh  !   bring  me  back  to  the  same  law  again, 
I  am  fouler  than  all  these  ;  seize  on  me,  officers, 
And  bring  me  to  new  sentence. 

Sim.   What's  all  this  J 

Clfan.  A  fault  not  to  be  pardon'd, 
Unnaturalness  is  but  sin's  shadow  to  it. 

Sim.  I  am  glad  of  that !  I  hope  the  case  may  alter, 
And  turn  judge  again. 

Eran.  Name  your  offence. 

Clean.  That  I  should  be  so  vile, 
As  once  to  think  you  cruel. 

r.ftui.  Is  that  all  I 

'Twas  pardon'd  ere  confess'd  :  you  that  have  sons, 
If  they  be  worthy,  here  may  challenge  them. 

Creon.  I  should  have  one  amongst  them,  had  he 

hail  grnre 
To  have  retained  that  name. 

Sim.   I  pray  you,  father.  [KneeU. 

Creon.  That  name,  1  know, 
Hath  been  long  since  forgot. 

Sim.  1  find  but  small  comfort  in  remembering  it 
now. 

Eran.     Cleanthes,  take   your   place    with    these 

grave  fathers, 
And  read  what  in  that  table  is  inscribed. 

[Giues  him  a  paper. 
Now  set  these  at  the  bar, 
And  read,  Cleanthes,  to  the  drrad  and  terror 
Of  disobedience  and  unnatural  hlood. 

Clean,  [reads.]  It  is  decreed  hij  the  grare  and  learned 
council  of  Epire,  that  no  son  and  heir  shall  he  held 
capable  of  his  inheritance  at  the  age  of  one  and  tirenty, 
unless  he  be  at  that  time  as  mature  in  obedience,  manner*, 
and  gottdness. 

Sim.  Sure   I   shall   never   be  at   full   age,    then,  . 
though  1  live  to  an  hundred  years  ;  and  that's  nearer 
by  twenty  than  the  last  statute  allow'd. 

1  Court.  A  terrible  act ! 

Clean.  Moreover,  it  i»  enacted  that  all  sons  aforetaid. 
whom  either  this  law,  or  their  oicn  grace,  thall  reduce 
into  the  true  method  of  duty,  virtue,  and  affection,  [shall 
appear  before  t/sj  and  relate  their  trial*  and  approbation 
from  Cleanthes,  the  son  of  Leonides — from  me,  my 
lord! 

Eian.  From  none  but  you  as  fullest.  Proceed, 
sir. 

Clean.  Whom,  for  his  manifest  virtues,  we  make 
$uch  judge  and  censor  of  youih,  and  the  absolute  refer- 
ence of  t'fe  and  manners. 

Sim.  This  is  a  brave  world  !  When  a  man  should 
be  selling  land  he  must  be  learning  manners.  Is't 
not,  my  masters  1 

Re  enter  EUGENIA. 

Eug.  What's  here  to  do  1  My  suitors  at  the  bar  ! 
The  old  band  shines  againf  :  oh,  miserable! 

[She  swoons. 


•  [Shall  appear  before  vt]  and  relate  their  trial,  &c.] 
In  the  old  copy,  which  the  modern  editions  follow,  and  re- 
late comes  immediately  alter  virtue  and  atiection.  That  this 
cannot  be  right  is  evident  :  whether  the  words  which  I  have 
inserted  convey  the  author's  meaning;,  or  not,  may  b* 
doubled,  but  they  make  sonic  sense  of  the  passage,  and  this 
is  all  to  which  lliey  pretend. 

f  The  old  band  thine*  attain  ;]  Covetcr  printed,  The  old 
bard  thines  ayain  ;  Mr.  M.  Man>n,  \>  ho  could  make  nothing 
of  this,  proposes,  as  the  genuine  readicg,  The  old  revived 


622 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


[Act  V. 


Ei  an.  Read  the  law  over  to  her,  'twill  awake  her: 
Tis  on^  deserves  small  pitv. 

Clean.  L<Mt<</.  tt  >s  ordained,  that  all  such  wires 
nmo  <rhnlsne>er,  that  skull  design  their  hushutxls'  dtnth, 
ta  be  toon  rid  or"  thfin,  and  enieriain  suitors  in  iheir 
hvtkandt'  lifetime — 

Sim  You  had  best  read  that  a  little  louder  ;  for, 
if  anv  tiling,  that  will  bring  her  lo  herself  again, 
and  find  her  tongue. 

(Mean.  Shall  not  presume,  on  the  penally  of  our 
heai'U  di>pleitiure,  la  m/rry  w  thin  ten  i/rars  njter. 

J.'KO-.  1  lie  'aw  is  too  long  by  nine  years  and  a  half, 
I'll  t;ike  mv  dea'h  upon't ;  so  shall  most,  women. 

Clean.  And  thove  incontinent  wornm  so  offending,  to 
be  judged  and  censured  lift  ////>/in/ii<j,  wife  to  Cteanthes 

Eug.  Ot  a.l  tlie  rest,   I'll  not  be  judged  by  her. 
Re-enter  HIPPOLITA. 

Cl"un.  Ah!  here  she  comes.  Let  me  prevent  thy 
Prevent  them  but  in  part,  and  hide  the  rest ;  [joys, 
'Ihou  hast  not  strength  enough  to  bear  them.  else. 

Hip.  Leonides !  [Shejuititt,. 

Clean.  I  fear'd  it  all  this  while  ; 
I  knew  'twas  pastthv  power.     Hippolita! 
What  contrariety  is  in  women's  blood  ! 
One  faints  lor  spleen  and  anger,  she  for  grace. 

Evun  Of  sons  and  wives  we  seethe  worst  and  best. 
May  future  a>res  yield  Hijipolitas 
Many;  but  few  like  thee.   Eugenia! 
Let  no  Simomdes  henceforth  have  a  fame,     [iriiA/n. 
But  all  blest  sons  live  in  CleHiithes'  name —   [Music 
Ha  !  what  strange  kind  of  melody  was  that  ? 
Yet  give  it  entrance,  whatsoe'er  it  be, 
This  day  is  all  devote  to  liberty*. 
Enter    Fiddlera,   GNOTHO,  Courtezan,   Cook,   Butler> 

&-c.,  with  thr  old  Wtinien.  AGATHA,  and  one  bearing 

a  bridecake  Jor  the  wedding. 

Gnoth.  Fiddlers,  crowd  on,  crowd  onf  ;  let  no 
man  lay  a  block  in  your  way. — Crowd  on,  1  say. 

again;  while  Mr.  Davies,  with  line  solemnity,  declares 
that  (he  insertion  »!'  a  letter  will  make  nil  i  i-Jit,  and  that  it 
should  be,  'I  he  old  beard  shimsayain.  Nothing  can  be 
more  pteposleroiisili.nl  the  conduct  ut  these  i'tnl It-men,  in 
thus  presuming  to  correct  Massinger,  upon  the  authority  of 
Coxcter.  The  ol  copy  neither  ic-ids  bard  nor  brard,  but 
baud,  a  misprint,  peihaps,  for  band.  In  the  last  scene  of 
'J'hf  fatal  Dowry,  by  a  similar  oversight,  band  is  printed 
for  liniid. 

'  It  is  to  be  lamented  that  The  Old  Law  did  not  end 
here  :  the  higher  characters  art  all  disposed  of,  and  the 
clown  and  his  fellows  might  have  been  silently  sunk  on  the 
reader  without  exciting  the  slighted  regret.  But  the 
around  inys  oi  those  nays,  like  the  godlings  of  the  present, 
weie  loo  a|>t  to  cry  out  *iih  Christopher  Sly,  11  hen  does 
thefnol  come.  <r..ti  n,  .Vim.'  and,  iiiiioilniiat>'ly ,  they  have  had 
but  loo  much  influence,  at  all  limes,  over  the  manageis. 

What  follows  is  utterly  unworthy  of  Massingci-  (ind  ed,  it 
was  not  written  b>  him)  anil  may  be  pa«t  over  without  !•  ss : 
of  all  peituess,  Ihat  ol  tolly  is  the  most  tiresome,  and  here  is 
linle  el-e;  but  the  audience  were  lo  be  dismissed  in  good 
humour,  and  they  undoubtedly  walked  home  as  merry  a» 
noise  and  nonsense  •  onld  make  die  n. 

It  a|  pears  front  ihe  title-p,ige  of  the  quarto,  that  TJte  Old 
Law  was  a  favourite  with  alt  ranks  of  people,  and  not,  in- 
deed, without  some  degree  'f  justice;  for  I  he  plot,  though 
higlil)  improbable,  is  an  interesting  one,  and  conducted 
with  singular  artifice,  to  a  pleasing  and  surprising  end.  It 
must  bi  allowed,  however,  that  the  moral  justice  of  the 
piece  is  not  alloa-iher  what  it  should  he  ;  for  though  Clean- 
•hes  and  Hippolita  receive  the  full  reward  of  their  fili.d 
piety,  \et  Simoni  le-  and  Eugenia  do  not  meet  a  pmii.-h- 
mem  adequate  to  iheir  unnatural  conduct.  As  n  composi- 
tion, thi«  pl.iy  has  seveial  charmiii"  scenes,  and  not  a  few 
passages  of  exqui-iie  beauty  :  it  once,  perhaps  had  more, 
but  the  transcribi  r  and  the  printer  have  conspired  to  reduce 
them. 

*  Clown.  Fiddlers,  croud  on,  rrntrd  nn  ;}  Mr.  M.  Mason 
observes,  that  a  fiddle  was  formerly  called  a  crowd.  Why 


"Euan.  Stav  the  crowd  awhile;  let's  know  the 
reason  of  this  jollity. 

Clean.  Sirrah,  do  you  know  where  you  are  ? 

Gnoth.  Yes,  sir  ;  I  am  here,  now  here,  and  now 
here  again,  sir. 

Lt/s.  Your  hat   is  too   high  crown'd,  the  duke  in 
presence. 

Gnoih.  The  duke  !  as  be  is  my  sovereign,  I  do 
give  him  two  crowns  for  it*,  and  that's  equal 
change  all  th*  world  over :  as  I  am  lord  of  the  day 
(being  my  marriage-day  the  second)  1  do  advance 
my  bonnet.  Crowd  on  afore. 

Leon    Good  ^ir,  a  few   words,  if  you  will  vouch- 
safe them  ; 
Or  will  you  be  forced  ? 

Gnoth.   Forced!   I  would  the  duke  himself  would 
say  so. 

Evan.   I   think    he  dares,  sir,  and  does  ;  if  you 

stay  not, 
You  shall  be  forced. 

Gnoth,  I  think  so,  my  lord,  and  good  reason 
too  ;  shall  not  I  stay  when  your  grace  says  I  shall  ? 
I  were  unworthy  to  be  a  bridegroom  in  any  part  of 
your  highness 's  dominions,  then  :  will  it  please  you 
to  taste  of  the  wedlock-courtesy  ? 

Evan.  Oh,  by  no  means,  sir  j  you  shall  not  de- 
face so  fair  an  ornament  for  me. 

Gnoth.  If  your  grace  please  to  be  cakated,  say 
so. 

Euan.  And  which  might  be  your  fair  bride,  sir  ? 

GnoA,  Ibis  is  my  two  for  one  that  must  he  the 
mnr  uiorls,  the  remedy  doloris,  and  the  very  syreitm 
amoris. 

Evan.  And  hast  thou  any  else? 

Gnoth.  1  have  an  older,  my   lord,  for  other  uses 

Clean.  Mv  lord, 

I  do  observe  a  strange  decorum  here  : 
These  that  do  lead  this  day  of  jollity, 
Do  march  with  music  and  most  mirthful  cheeks: 
Those  that  do  follow,  sad,  ar.d  woefully, 
Nearer  the  haviour  ot  a  funeral 
Than  of  a  wedding. 

Evan.  '  I  is  true  ;  pray  expound  that,  sir. 

Gnoth.  As  the  destiny  of  the  day  falls  out,  my 
lord,  one  goes  to  wedding,  another  goes  to  hang- 
ing :  and  your  grace  in  the  due  consideration  shall 
find  them  much  alike  ;  the  one  haih  the  ling  upon 
her  finger,  the  oiher  the  halter  about  her  neck  I 
take  ihee,  Beatrice,  says  the  bridegroom  ;  1  take  thee, 
Agatha,  says  the  hangman  ;  and  both  say  together, 
to  hni'e  and  to  hold,  till  iletilh  do  part  us. 

Evan.    Ihis  is  not  ytt  plain  enough  to  my  under- 
standing. 

Gniith.  If  further  your  gnice  examine  it,  you 
shall  find  1  sliO'.v  myself  a  dutiful  subject,  and  obe- 
dient to  the  law,  myself  with  these  my  good  friends, 
and  your  good  subjects,  our  old  wives,  whose  days 
are  ripe,  and  their  lives  forfeit  to  the  law  :  only 
my  sell,  more  forward  than  the  rest,  am  already  pro- 
vided of  my  second  clioice. 


formerly?     Is  it   not  Mill  called  so  in  almost   every  part  of         •„ 
the    kingdom?      But  he  was   ambitious  ot    following     the 
learned  commentators  On  o'her  dramatic  writers,  who  gravely 
tell  us  'hit    words,  wdirh   aie  in  ever>  one's  mouth,    once 
signified  such  and  such  things  in  Coiiiwall,  perhaps,  or  North- 

Hlll'iell  md  .' 

*  Gnot.i.  Theduhe!  as  he  is  my  sovereign.  7  do yire  him 
two  crovvn?_/or  if,  &c.]  Here  is  soire  poor  pun  A  sove- 
reign was  a  gold  coin  worlh  ten  shillings  ;  or,  is  die  wit  in 
some  fancied  Minil.iriiy  of  soninl  between  duke  and  ducat  (• 
piece  of  the  same  value  as  the  oilier)  (  pudet,  pudet. 


SCENE  II.] 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


£23 


Evan.  Oh !   take    heed,    sir,   you'll   run  yourself 

into  danger  ; 

If  the  law  finds  you  wi'h  two  wives  at  once, 
There's  a  shrewd  premunire. 

Guoth.  1  have  taken  leave  of  the  old,  my  lord.  I 
have  not!. ing:  to  sav  to  her  ;  she's  going  to  sea, 
your  grace  knows  whiter,  better  than  I  do:  she 
has  a  strong  wind  with  her.  it  stands  full  in  her 
poop  ;  when  you  ]  lease,  let  her  disembogue. 

Cook.   Anil   the   rest  of  her  neighbours  with  her,    ! 
whom  we   present  to  the  satisfactiou  of  your  high- 
ness' law. 

Gnuth.  And  so  we  tal;e  our  leaves,  and  leave 
them  to  \our  highness. — Crowd  on. 

Eian.  Stay,  stay,  you  are  too  forward.      Will  you 

n.arrv. 
And  your  wife  yet  living? 

Gnoth.  Alas  !  shr-'ll  be  dead  before  we  cnn  p-et 
to  church.  If  vour  grace  would  set  her  in  the  \vav, 
I  would  dispatch  her:  1  have  a  venture  on'r, 
•which  would  return  me,  if  your  highness  would 
mak.  a  little  more  baste,  two  for  one. 

Evan.  Come,  my  lords,  we  must  sit  again  ;  here's 

a  case 
Craves  a  most  serious  censure. 

Cook.   Now  they   shall  be  dispatch 'd  out  of  the 

W.'V. 

Gnuth    I  would    they  were  gone  once;  the  time 

goes  away. 

EKIH.  \\  Inch  is  the  wife  unto  the  forward  bride- 
groom ? 

Aga.  I  am,  an  it  please  your  grace. 
Eian    Trust  me,  a  lusty  woman,  able-bodied, 
And  well-bloodeii  cheeks. 

Gnoth,  Oh,  she  paints,  my  lord  ;  she  was  a  cham- 
bermaid once,  and  learn 'd  it  of  her  lady. 
Emu.  *ure  1  think  she  cannot  be  so  old. 
Aga.  Trulv  I  think  so  too.an't  please  vour  grace. 
GnOth.  Two    to   one    with  your   grace   of  that! 
she's  ti  reescore  by  the  b»ok. 

Leon.  Peace,  sirrah,  you  are  too  loud. 
Coiik.    I  tike    bred,    Giintho  :    if  you    move    the 
duke's  patience,  'tis  an  edge-tool;  but  a  word  and  a 
blow,  he  cuts  oft' \  our  head. 

Gnoth.  Cut  off  my  head  !  awav,  ignonint !  he 
knows  it  cost  more  in  the  hair;  he  does  not  use  to 
cut  ofl'  many  such  heads  as  mine;  1  will  talk  to  him 
too;  if  he  cut  off  my  head,  I'll  give  him  my  ears. 
1  say  my  wife  is  at  full  age  for  the  law,  the  clerk 
skill  take  bis  oaih,  and  the  church-book  shall  be 
sworn  too. 

Evan.  My  lords,  I  leave  this  censure  to  you. 
Leon.  Then  first,  this  fellow  does  deserve  punish- 
ment, 

For  offering  up  a  lusty  able  woman, 
\\  Inch  may  do  service  to  the  commonwealth, 
W  here  the  law  craves  one  impotent  and  useless. 

OeoH.  '1  herefore  to  be  severely  punished 
Fur  thus  attempting  a  second  marriage, 
His  wile  yet  living. 

I.ys.  Nay,  to  have  it  trebled; 
Thai   even    the   day    and  instant   when  he  should 

mourn 

Asa  kind  husband,  at  her  funeral, 
He  leads  a  tr.umph  to  the  scorn  of  it; 
\\  Inch  unseasonable  joy  ought  to  be  punish'd 
\\  itli  all  severity. 

But.  The  fiddles  will  be  in  a  foul  case  too  by  and 

by. 
Leon.  Nay,  further  ;  it  seems  he  has  a  venture 


Of  two  for  one  at  his  second  marriage, 
Which  cannot  be  but  a  conspiracy 
Against  the  former. 

Gnoth.   A  mess  of  wise  old  men  ! 
Lvs    Sirrah,  what  can  you  answer  to  all  these  '> 
Gnoth.   Ye  are  good  old  men,  and  talk  as  age  will 
give  you  leave.     1  would   speak    with  the  youthful 
duke  himself;  he  and   I  may  speak  of  things  that 
shall  be  thirty  or  forty  years  after  you  are  dead  and 
ro  ten.     Alas  !  you  are  here  to  day,  and  gone  to  sea 
to-morrow. 

Eian.  In  troth,  sir,  then  I  must  be  plain  with  you. 
The  law  that  should  take  away  your  old  wile  from 

you, 

The  which  I  do  perceive  was  your  desire, 
Is  v  ill  and  frustrate  ;  so  for  the  rest  : 
There  '  as  been  since  another  parliament 
Has  cut  it  off. 

Gnoth.  I  see  your  grace  is  disposed  to  be  pleasant. 
Emn.   Yes,  you  might  perceive  that  ;  1  had  not 

else 
Thus  dallied  with  your  follies. 

Gtwth.  I'll  talk  further  with  your  grace  when  I 
come  back  from  church  ;  in  the  mean  time  you 
know  what  to  do  with  the  old  women 

Evan.  Stay,    sir,    unless   in   the  mean    time   you 

mean 

I  cau>e  a  gibbet  to  be  set  up  in  your  way, 
And  hang  you  at  your  return. 
Aga.   O  gracious  prince  ! 

Evan.   Your  old  wives  cannot  die  to-day  by  any 
law  of  mine  :   for  aui,ht  I  can  say  to  them, 
They  may,  by  a  new  edict,  bury  you, 
Anil  then,  perhaps,  you'll  pay  a  new  fine  too. 
Gnoth.  This  is  fine,  indeed  ! 
Aga.  O  gracious  prince !  may  he  live  a  hundred 

\ears  more. 

Cook.  Your  venture  is  not  like  to  come  in  to-day, 
Gnotho. 

Gnoth.  Give  me  the  principal  back. 
Cook.  Nay,  by  my  troth  we'll  venture  still — and 
I'm  sure  we  have  as  ill  a  venture  of  ii  as  you  ;  for 
we  have  taken  old  wives  of  purpose,  that  we  had 
thought  to  have  put  away  at  this  market,  and  now 
we  cannot  utter  a  pennyworth. 

Eran.  Well,  sirrah,  you  were  best  to   discharge 
your  new  charge,  and  take  vour  old  one  to  jou. 
Gnoth.  Oh  music,  no  music,  but  prove  n.ost  dole- 
ful trumpet ; 

Oh  bride  !  no  briue,  butthou  mayst  prove  a  strumpet ; 
Oh    ven  ure !    no   venture,    1    have,  for  one,   now 

none  ; 
Oh  wife!  thy   life  is  saved  when  I  hoped  it  had 

been  gone. 

Case  up  your  fruitless  strings  ;  no  penny,  no  wed- 
ding ; 

Case  up  thy  maidenhead  ;  no  priest,  no  bedding- 
A  vaunt,  my  venture  !  ne'er  to  be  restored, 
Till  Ag,  my  old  wite,  be  thrown  overboard  : 
Then  come  again,  old  Ag.  since  it  must  he  so  ; 
Let  bride  and  venture  with  woful  music  go. 
Conk.  What  for  the  bridecake,  Gnoth..? 
Giwih.  Let  it  be  mouldy  now  'tis  out  of  season., 
Let  it  grow  out  of  date,  currant,  and  reason  ; 
Let  it  be  chipt  and  chopt,  and  given  to  chickens 
No  more  is  got  by  that,  than  \\illiam  Dickina 
Got  by  his  wooden  dishes. 
Put  up  your  plums,  as  fiddlers  put  up  pipes, 
'Ibe  wedding   uash'd,   the   bridegroom   weeps  and 
Wipes. 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


Fiddlers,  farewell!  and  now,  without  perhaps, 
Put  up  your  fiddles  as  you  put  up  scraps. 

LVS-  This  passion*  has  given  some  satisfaction 
yet.  !\ly  lord,  I  think  you'll  pardon  him  now, 
with  all  the  rest,  so  they  live  honestly  with  the 
wives  they  have. 

Evan.  Oh!  most  freely  ;  free  pardon  to  all. 

Cook.  Ay,  we  have  deserved  our  pardons,  if  we 
can  live  honestly  with  such  reverend  wives,  that 
have  no  motion  in  them  but  their  tongues. 

Aga.  Heaven  bless  your 'grace !  you  are  a  just 
prince. 

Gnoth.  All  hopes  dash'd  ;  the  clerk's  duties  lost ; 
My  venture  gone  ;  my  second  wife  divorced  ; 
And  which  is  worst,  the  old  one  come  back  again  ! 
Such  voyages  are  made  now-a-days  ! 
Besides  these  two  fountains  of  fresh  water,  I  will 
weep  two  salt  out  of  my  nose.  Your  grace  had  been 
more  kind  to  your  young  subjects— heaven  bless  and 
mend  your  laws,  that  they  do  not  gull  your  poor 
countrymen  :  but  I  am  not  the  first,  by  forty,  that 
has  been  undone  by  the  law.  Tis  but  a  folly  to 
stand  upon  terms;  I  take  my  leave  of  your  grace, 
as  well  as  mine  eyes  will  give  me  leave:  I  would 
they  had  been  asleep  in  their  beds  when  they  opened 
them  to  see  this  day.  Come  Ag,  come  Ag. 

[Eieunt  Gnotlto  and  Agatha. 

Creon.  Were  not  you  all  my  servants'! 

Cook.  During  your  life,  as  we  thought,  sir ;  but 
our  young  master  turn'd  us  away. 

Creon.  How   headlong,  villain,  wert  thou  in  thy 
ruin ! 

Sim.  I  followed  the  fashion,  sir,  as  other  young 
men  did.  If  you  were  as  we  thought  you  had  been, 
we  should  ne'er  have  come  for  this,  1  warrant  you. 
We  did  not  feed,  after  the  old  fashion,  on  beef  and 
mutton,  and  such  like. 

Creon.  Well,  what  damage  or  charge  you  have  run 
yourselves  into  by  marriage,  I  cannot  help,  nor  de- 
liver you  from  your  wives  ;  them  you  must  keep  ; 
yourselves  shall  again  return  to  me. 

Alt.  We  thank  your  lordship  for  your  love,  and 
must  thank  ourselves  for  our  bad  bargains. 

[Exeunt. 

Evnn.  Cleanthes,  you  delay  the  power  of  law, 
To  be  inflicted  on  these  misgovern'd  men, 
That  filial  duty  have  so  far  tiansgress'd. 

Clean.  My  lord,  I  see  a  satisfaction 
Meeting  the  sentence,  even  preventing  it. 
Beating  my  words  back  in  their  utterance. 
See,  sir,  there's  salt  sorrow  bringing  forth  fresh 
And  new  duties,  as  the  sea  propagates. 

The  elephants  have  found  their  joints  too 

[They  kneel. 

Why,  here's  humility  able  to  bind  up 
The  punishing  hands  of  the  severest  masters, 
Much  more  the  gentle  fathers'. 

Sim.  I  had  ne'er  thought  to  have  been  brought  so 
low  as  my  knees  again  ;  but  since  there's  no  remedy, 
fathers,  reverend  fathers,  as  you  ever  hope  to  have 
good  sons  and  heirs,  a  handful  of  pity !  we  confess 
we  have  deserved  more  than  we  are  willing  to  re- 
ceive at  your  bunds,  though  sons  can  never  deserve 


•  Lj-s.  Thii  passion  Jiat  given  some  tails faction  yet?] 
i.e.  this  pallietic  exclamation :  it  It  parodied  In  part  from 
The  Spanish  Tragedy,  and  is,  without  all  question,  by  far 
the  stupidest  attempt  at  "it  lo  which  that  persecuted  Play 
ever  gave  ri>e.  Th.il  it  atlbidid  some  gatisfaction  to  Lys  m- 
der  ought,  in  courtesy,  to  be  attributed  to  las  having  more 
han  taste. 


too  much    of  their   fathers,  as    shall  appear  after' 
wards. 

Cieon.  And     what   way    can    you  decline   your 

feeding  now  ? 
You  cannot  retire  to  beeves  and  muttons,  sure. 

Sim.  Alas  !  sir,  yon  SPC  a  good  pattern  for  that, 
now  we  have  laid  by  our  high  and  lusty  meats,  aud 
are  down  to  our  marrowbone*  already. 

Creon.   Well,  sir,  rise  tj  virtues  :  we'll  bind  you 
now  ;  [They  rise. 

You  that  were  too  weak  yourselves  to  govern, 
By  others  shall  be  govern 'd. 

Lys.   Cieanthes, 

I  meet  your  justice  with  reconcilement; 
If  there  be  tears  of  faitli  in  woman's  breast, 
I  have  received  a  myriad,  which  confirms  me 
To  find  a  happy  renovation. 

Clean.  Here's  virtue's  throne, 
Which  I'll  embellish  with  my  dearest  jewels 
Of  love  and  faith,  peace  and  affection  ! 
This  is  the  altar  of  my  sacrifice. 
Where  daily  my  devoted  knees  shall  bend. 
Age-honoured  shrine  !   time  still  so  love  you, 
That  I  so  long  may  have  you  in  mine  eye 
Until  my  memory  lose  your  beginning  ! 
For  you,  great  prince,  long  may  your  fame  survive, 
Your  justice  and  your  wisdom  ne.ver  die, 
Crown  of  your  crown,  the  biiSsiug  of  your  land, 
Which  you  reach  to  her  from  yv.ur  regent  hand  ! 

Leon.  O  Cleanthes,  iiad  you  with  us  tasted 
The  entertainment  of  our  retirement, 
Fear'd  and  exclaim'd  on  in  your  ignorance, 
You  might  have  sooner  died  upon  the  wonder, 
Thau  any  rage  or  passion  for  <>ur  loss. 
A  place  at  hand  we  were  all  stranger.-;  in, 
So  sphered  about  with  music,  such  delights, 
Such  viands  and  attendance,  and  once  a  day 
So  cheered  with  a  royal  visitant, 
That  oft  times,  waking,  our  unsteady  fancies 
Would  question  whether  we  yet  lived  or  no, 
Or  had  possession  of  that  paradise 
Where  angels  be  the  guard  ! 

I'.vnn.   Enough,  Leonides, 
You  go  beyond  the  praise  ;  we  have  our  end, 
And  all  is  ended  well :  we  have  now  seen 
The  flowers  and  weeds  that  grow  about  our  court. 

Sim.  If  these  be  weeds,  I'm  afraid  1  shall  wear 
none  so  good  again  as  long  as  my  father  lives. 

Evan.  Only  this  gentleman  we  did  abuse 
With  our  own  bosom  :  we  seem'd  a  tyrant, 
And  he  our  instrument.  Look,  'tis  Craiilus, 

[Discovers  Cratilns. 
The  man  that   you  supposed    had    now   been  tra- 

vell'd  ; 

Which  we  gave  leave  to  learn  to  speak, 
And  bring  us  foreign  languages  to  Greece. 
All's  joy,  I  see  ;  let  music  be  the  crown 
And  set  it  high, "  The  good  needs  fear  n:o  law, 
It  is  his  safety,  and  the  bad  man's  awe." 

[Flourish.     Eiennt. 

*  It  must  be  unacceptable  both  to  the  reader  and  to  myself 
to  enter  into  any  examination  of  this  unfortunate  cumedy, 
The  purpose  which  it  piofcsses  is  snllicieully  good;  but  we 
lose  sight  of  it  in  the  meanness  and  extravag  inee  which  dUti- 
gure  the  subject.  Yet  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  touched  by 
occasional  passages,  which,  in  tenderness  and  beauty,  are 
hardly  excelled  by  any  of  Massin&:er.  They  are  cither  de- 
scriptive or  Eentiment.il,  and  are  rather  exi-rcr-rences  from  the 
story  than  essential  parts  of  it ;  and, on  this  account  they  m.iy 
be  easily  detached,  and  remembered,  for  their  own  cxcvj- 
lence.when  the  place  in  which  they  were  found  is  deservedly 
forgotten.  Perhaps  they  derive  a  gruce  tVotn  their  ver  silua 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


525 


tion;— tliey  are  "  precious  jewels"  in  the  "bead"  of  ngli 
ness.  Any  attempt  to  ascertain  the  portions  contributed  by 
Middlcion  or  Rowley,  would  be  but  loss  of  labour.  The  rug- 
gcdness  of  the  versification,  and  the  obscurity  of  so  many  of 
llic  thoughts,  laboured  in  their  expression, and  trivial  in  their 
meaning,  prove  that  a  great  part  of  the  play  came  from  some 
other  Hi  in  Massinger.  Nor  could  the  lighter  scenes,  i1  the 
awkward  movements  of  filth  and  dulncss  may  claim  that 
name,  have  been  furnished  by  him.  His  manner  is  chielly 
to  be  pi-rceived  in  llie  second  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  and 
whttre  Clcanthes  and  Leonides  fondly  expatiate  on  the  hap- 
piness lit  their  contrivance,  at  the  very  moment  when  their 
seem  ily  is  about  to  be  interrupted. 

But  the  reader  shall  be  no  longer  detained  on  so  question- 
able a  composition  as  The  Old  Law.  He  may  be  bctler 
pleased  with  a  few  observations  arising  from  a  general  view 
of  the  Flay.-  of  Massinger,  and  affording  some  illustration, 
however  imperfect,  of  Ml  talents  and  character. 

It  is  truly  surprising  that  the  genius  which  produced  these 
Plajs  .should  h.ivr  obtained  so  little  notice  from  the  world.  It 
does  /ii. I  ap|,iar  that  in  any  age  since  his  own  Massinger  has 
been  ranted  among  the  principal  writers  fur  the  stage.  Rarely 
liave  any  of  Jij*  pieces  oevn  acted ;  and  dramatic  criticism 
has  been  untiilljng  to  mention  his  name.  It  has  attributed 
variety  aiidgre.itness  of  character  lo  Shakspear.1  and  Fletcher, 
as  if  .\laxinger  had  never  existed,  or  were  entitled  to  none  of 
tins  praise.  ~|t  has  objected  to  the  clenches  and  bombast 
which  di-fi.  nre  the  scvncs  of  mir  great  bard,  as  if  it  were  no 
crcn/t  tu  Malinger  that  he  has  little  of  the  one  and  less  of 
Ihe  other;  and  it  has  lamented  the  too  clo.-e  and  laboured 
language  of  Jonson,  without  observing  that  the  language  of 
Alass-inger  is  s,,m-  of  the  most  cha-l«-  and  flowing  which  the 
Engird  mage  ca1  boast  — One  of  his  characteristic  qualities  i« 
his  .VTVLE;"  and,  on  this  account,  he  is  entitled  to  a  portion  of 
the  pr.iise  «hich  has  fallowed  the  naoies  of  Beaumont  and 
Flcliher.  It  i-  obvious,  that  he  seldom,  if  ever,  approaches 
the  harsh  compactness  of  Jonson  ;  and  he  is  free  from  certain 
peculiarities  which  too  often  cloud  the  poetry  of  Shakspeare. 
The  construction  of  his  sentences  i<  direct  and  uninvolved, 
even  in  the  most  solemn  and  passionate  of  his  scenes;  and 
rarely  does  he  seek  for  uncommon  meanings  by  forcing  his 
words  upwards  to  their  original  sources.  He  is  content  with 
their  usual  acceptation,  and  does  not  attempt  to  heighten 
poetic  effect  either  by  inversion  or  a  strange  use  of  current 
ttrms.  The  faults  into  which  he  occasionally  falls  are  his 
own,  and  arise  fr.'in  the  ease  which  generally  distinguishes 
hii-i.  He  frequently  ends  a  line  with  an  unimportant  wold, 
feiving  only  as  a  passage  to  the  ne\l  line;  and  sometimes 
two  following  lines  are  hurried  on  in  the  same  inconsiderate 
manner:  sometimes  he  raises  a  jingle  by  throwing  into  the 
same  line  two  words  of  somewhat  similar  sound,  but  of  dif- 
ferent meaning:  now  and  then  too  he  rhymes  in  the  middle 
of  a  speech.  These  are  blemishes;  but  they  grow  from  the 
very  freedom  of  his  poetry,  and  show  his  habitual  case  through 
the  accidental  carelessness  which  they  betray:  nor  can  it  be 
denied  that  in  general  he  is  entitled  to  our  sincere  admira- 
tion for  the  purity  and  simplicity  of  his  language,  the  free 
structure  of  his  lines, and  the  natural  flow  and  unaffected  har- 
mony of  his  peiiods.  It  is  observable  that  Mr.  Hume  regrets 
the  want  of  "  purity  and  simplicity  of  diction,"  qualities 
which  he  cannot  discover  in  Shakspeare.  He  might  have 
praised  them  in  Ma-singer  ;  but  he  must  have  been  a  stranger 
to  these  I'lajs,  and  affords  one  instance  more  of  the  unde- 
served neglect  which  has  hitherto  been  their  portion. 

Another  of  the  peculiarities  of  Massinger  arises  from  the 
management  of  his  PLOT.  The  reader  must  have  observed, 
in  too  many  instances,  with  what  rapidity  the  story  is  carried 
en,  with  what  neglect  of  time  and  place,  and,  not  (infrequently, 
of  character  itself.  This  indeed  was  not  unusual  with  other 
writers  of  that  age.  What  distinguishes  Massinger,  is  his  care- 
fulness of  memory  amidst  his  neglect  of  probability.  He  does 
not  fall  into  hurry  of  scene  through  inadvertence.  HP  draws 
.1  plan  of  his  irregularities  before  he  enters  upon  the  execution 
of  them.  This  appears  from  the  caution  with  which  they  are 
introduced  ;  lor  some  of  the  strangest  incidents  which  are  to 
befal  his  characters  are  pointed  out  by  early  strokes  and  stu- 
died intimations.  Thoughtlessness  as  to  the  conclusion  of  his 
story  does  not  therefore  apply  to  him,  as  it  does  to  others. 
He  looks  forward  to  the  frequent  change  of  his  bu-im.ss,  and 
is  satisfied.  He  is  rapid  by  "  advice,"  and  unites,  in  a  greater 
degree  than  almost  any  other  writer,  precipitation  with  pre- 
caution : 

insanit  certa  ralione  ;  modnque. 

Among  the  writers  of  that  age.  Jonson  alone,  perhaps, knew 
all  the  impropriety  arising  from  a  frequent  and  violent  change 
of  scene.  This  sense  of  exactness  was  doubtless  impressed 
npon  liim  by  his  love  of  the  ancients:  and  he  has  obtained 
ta*  'J.'RcuIt  praise  both  of  copiousness  and  close  connexion 
Of  kil  incidents.  Yet  Jonsou  himself,  who  blamed  Shak- 


speaiejs  change  of  scene,  was  not  wholly  t  «e  from  the  same 
practice:  and  this  has  been  remarked  by  )ryden  with  some 
appearance  of  triumph.  Whatever  might  nave  been  the  sen- 
timents of  Massinger, his  gem-ral  practice  was  a  disregard  of 
consistency  of  pi  in  ;  and  his  striking  propensity  to  hurry  of 
scene  is,  perhaps,  to  he  considered  as  a  principal  cause  of  hit 
comparative  want  of  success,  when  he  undertakes  the  higher 
an«l  more  regular  subjects  of  history.  Eitiier  he  seems  con- 
strained by  the  new  restrictions  to  which  he  occasionally  sub- 
mits; or,  tired  of  these,  he  suddenly  falls  ir.to  liberties  which 
ill  accord  with  Ihe  gravity  of  his  first  design.  Sometimes  he 
lessens  the  effect  of  history  by  a  choice  not  sufficiently  saga- 
cious or  comprehensive;  and  sometimes  he  interrupts  its  in- 
fluence bv  additions  extraneous  to  the  subject, or  unimportant 
in  themselves.  He  is  then  most  successful  when  he  approaches 
the  scenes  of  invention  under  cover  of  some  previous  truth ; 
when  he  glances  at  some  known  event,  and  presently  resigns 
himself  to  the  ac'-iistomed  license  of  romance.  How  extra- 
vagant is  the  mixture  of  Table  with  fact  in  several  of  these 
plays,  tlie  reader  must  have  already  observed.  But  if  he  feels 
with  me,  he  will  derive  a  pleasure  from  the  detection  of  some 
circumstance  of  truth  amid  the  mass  of  invention,  and  will 
hail  the  "sacred  influence"  of  historic  light,  which  sometimes — 

"  Shoots  far  into  the  bosom  of  dim  night 
A  glimmt  ring  dawn." 

The  LEARNING  of  Massinger  here  suggests  itself.    It  seems 
to  have  bien  not  without  respectability  ;  yet  r.ttherornamental 
lo  his  prelry  than  very  solid  or  Very  comprehensive.     It  was 
such,  perhaps,  as  Jonson  might  have  sneered  at,  but  with  some 
injustice.  Apart  from  his  treatment  of  hist  -ry,  which  has  been 
just  noticed,  it  chiefly  consists  in  an  acquaintance  with  the 
moralists  and  poets,  and  shows  itself  in  an  occasional  intro- 
duction of  some  ancient  maxim  resulting  from  the  observation 
of  common  life  ;  or  of  some  pretty  image  or  tender  sentiment 
transplanted  into  his  love  scenes.     Not  (infrequently,  indeed, 
a  classical  thought  is  discoverable  in  him,  not  lormally  applied, 
but  incorporated  with  his  own  sentiment,  as  if  the  recollection 
of  an  ancient  writer  w  ere  familiar  and  habitual  with  him  ;  and, 
in  an  instance  or  two,  this  is  done  with  some  ruggcdness,  as  if 
lie  had  no  objection  to   make  a   momentary  experiment  on 
what  was  tlie  general  character  of  Jonson.     His  favourite 
book  is  Ovid;   and  his  chief  display  is  of  the  common  and 
popular   mythology.     Of  this,  indeed,  he  is  by  far  too  fond. 
Sometimes  he  indulges  it  agiinst   probability,  in  scenes  flora 
which  the  ignorance  and  vulgarity  of  the  speakers  ought  to 
iiave  excluded  it;  and  sometimes  agninst  propriety,  when  the 
solemnity  of  the  business,  and  Ihe  engagement  of  I  he  attention 
of  his  per.-onages,  ought  to  have  been  secured  from  such  un- 
•eason  ible  interruption.     He  is  also  apt,  on   some  of  these 
untoward  occasions,  to  state  his  mythological  tale  too  circum- 
stantially, and  to  adapt  it,  point  by  point,  tothe  situation  which 
ic  means  to  illustrate.     He  is   minutely  exact  in  applying 
what  should  have  been   conveyed,   if  conveyed   at  all,  by  a 
;eneral  glance  :  and  while  he  pleases  himself  with  the  sere- 
julous  fidelity  of  his  particulars,  ihe  reader  is  more  and  more 
'impatient  at  too  long  a  detention  from  the  proper  business  of 
he  stage.    There  is,  indeed,  another  kind  of  reading  which 
s  peculiar  to  himself,  and  claims   a   separate  notice.     It  is 
mpossible  not  to  observe  how  zealous  he  is  on  religions  sub- 
ects,  how  conversant  with  the  images  and  sentiments  which 
iccur  in  the  hi-tnry  of  the  early  persecutions,  and  how  ready 
n  the  use  of  ecclesiastical  terms  and  arguments.     He  seems 
o  dwell  with  fondness  on  conversions  lo  the  faith ;  indulges 
with  fervour  the  mode  of  reasoning  which  had  been  used 
letween  ihe  early  Christians  and  the   Pagans,  and  is  so  im- 
>re?sed  with  it  that  he  employs  the  same  train  of  thought  for 
lie  persuasion  of  Mahometans  and  idolaters.     Where  he  ob- 
ained  this  knowledge,  it  is  difficult  to  say.    The  reader  must 
determine  whether   he   is  likely  to  have  drawn  it  from  the 
"sources  pointed  out  in  the  observations  on  The  Virgin  Martyr, 
or  in  those  on  The  Kenegado:  from  the  general  appearance 
'f  his  learning,  I  have  no  objection  tothe  opinion  that  he  was 
cquainted  with  the  works  of  the  Christian  writers  themselves. 
)ne  thing  is  very  observable  in  him.  When  he  describes  the 
•eremonies  of  religion  as  they  are  practised  in  the  church  of 
lome,  it  is  with  an  earnestness  and   a  reverence  more  than 
nfficient  for  the  support  of  the  character  that  speaks.  Of  this 
Tlie  Reneyado  alone  furnishes  several  instances;  and  not  only 
s  he  anxious  to  procure  from  any  hand  the  right  of  baptism 
or  the  new  convert  (Donusa)  about  to  suffer  death  ;  but,  a 
loiibt  being  raised  for  the  sake  of  an  authoritative  decision, 
he  question  of  lay  baptism  is  familiarly  settled  upon  Human 
Catholic  principles — 
"  A  question  in  itself  with  much  ease  answered : 

Midwives,  upon  necersity,  perform  it; 

And  kni«hts  that,  in  the  Hi.ly  Land,  fought  for 

The  freedom  of  Jerusalem,  when  full 

Of  sweat  and  enemies'  blood,  have  made  their  helmet 


526 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


The  fount  out  of  which,  with  their  holy  hands, 
They  drew  that  heavenly  liquor,"  &c*. 

One  circumstance,  however,  seems  to  have  escaped  his 
attention,  which  the  history  of  Christian  antiquity  would  have 
afforded  him.  In  cases  01  extremity,  when  the  rage  of  per- 
secution would  not  all.nv  the  consolation  of  religious  rites,  the 
death  itself  of  the  suitercr  was  supposed  by  some  to  convey 
the  desired  beuelit,  and  t!  e  blood  of  the  martyr  was  the  salu- 
tary water  of  baptism.  But  1  will  a(t>l  no  more  on  this  sub- 
ject. The  learning  of  Massinger  appears,  in  this  view  of  it, 
tn  have  scmir  connexion  with  his  religion.  Indeed,  the 
sources  from  which  his  plots  were  derived  might  have  fur- 
nished s»me  of  the  circumstances  just  noticed:  but  if  they 
are  his  own,  they  are  sufficient  to  raise  a  suspicion  that  he 
luil  a  secret  attachment  to  tin-  church  of  Rome:  and  this 
stems  tn  be  the  more  probable  opinion. 

The  MORALS  of  .Massinger  shall  next  be  noticed.  It  may 
teem  surprising  that  the  licentiousness  which  too  frequently 
appears  in  these  Plays,  should  be  accompanied  with  any  ex- 
pressions of  regard  for  morality.  However,  we  must  remember 
the  limes  in  whic  h  he  wrote,  and  make  allowance  for  the 
influence  which  the  general  state  of  society  will  always  have 
on  compositions  for  ihe  stage.  The  comparative  gros-ness  of 
romm  <n  conversation,  the  rude  manner  in  whi<  h  theatrical 
business  was  conducted,  Ihe  wish  of  giving  as  strong  an  ettect 
as  possible  to  the  character  represented,  and  a  taste  as  yet 
imperfectly  formed  for  the  management  of  delicate  situations, 
and  the  expression  of  wrong  desires;  these  and  many  oilier 
causes  must  have  been  very  unfriendly  to  the  purily  which 
virtue  demands.  In  these  particulars  Massinger  was  unhappy 
with  oilier  writers.  Indeed  no  situation  in  life  was  a  Milticu  ill 
security  for  theatrical  decorum  ;  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
one  Ihe  son  of  a  judge,  the  other  of  a  bishop,  are  still  more 
licentious  than  Massinger,  without  the  consoling  attention  to 
moral  consequences  which  he  discovers. 

In  the  observations  on  several  of  these  Plays,  the  reader  will 
have  noticed  the  seriousness  of  the  moral  ari-ing  from  the 
conclusion  of  the  story  :  and  in  justice  to  Massinger  it  must 
be  added,  that,  ho»ever  blameable  he  is  for  the  admission  of 
any  indecency  of  others  into  a  work  ovei  which  he  had  a 
control,  the  most  offensive  parts  are  not  his  own.  The  licen- 
tiousness for  which  he  is  personally  answerable,  is  of  two 
sons — one,  the  chief  part,  consists  in  the  incidents  of  the  story 
itself:  ihe  other,  in  loose  conversation  not  strictly  subservient 
to  ihe  plot,  but  rather  gratuitously  indulged,  li  is  wi  h  much 
satisfaction  we  observe,  that  the  indelicacy  in  the  f.  rmer  case 
is  in  some  measure  atoned  for  by  the  meiited  punishment  to 
which  he  commonly  conducts  the  offenders;  and  lest  his  de- 
sign should  be  iiii-uuderstood,  he  earnestly  reminds  ns,  that, 
liouxitli.-taudjng  the  grossness  of  the  story,  he  still  means  to 
HTve  the  cause  of  virtue,  and  that  wickedness  is  sure  to  be 
'•  mulcted"  by  him  "in  the  conclusion."  The  Patl.amriit  nf 
l.orr,  where  this  caution  occurs,  is  a  convincing  instance  of 
(lie  practice  just  noticed,  as  it  combines  licentiousness  of  in 
cid.  nt  «  ith  ch  .racteristic  punishment  on  the  contrivers  of 
the  mischief.  For  ihe  other  part  no  excuse  can  or  ought  to 
be  offered.  There  is  only  one  consolation  under  it:  happily, 
his  loose  dialogue  is  ill  managed.  It  is  without  spirit  or  at 
traction,  as  if  his  mind  had  no  natural  inclination  to  it;  and 
the  reader  must  be  of  a  disposition  decidedly  prurient  who 
will  turn  to  those  scenes  a  second  time.  One  praise  remains 
for  Ma-singer,  and  I  mention  it  with  heartfelt  satisfaction; 
he  is  entirely  without  profaneness.  How  is  it  to  be  wis-  ed 
that  Shakspeare  had  beni  thus!  and  that  th*.  extiaordinary 
power  with  which  he  impresses  both  good  and  evil  sentiment 
had  never  been  em  ployed  in  loosening  ti'e  reverence  of  sacred 
principles  in  i  he  mind  of  the  young  and  inexperienced  reader, 
01  in  teaching  other  men  of  genius  10  recommend  Ihe  most 
pernicious  levity  through  the  attractions  of  thtir  wit! 

The  POLITICAL  CHARACTER  of  Massinger  is  very  creditable 
to  him.  His  allusions  to  the  public  events  of  the  times  are 
not  unfrequeiit ;  and  they  are  such  as  to  show  him  a  man  of 
honesty  and  spirit.  He  ridicules,  with  successful  humour,  the 
weak  and  licentious  tops  who  infested  the  court.  He  indig- 
nantly exposes  the  system  of  favouritism,  which  was  so  in- 
jurious to  the  countr)  in  the  reign  of  James,  and  lashes  ihe 
easy  or  corrupt  grant  of  monopolies  with  the  honest  \iewsof 
a  patriot  In  return,  he  lakes  a  pleasure  in  contrasting  ihe 
loyally  of  the  true  friends  of  the  throne  with  the  tatercMed 
services  of  common  courtiers.  He  nlso  endeavours  to  correct 
the  profligate  facility  wi  h  which  a  peisonal  devotion  was 
pledged  to  the  sovereign,  and  glances  at  the  I  hough 'less  or 
fallacious  oilers  of  "  lives  and  fortunes."  The  dreadful  -vents 
which  took  place  not  long  alter  the  expression  of  the-e  sen- 
::ments  throw  an  unusual  interest  over  them  ;  and  we  are 

•  The  reader  may  compare  this  with  the  pious  oilke  which 
Tasso  makes  Tancn-d  perform  to  Clorinda: 

Poco  quindi  Ionian  ml  sen  del  montc,  &c. 

Canto  12   St.  67. 


persuaded  by  his  personal  satire,  as  well  as  by  the  open 
praises  which  he  bestows  on  his  country,  how  strong  and 
sincere  was  the  patrioti-m  of  Massinger.  It  is  observable 
loo,  that  he  does  not  bend  to  the  slavish  doctrine  which  was 
inculcated  by  so  many  other  writers  of  the  age;  but,  while 
he  preserves  a  firm  and  substantial  reverence  to  the  throne, 
he  watches  over  the  actions  of  the  sovereign,  and  distinguishes 
between  his  just  authority  and  the  arbitrary  excesses  of  it. 
One  circumstance  more.  Massinger  lived  for  the  mo-t  part 
in  poverty  and  neglect ;  and  it  is  highly  honourable  to  him 
that  there  are  no  traces  of  public  spleen  or  (action  in  his 
writings.  He  is  always  a  good  subject  ;  and  if  he  reprehends 
(he  follies  or  ihe  vices  which  slood  too  near  the  throne,  lie  doei 
it  as  a  friend,  and  with  the  view  of  restoring  it  to  thai  purity 
and  wisdom  which  became  it,  and  to  that  lustre  in  which  he 
loved  to  see  it  shine. 

It  would  not  be  necessary  to  mention  Massing»-r's  IMITA- 
TIONS of  his  contemporaries,  if  Mich  a  practice  had  not  been 
unduly  attributed  to  him.  Mr.  M.  Mason  seems  disposed  to 
talk  of  passages  remembered  from  Shakspeare.  But  the 
practice  is  not  very  frequent,  and  whenever  it  does  occur, 
the  obligation  is  too  unimportant  to  be  dwelt  upon.  Indeed, 
it  may  be  affirmed  in  general,  that,  though  he  may  adopt 
occasional  sentiments  of  Shakspeare,  he  can  haidly'be  said 
to  copy  his  incidents  or  situations.  Perhaps  Ihe  nearest  ap- 
proach to  such  an  obligation  is  in  The  Emperor  nf  the  East, 
where  jealousy  on  account  of  the  apple  recalls  to  our  mind 
the  handkerchief  of  Othello  Yet  even  here  the  hi-tory  itself 
may  well  be  supposed  to  furnish  the  filiation  without  assist- 
ance from  any  other  quarter;  ami  the  imitation  is,  after  all, 
confined  lo  a  lew  scattered  thoughts.  It  oii.Jit,  indeed,  to  be 
allowed  (since  ihe  subject  is  thus  entered  upon-,  that  when 
such  an  imitation  docs  take  place1,  it  is  sometimes  not  quite 
so  happy  as  the  reader  might  wish.  Either  the  thoughts  are 
not  so  forcibly  expressed  as  by  .Shakspeare,  or  they  are 
(iveB  to  persons  whose  characters  do  not  so  w«ll  agree  wilh 
them.  Thus,  when  Asambeg  ( Keivijado )  repeals  his  ileler 
initiation  to  do  something  terrible,  but  what,  he  does  not  yel 
know,  he  reminds  us  ot  a  sentiment  highly  characteiisiic  of 
the  wild  an  I  ungoverned  temper  of  Lear.  But  Asambeg  is 
of  a  different  ca-t.  In  the  mid-t  f  his  passion  his  inteieat 
is  consulted;  lie  blusters  indeed,  but  stops  to  calculate  con- 
sequences,  and  in  reality  is  a  tame  character.  A^ain,  when 
imprecations  aie  used  against  Richard,  and  guilty  fear  is  to 
deprive  linn  of  the  power  of  wielding  his  sword,  we  feel  that 
the  llioiiLht  is  natural.  Rut  when  Overreach  f  AVw  II  ,iv  to 
!  t  tnj  Old  JMits)  fin, Is  111  ,1  the  curses  of  those  whom  lu'has 
j  undone  are  upon  him,  anil  take  away  his  strength,  we  pcr- 
ccivc  nil  incongruity  A  swmd  w  is  "the  natural  <tn'l  pr..ier 
weapon  ol '  Richard,— Ihe  instrument  by  which  is  siui.,iioii 
wa>  ii,  be  maintained  Ovf-m-ach  has  a  swonl  never  intended 
to  he  drawn  :  he  endeavours  to  use  il  in  the  moment  of 
fren/.y  ;  yet  talks  of  iis  failure  in  the  terms  of  a  baffled  sol- 
dier, as  ii  it  would  no  longer  avenge  his  cause,  or  preserve 
his  falling  fortune'. 

This  noiice  will  he  sufficient  for  the  imitations  attributed 
lo  Massinger,  and  the  circumstances  which  attend  them.  In 
fact,  he  has  borrowed  little  from  his  contemporaries  and  has 
given  to  Milton  alone  perhaps  as  much  s.  ntimcnt  as  he  has 
himself  taken  from  Shakspeare.  To  some  later  writers  he- 
has  been  too  convenient  a  quarry,  \\ilhout  acknowledg- 
ment, they  have  dug  from  his  scenes  for  the  construe  lion  of 
their  own,  and  have  done  him  at  once  an  inji  slice  and  an 
honour  Ry  their  unskiliid  use  of  his  plundered  mailer,  they 

have  proved  how  mud    he  is  their  superior      The  imila I 

of  The  fatal  Dowry  in  The  fair  Ptniteiit,\\;\*  been  already 
noticed.  Il  the  reader  will  pass  fVoin  one  of  these  Plays  to 
the  other,  he  will  hardly  tail  to  acknowledge  the  truth  ofihis 
asser  ion. bold  as  it  may  appear:  he  will  tin  .notwithstanding 
Ihe  praises  bestowed  on  Howe  y  Dr  Johnson,  that  laboured 
softness  and  artificial  sentiment  are  bill  an  ill  exchange  for 
the  genuine  feelings  of  naluie,  and  the  genuine  expression  of 
them  Again,  if  he  will  compile  The  Cuanlian  of  Ma>sin<rer 
with  ihe  imita'ion  of  ii  in  The  Incuns'unt  of  Karquh.ir,  he 
cannot  but  observe  how  much  ihe  natuial  hrisknes-  ami  (low- 
ing humour  of  Du.a/zo  aie  degraded  in  the  forced  levity  and 
empty  bustle  of  Ol.l  Mirabi-l.  I  am  not  certain  that*  Lee 
i  en, <mo,  red  Massinger  in  his  Theoilo*hat  or  the  force  nf 
Love ;  but  he  boasts  of  tin-  re.  ep  ion  of  that  piece  In  the 

public.     Yet  wbuevcr  will  c paie    The  Em\>rr»r  of  the 

East  with  it,  will  soon  learn  lo  think  favourably  of  Massinger 
on  this  account  also  ;  and  will  wonder  thai  his  uaiure  and 
force  fhoiild  be  neglected,  while  the  public  taste  has  been 
content  lo  admire  in  Lee  passion  which  never  moves  the 
Soul,  and  vehemence  which  does  but  excite  ridicule. 

Piom  these  few  particulars  some  conclusion  may  be  drawn 
respecting  the  genius  and  disposition  of  Massinger  Perhaps 
he  cannot  be  called  sublime.  He  dots  not,  like  Shakspeare, 
s'-i/.e  the  soul, anil  in  a  moment  pierce  it  wilh  terror  01  atfiic- 
tion  ;  nor  does  he  sustain  it  at  will  in  transport*  btyoiiu  tit* 


THE  OLD  LAW. 


527 


nsual  height  of  nature.  He  moves  us  rattier  by  the  accumu- 
lation of  circumstances,  than  by  single  passages  of  Mnii.-iiHl 
Mrei.glh  ami  imp-  ,'e-i  in.  He  melts  too,  rather  than  terrifies. 
vet  .vhile  we  si;:  render  all  our  compassionate  leelii  gs  to 
1'he  fatal  Dowry,  we  must  remember  tlie  horror  excited  by 
T  <•  ['mititurat  '('ombat ;  honor  inherent  in  the  very  situa- 
tions i.f  the  principal  agents,  ami  increased,  with  equal 
artihce  and  power,  by  dark  ami  mysterion^  allusions  to  the 
cause?  of  their  strange  enmity,  and  of  the  fearful  impreca- 
tions which  they  inter.  He  noes  not  venture  into  the  ideal 
world,  and  create  new  personages  and  imagine  strange  agen- 
cie.i  tor  them  His  few  gho-ts  deserve  no  mention.  The 
good  and  bad  spirit  in  The  I'iryin  Martyr  are  nut  to  be 
computed  with  tlie  fantastic  being?  of  .Shakspcare  :  their 
at peaiance  is.  for  the  most  part,  human  :  and  wln-n  their 
true  nature  breaks  forth,  ihey  act  ill  a  manner  which  custom 
had  already  prescribed  for  them.  The  most  imposing  use  of 
ar  event  beyond  the  experience  of  common  life  occurs  in 
The  Picture;  yet  this  is  an  extraordinary  triek  of  art,  which 
appeals  rather  to  the  ear  thui  the  eye,  and  which  once 
allowed,  suffices  throughout  the  piece;  there  is  no  magical 
apparatus,  no  visible  agent  conducting  the  t  ain  of  surprise. 
His  comic  talent  is  not  equal  to  his  tragic  power.  His 
merit  chiefly  consists  in  the  invention  of  comic  s:tua(ions; 
and  in  the-e  he  i-  often  remaikably  happy  But  the  gieat 
tnpport  of  comedy  i-  dialogue,  a  d  in  (his  he  is  deficient. 
In  general  it  wants  briskness  and  variety.  Of  rom>e,  we 
must  not  look  into  him  lor  tho.-e  characters  whose  «it  pre- 
domin.tlCo  through  the  piece,  or  whose  fatuity  i  the  princi- 
pal cause  of  laughter.  He  has  neither  a  Fal-Utf  nor  a 
Bessnt  ;  not  even  a  master  Stephen,  or  a  Slender.  Sylli, 
however  sm  ill  his  preten-ions,  is  his  chief  mirth-maker. 
Indeed,  the  Cornells  ol  Malinger  has  a  near  connexion 
with  history  and  the  graver  satire.  He  draws  copious  d- 
scriplions  of  the  trifling  or  vicious  manners  of  the  age,  and 
discovers  strong  purples  of  inor  d  correction,  rather  than 
smartness  of  conversation,  and  the  ait  u-ks  an  i  defences  of 
dramatic  wit.  Of  this  <ort  i-  Th-  City  Madam  Thi-  1 
regard  as  the  chief  effort  of  his  Coined  v,  is  The  Fatal 
Dowry  is  <.f  Id-  Tragedy .  The-e  two  I'lays  al»ne  would  be 
sufficient  to  cieate  a  high  leputation.  Pity  for  suffering 
virtue  can  hardly  be  excited  in  a  -ironger  manner  ihan  in 
the  latter  In  the  former,  it  is  difficult  to  say  which  qu  dity 
prevails;  the  p.iiverfnl  ridicule  of  an  unfeeling  anectalion, 
or  the  just  reprobation  01  hy  poc  isy. 

This  determines  ihe  nature  of  Xlassinger's  wiiiin;;*.  He 
does  not  soart ••  the  heights  of  fancy  :  he  1«i  Ib.unon^  men, 
and  describes  their  hu-iness  and  their  as-ions  with  judg- 
ment, reeling,  and  discrimination.  He  IMS  a  lU-tne-s  of 
principle  which  is  admirably  fitted  to  the  ln-st  interests  of 
himanlife:  and  I  kno.\  no  writer  of  his  class  fr.nn  whom 
more  maxims  of  prndence,  moraliiy,  or  leliemn  m.y  be 
drawn  He  is  eminently  successful  in  repie-eiiting  he  ten- 
der attachment  of  virtuous  love,  and  in  maintaining  the  true 
delicacy  and  dignity  of  the  female  charade.  ;  and  in  gene- 
ral he  displays  a  warmth  of  zeal  on  ihe  side  of  goodness, 
which  --.t  once  pleases  and  eleva'es  the  reader.  To  this  ex- 
cellence of  sentiment  he  ad. is  much  strength  and  variety  of 
talent,  nor  will  any  on-  doubt  it  h  ha>  pern-ul  these 
Plays  with  attenti  li.  The  general  cha-Un..<-  of  la-ign-tge 
with  which  they  art  written,  the  peculiar  elegance  of  style 
In  Thf  Great  tin  kr  o'  /-'lorencf,  and  Thf  Parliamrnt '  of 
I*vve ;  the  united  dignity  and  m  .dm-ss  of  pa-<-i»n  .,f  Thf 
JJu';e  of  Milan— ihe  animation  n.l  he.oi-m  f  The  litmd- 
man,  and  the  laleiit  of  discrimination  added  to  those  in 
The  Mad  of  /lonmtr  ;  the  striking  eloquence  of  Thf  Ro- 
man Actiir— the  c.miic  force  of  The  I'ery  It  nmnn— the 
strong  ridicule  .,,,d  moral  reprob.tion  in  Ihe  \eit<  ll'av  to 
Pay  <):d  Debts,  and  the  peculiar  p  ay  fulness  of  I  he  Pic 
tiirc ;  these,  and  many  others  which  mi  hi  bt  mentioned 
with  equ  d  jusii  t ,  are  incontrovertible  pioots  of  a  genius 
far  beyond  the  common  level.  Cartwright  IMS  nni:i  i-lv 
remarked  the  "  wretched  genius  an.'  dependent  liie-  '  ,'f 
those  who,  in  hi- time,  wrote  I  I  ivs  for  hr.  a  i.  This  cinn-l 
be  said  of  Massingcr  without  ihe  "greate-t  ii  justice.  He  has 
•written  not  for  his  bcneiarinrs  alone  ;  hi-  ,*  unir>  owes  him 
an  obligation,  at  d  it  would  be  a  r-  proarh  loom  'i-cerniiienl 
^Tio  u:9ch  merit  were  still  overlooked.  Indeed  it  is  very 


difficult  to  account  for  the  long  inattention  of  which  ,ie  has 
hitherto  to  complain.  The  troubles  whieh  so  soon  followed 
the  first  appearance  of  these  Plays,  !>•',<••.  the  cm  tain  on 
Massiuger,  and  every  other  genuine  .vrr.er  for  lite  su-e. 
Perhaps  for  about  twenty  years  the  stage  was  altogether 
silent.  It  might  have  been  expected,  however,  that  the 
Restoration,  which  revived  several  of  the  I'lays  of  Shak- 
speare,  and  more  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  would  have 

I  done  some  justice  to  Massinger. 

I  am  not  sanguine  about  my  conjecture,  but  the  following 

I  may  be  considered  as  one  of  Ihe  le.iding  causes  of  the  ne- 
glect which  he  experienced.  It  appears  that  the  prevailing 
taste  of  those  times;  was  such  as  his  scenes  were  not  much 

•  calculated  to  gratify.  An  extraoidinary  attachment  burst 
firth  to  the  swill  turns  and  graces  <•!  the  stage,  as  Dryden 

!  terms  them,  and  to  the  eh  ise  of  wii  briskly  pcrr-md  in  dra- 
maiic  conversation.  These  qualities,  as  i  was  ju>t  now  ob- 
serve.', do  not  distinguish  Massingei  They  were  supposed, 
at  that  lime,  to  be  possessed  by  Fletcher  alone,  ai.d  this 
probably,  was  tue  reason  of  the  in  irk.  d  preterem-e  which 
he  obtained  ;  for  we  know  from  Dry  dm,  th.t  two  of  Fletch- 
er's I'lays  were  acted  for  one  of  Shakspeare.  As  to  the  w  it 
of  JoiiS'.n,  it  was  considered  as  too  stiff  tor  that  age.  But 
the  chief  injustice  Seems  to  rest  with  Dryden  himself  In 
his  Essay  on  Dramatic  Poetry,  he  praises  others  lor  qua  i 
tie*  of  which  Marsinger  might  have  been  adduced  as  an  ex- 
ample, and  blames  them  for  failings  tr  m  which  he  was  free  ; 
yet  of  Ma-singer  no  mention  is  ma'e:  and.  probably,  this 
was  sufficient  warrant  for  succeeding  critics  to  pass  by  a 
name  which  50  urea  t  a  man  had  appeared  not  to  know,  or 
not  to  value.  As  to  the  attempts  in  the  la't  century  to  make 
.Massinger  known  through  succeeding  editions  of  his  works, 
they  call  for  some  acknowledgment  on  account  of  their  mo- 
tive; but  the  performance  can  hardly  be  mentioned  with- 
out indignation.  Lord  Bacon  somewhere  talks  .  I  the  disser- 
vice done  to  literature  by  the  "  rath  ailitjntce"  of  some 
"  in  the  correction  and  editing  of  authors  "  One  would 
think  he  had  looked  forward  to  ihe  treatment  of  p..or  Mas- 
singer  hy  Coxeier  and  Mr.  M.  Mason.  But  it  i.»  time  that 
In-  obscured  merit  .-hould  at  length  appear  in  its  proper 
lijit  ,  and  Mas-inger  has  found,  from  the  present  editor, 
what  has  been  so  humanely  wished  for  him  — a  vindication 
ol  his  name  in  a  pure  and  accurate  text. 

One  thing  yet  remains,  to  explain  why  I  have  taken  a  part 
in  the  pre.-tnt  publication.  The  account  is  short  and  simple. 
The  editor, having  already  resolved  on  the  publication,  and 
prepared  the  texl  tor  the  press,  requested  of  me  a  revision 
of  these  Plays,  and  such  observations  as  the  a  live  discharge 
of  profe-sional  duties  would  allow  me  10  bestow  on  them. 
To  IMS  he  was,  doubtless,  impelled  by  his  known  partiality 
to  the  judgment  of  his  irieiM,  and  in  some  measure,  per- 
haps, by  the  recollection  ihat,  in  oar  earlv  days,  we  had 
lead  together  some  of  the  works  of  our  dramatic  writers. 
Tins  statement,  it  is  hoped,  will  excuse  me  with  the  pro- 
f.  ssed  lovers  of  the  drama,  who  may  find  these  observations 
of  too  seiions  a  east,  01  wanting  that  mimic  a  quaiutance 
with  the  stage  which  might  be  require  t.  My  chief  atten- 

j  ti  n  hashing  .-ince  been  turned  to  other  pursuits,  n..r  have  I 
thrust  myseli  into  this  employ  inent;  ne:ther,  indeed,  has 

I  any  "  calling"  been   "left"  for  it.      Alassinjjer    has   truly 

I  said,  that  to  be  able 

" to  pierce  to  the  depth 

Or  write  a  comm-  nt  on  the  ob.>curest  poets, 
Is  but  an    imainelil." 

The  great  business  of  liie  hasmore  solemn  claims;  and  it  is 
a  consolation  to  a. id,  that  while  this  act  of  friendsirp  has  been 
performtd.  the  higher  and  more  important  duties  h  ve  not 
snnered.  It.  with  this  necessary  reservation,  the  talent  of 
Ma-finger  has  been  at  all  unfolded,  and  e  pecially,  it  hi* 
wilting  art  now  made  more  useful  than  they  might  othcr- 
vvi-e  have  l<eeii,  hy  the  careful  observation  of  his  subject 
an. I  the  pointing  of  his  moral,  I  shall  be  satisfied.  As  to  the 
rest.il  is  hut  a  trilling  service  which  can  he  performed  by 
me  in  this,  or  perhaps  any  other,  province  of  letters;  but, 
to  apply  theworls  ot'a  great  man  on  a  far  higi.er  occasion, 

I    "  So   have  I  been  content    to  time   the  in-li  iiim-ni*  of   the 

i  Mn-e*.  ihat  they  ma)  play  who  have  better  hands." — D*. 
IRK.I.ANU. 


POEMS 


SEVERAL      OCCASIONS, 


PHILIP    MASSINGER. 


TO  MY  HONORABLE  FFREINDE  S* 

FFRANCIS    FFOLIAMBE,    KNIGHT 

AND  BARONET. 

Sr  with  my  service  I  present  this  boote 

A  trifle,  I  confesse,  but  pray  you  looke 
Upon  the  sender,  not  his  guift,  with  your 

Accustomde  favor,  and  then't  wil)  endure 
Your  serch  the  better.     Somethinge  then  may  bee 

You')  finde  in  the  perusall  fit  for  mee 
To  give  to  one  I  honor,  and  may  pleade, 

In  your  defence  though  you  descende  to  reade 
A  Pamplet  of  this  nature.     May  it  prove 

In  your  free  Judgement,  though  not  worth  your  Hove 
Yet  fit  to  finde  a  pardon  and  I'll  say 

Upon  your  warrant  that  it  is  a  play. 

Ever  at  your  commandment 

PHILIP  MASSINCER. 


TO    MY  JUDICIOUS  AND    LEARNED    FHIEND    THE    AUTHOR 

(JAMES  SHIRLEY),  UPON   HIS  INGENIOI  s  POEM  TIIF. 

GRATEFUL     SERVANT,     A     COMEDY,     PUBLISHED      IN 
1630. 

THOUGH  I  well  know,  that  my  obscurer  name 

Listed  with  theirs*  who  here  advance  thy  fame, 

Cannot  add  to  it,  give  me  leave  to  be, 

Among  the  rest  a  modest  votary 

At  the  altar  of  thy  Muse.     I  dare  not  raise 

Giant  hyperboles  unto  thy  praise; 

Or  hope  it  can  find  credit  in  this  age. 

Though  I  should  swear,  in  each  triumphant  page 

Of  this  thy  work  there's  no  line  but  of  weight, 

And  poesy  itself  shown  at  the  height : 

Such  common  places,  friend,  will  not  agree 

With  thy  own  vote,  and  my  integrity. 

I'll  steer  a  mid  wny,  have  clear  truth  my  guide, 

And  urge  a  praise  which  cannot  be  denied. 

•  Lifted  with  theirs,}  John  Fox,  John  Hall,  Ch.irlet 
Aleyn,  Thomas  R .ndoloh,  Robert  Stapj  Hun,  Thorn a«  Cra- 
ford,  William  Habingdoe. 


Here  are  no  forced  expressions;  no  rack'd  phrase; 

No  Babel  compositions  to  amaze 

The  tortured  reader  ;  no  believed  defence 

To  strengthen  the  bold  Atheist's  insolence; 

.No  obscene  syllable,  that  mav  compel 

A  blush  from  a  chaste  maid,  but  all  so  well 

Express'd  and  order'd,  as  wise  men  must  say 

It  is  a  grateful  poem,  a  good  play  : 

And  such  as  rend  ingeniously,  shall  find 

Few  have  outstripp'il  thee,  many  halt  behind. 

PHILIP  MASSINCEB. 

TO  HIS  SON  J.  S.  UPON  HIS  "MINERVA*." 

THOU  art  my  son  ;  in  that  my  choice  is  spoke  : 
Thine  with  thy  father's  Muse  strikes  equal  stroke. 
It  shovv'd  more  art  in  Virgil  to  relate, 
And  make  it  worth  the  hearing,  his  gnat's  fate, 


t  To  his  *nn  J.  S.  vpon  hit  Minerva.]  Coxetcr  and 
Mr.  M.  Mason  (or  rather  Cuxeler  alone,  fur  {xiur  Mr.  M. 
M  11*011  neiiht-r  knew  nor  llmn«;lii  an)  thing  about  the  mat- 
ter) say  this  litile  Poem  was  addressed  to  James  Shirley  i 


THE  POEMS. 


Tlian  to  conceive  what  those  great  minds  must  be 

That  sought,  and  found  out,  fruitful  Itiily. 

And  such  as  read  and  do  not  apprehend. 

And  with  applause,  the.  purpose  ;md  the  end 

Of  this  neat  poem,  in  themselves  confess 

A  dull  stupidity  and  barrenness. 

Methinks  1  do  behold,  in  tiiis  rare  birth, 

A  temple  builr  up  to  facetious  Mirth, 

Pleased  Phuehus  smiling  on  it :  doubt  not,  then, 

But  that  the  suffrage  of  judicious  men 

Will  honour  this  Thalia;  and,  for  those 

That  praise  Sir  Hevis,  or  What's  worse  in  prose, 

Let  them  dwell  still  in  ignorance.     To  write 

In  a  new  strain,  and  from  it  raise  delight, 

As  thou  in  this  hast  done,  doth  not  by  chance, 

But  merit,  crown  thee  with  the  laurel  branch. 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

SERO  SED  SER1O. 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  MY  MOST  SINGULAR  GOOD 
LORD  AND  PATHOS,  PHILIP  EARL  OF  PEMBROkE  AND 
MONTGOMERY,  LORD-CHAMBERLAIN  OF  HIS  MAJESTY'S 
HOUSFIIOLU,  ETC.,  UPON  THE  DEPLORABLE  AND  UN- 
TIMELY DEATH  OF  HIS  LATE  TRULY  NOBLE  SON 
CHARLES  LORD  HERBERT,  ETC. 

TWAS  fate,  not  want  of  duty,  did  me  wrong  ; 

Or,  with  the  rest,  my  bymenseal  song 

Had  been  presented,  when  the  knot  was  tied 

That  made  the  bridegroom  and  ihe  virgin  bride 

A  happy  pair.     I  curs'd  my  absence  then 

That  bitider'd  it,  and  bit  my  star-cross'd  pen, 

Too  busy  in  stage-blanks,  and  trifling  rhyme, 

When  such  a  cause  call'd,  and  so  apt  a  time 

To  pay  a  general  debt  •  mine  being  more 

Than  tliev  could  owe,  who  since,  or  heretofore, 

Have  labour'd  with  exalted  lines  to  raise 

Brave  piles,  or  rather  pyramids,  of  praise 

To  Pembroke  and  his  family  :  and  dare  I, 

Being  silent  then,  iiim  at  an  elegy  1 

Or  hope  my  weak  Muse  can  bring  forth  one  verse 

Deserving  to  wait  on  the  sable  hearse 

Of  your  late  hopeful  Charles  ?  his  obsequies 


•ml  Daviej,  in  hit  Life  of  Mcusinger,  reasons  npon  it  a;  an 
iMlisprtabfe  fact.  Tin-  iriitli,  however,  is,  ili..t  tlie*e  initial 
letter:  belong  to  James  Smith,  a  man  of  considerable  wit 
anil  le.irning,  and  a  dignitary  of  the  church.  He  wm  the 
author  of  several  short  piece.-,  and,  among  the  rest,  of  that 
to  uhich  this,  with  oihci  commendatory  poems,  is  prt-tixtd, 
The  Innovation  of  Penelope  and  Hymes,-A  burlesque  satire 
upon  some  incoherent  translation  of  those  da\s,  and  the 
prototype,  perhaps,  of  Colton's  I'i'yil  and  The  Rrhearial. 
Wood  says,  that  Smith  "  was  niucli  in  esteem  with  the  poli- 
tical whs  of  lliat  day,  particularly  \viih  Philip  Massinger, 
who  called  him  his  son." — Athen.  Oion.  Vol.  II.  p.  397. 

*  Chdrles  Lord  Herbert,  whose  early  death  is  here  la- 
mented, wa«  the  eldest  surviving  son  of  Philip  Earl  of 
Pembroke  and  Montgomery.  He  was  made  a  knight  of  the 
Bath  at  the  coronation  of  Charles  I.,  ai.d  married,  in  1034, 
to  Mary,  daughter  of  the  peat  duke  Of  Buckingham,  soon 
after  which  he  went  abroad  (for  she  was  too  yomij-  for  coha- 
bitation,) and  died  of  the  small-pox  at  Florence,  in  JUMrj 
1633-6. 


Exact  the  mourning  of  all  hearts  and  eyes 

That  knew  him,  or  loved  virtue.     HB  that  would 

Write  what  he  was,  to  all  po>terity,  should 

Have  ample  credit  ia  himself,  to  borrow, 

Nay,  make  his  own,  the  saddest  accents  sorrow 

E  ver  ex  press 'd,  and  a  more  moving  quill 

Than  Spenser  used  when  he  gave  Astrophil 

A  living  epicedium.     For  poor  me, 

By  truth  1  vow  it  is  no  flattery, 

I  from  my  soul  wish  (if  it  might  remove 

Griefs  burthen,  which  too  feelingly  you  prove), 

Though  I  have  been  ambitious  of  fame. 

As  poets  are,  and  would  preserve  a  name, 

That,  my  toys  burnt,  I  had  lived  unknown  to  men, 

And  ne'er  had  writ,  nor  ne'er  to  write  again. 

Vain  wish,  and  to  be  scorn 'd  !  can  my  foul  dross 

With  such  pure  gold  be  valued  ?  or  the  loss 

Of  thousand  lives  like  mine  merit  to  be 

The  same  age  thought  on,  when  his  destiny 

Is  only  mentioned  ?   No,  my  lord,  his  fate 

Is  to  be  prized  at  a  higher  rate  ; 

Nor  are  the  groans  of  common  men  to  be 

Blended  with  those  which  the  nobility 

Vent  hourly  for  him.     That  great  ladies  mourn 

His  sudden  death,  and  lords  vie  at  his  urn 

Drops  of  compassion  ;  that  true  sorrow,  fed 

With    showers  of  tears,   still   bathe    the   widow'd 

bed 
Of  his   dear  spouse ;  that    our    great    king    and 

queen 

(To  grace  your  grief)  disdain'd  not  to  be  seen 
Your  royal  comforters  ;  these  well  become 
The  loss  of  such  a  hope,  and  on  his  tomb 
Deserve  to  live  :  but,  since  no  more  could  be 
Presented,  to  set  off  his  tragedy, 
And  with  a  general  sadness,  why  should  you 
(Pardon  my  boldness!)  pay  more  than  his  due, 
Be  the  debt  ne'er  so  great  ?     No  stoic  can, 
As  you  were  a  loving  father,  and  a  man, 
Forbid  a  moderate  sorrow  ;  but  to  take 
Too  much  of  it,  for  his  or  your  own  sake, 
If  we  may  trust  divines,  will  rather  be 
Censured  repining,  than  true  piety. 
I  still  presume  too  far,  and  more  than  fear 
My  duty  may  offend,  pressing  too  near 
Your  pi  ivate  passions.     I  thus  conclude, 
If  now  you  show  your  passive  fortitude 
In  bearing  this  affliction,  and  prove 
You  take  it  as  a  trial  of  heaven's  love 
And  favour  to  you, you  ere  long  shall  see 
Your  second  care*  return 'd  from  Italy, 
To  bless  his  native  England,  each  rare  part, 
That  in  his  brother  liv'd  and  joy'd  your  beart, 
Transferr'd  to  him,  and  to  the  world  make  known 
He  takes  possession  of  what's  now  his  own. 
Your  honour's 

Most  humble  and  faithful  servant, 

PHILIP  MASSINOF.H. 


•    Your  second  cart.]  Philip  Herbert,  who  survived  hi* 
and  succeeded  to  his  title  and  estates. 


THE  END. 


• 


LIDKflKT 


°00  606  479 


H 


HBM^m 
l^-  -*^r   f 


